cookie monster mascot

Believe it or not, I've sort of been trying to avoid cookies. Or, eating cookies, rather.
I haven't gone so far as to give them up for Lent, but a desire to lose the winter weight has me sort of watching what I eat. Sort of. Because after my first hour-long ride [perhaps ever, because I can't really remember the last time I've done that], I'll drop by IBC partially for some promised cookies.
And not just any cookies, but the hotly discussed [at least at IBC] Newman O's. Oreo's cousin if it was organic and actually tasted like real food. I ate four. Yeah, four. Because when delicious cookies come in a huge ziplock bag and are tucked away at a bike mechanic's work station, well, they become that much more irresistible.

The strategic placement of those cookies meant that I was standing behind the counter, in biker gear and almost looking like I knew what I was doing. When customers came in, and all the actual employees were busy, I consequently looked like the lazy douchebag employee who refused to ask the obligatory "How can I help you today?"
Chris later came up with the idea that [given the fact that I can't work at IBC even though he insists on telling me I should every single time I see him] I should just tell people I'm the IBC mascot. Thus, I'm required to hang out and represent IBC, but am completely unable to actually help out any customers.

I like that idea. That means I can hang out endlessly and watch my friends work/ride my bike around the store/fix stuff [note that Chris looks like he's on a mini bike because he's about a foot taller than me]. Just when I was getting a little sad that soon [after the completion of my new bike], I may not have an excuse to drop by IBC "to see my new bike/take a look at the new part that came in/pay Erich," I now have a reason to perpetually hang out. Behind the counter, even!
But only if cookies are supplied. Oh, and don't forget the [good] energy bars!
[If you're in the Boston area, come out to the Middlesex tonight to celebrate the publication of Volume 3 of Embrocation Cycling Journal!]

march madness

Not the NCAA one, although I've technically filled out a bracket for that. I had no idea what I was doing, even if a friend informed me that he had his money on my being the dark horse NCAA bracket champion. Needless to say, I'm currently ranked DFL.
March has been hectic though. While I was dragging my feet, trying not to think about a bike I own but couldn't ride, hubs and rims arrived, spokes were laced, and a wheelset was complete. The list of things I need to get this bike ride-able was becoming shorter and shorter. The picture of the frameset that's been sitting pretty as my desktop background is no longer recognizable. For some reason, this month has been a whirlwind of activity.

Screams of excitement have gotten louder and less shameful, jumping up and down in happiness in front of normal customers are currently a given at IBC, as is my perpetual expression of surprise whenever I walk in. But there was also the arrival of a pair of Champ grips from Georgia, and yesterday I even found myself in the library, staring at a friend from school...who showed up to my carrel with helmet in hand...and in spandex.
After which I couldn't concentrate and restlessly read the rest of my assignment before flying out of school and down to IBC yet again, but this time with some extra goodies in my bag. I got to watch Erich install the Champs onto the pretty track drops Eric gave me [even though I offered to pay for them!]. The installation made some interesting noises which alternated between squealing and farting. Air was involved. As well as neon green gloves.

Erich, being an anal perfectionist [let's continue the dirty innuendos, shall we?], even turned the grips so that the arrows were perfectly aligned with the curve of the bars. Knowing full well that those grips won't retain their white-ness for very long, I still couldn't keep my hands off of them.

The My bike was hung up on one of the stands as the two Eric[h]s, Dan, Marcus, and Jeremy handled the constant flow of customers that poured in, and I just stood there, admiring it. A few people even asked me whose bike it was, and I got to practice my gloating [I'm working on it, Marcus!].
I even got to ride it. But that's for another day. For now, I'm off to train for this ridiculous idea of a fixed century. On the tractorino, of course.

lucky

There are apparently some things every girl should do. One of those things is to take the most roundabout route to your local bike shop with a bottle of champagne tucked away in your baileyworks. Oh, yeah, and ride fast.
Because when bottles of Veuve Clicquot are involved, good things happen.
Being pressured to at least come out to the "Champagne and 40s" themed pre-party ["because we're classy...and we're not"] for the law prom I refused to go to, I threw a bottle of champagne in my bag with a bottle of water before heading out on a quick ride yesterday. The ride was super short, so I sprinted as fast as I could, whenever I could, trying to make my thighs feel that searing burn.

Disgustingly sweaty and breathless, I stopped by IBC on my way home. I expected to drop in for a quick chat and be less of a wobbly-kneed, steamy mess when I left. Lucky for me, though, I happened to walk in on Erich building one of my wheels.
Despite the initial "Ahhh don't look!!!" I got to watch my Miche hubs being laced to my front Deep V rim with DT Swiss Competition double-butted spokes and black brass nipples. This was, admittedly, the first time I've seen a wheel being built; much less one for me. Naturally, I took enough pictures to make a Japanese tourist proud.

The black nipples were Erich's idea, and I initially didn't think it would make a huge difference, and was expecting silver nipples anyway. How wrong I was! Like [unnecessarily] painted toe nails in the winter, it's the small details that simultaneously pull everything together and turn up the sophistication factor like woah.

"Bike Parts Learning Time with Erich" unfortunately had to end before the whole thing went into the truing stand [and yes the above picture is a sneak peek at the already completed rear wheel]. Mostly because I was already late to the pre-party, and I had champagne to deliver. I tore myself away from that coveted space behind the counter, next to a bike stand that held up something too pretty to articulate with words, to get back on my trusty tractorino.
I'm stopping into IBC again today. It's going to be another good day. I can just tell.

trying to chew

I hit the snooze button this morning. Almost twice.
That's a pretty big deal for someone who can't manage to sleep past 8am, even if I end up going to sleep at 3am. To sweeten the whole deal, I've even managed to sleep like the dead these past couple of days, not getting up restlessly in the middle of the night/early morning. This morning, I woke up and was positively giddy...and I had no idea why.
But as I hopped out of bed and inspected my gigantor thighs [and coming to the conclusion that they can use much more definition], I remembered exactly why. I passed out last night thinking of 100-milers, kits, and training sessions with friends...all on a fixed gear. And I was close to convincing myself that it could actually happen.

Blame Facebook on this one. When I put up "100 miles + fixed gear. Discuss" as a status message, I expected people to discourage me from even attempting it. Too bad friends were all too willing to help me meet this goal. And because I hate to disappoint, well...looks like I'm training for a century.
Assuming my knees don't completely crap out, this means a lot of serious riding and probably a good measure of cross-training, too. This idea scares me; I'd actually consider facing the embarrassment of falling on my face in front of [insert name of hot messenger/cyclist/biker boy] as I try to clip out over the blood, sweat, and tears that's going to be involved in this endeavor.

Yeah, I totally bit off more than I can chew on this one. I did consider backpedaling my way out of it, but couldn't justify it without trying. And as I started contemplating how exactly to start chewing, I remembered an incident last year involving an insensitively inappropriate joke and my best friend. It had us both in fits of laughter in front of our respective computers [as always, it was over gchat]:
Me: I almost snorted out coffee all over my screen!
Lauren: I'm eating a cookie, and I'm laughing so hard I can't taste it.
As embarrassing and terribly painful as this training thing might turn out to be, here's hoping that even if I did manage to bite off more than I can chew, maybe I'll be laughing so hard that it won't even matter.

perfectly dreary

Spring might have finally arrived in Boston; and I, always fashionably late, am just trying to start this whole "training" thing.
It's probably sort of misguided, having only 1.5 bikes, both being fixed. There's really no way I'm going to be able to keep up with anything with gears. But, I figure, I might as well try.
So I'm adding a few miles here and there, sprinting as hard as I can for as long as I can [or until cars and potholes force me to slow down], and trying to perfect the Lance Armstrong method of climbing mountains/owning everyone around me. All mostly because the thought of seeing two friends from school all kitted out is way too good to pass up. And if I'm going to get any pictures of them while they ride, I better be able to keep up.

Of course this means that I've been forgetting to take decent/good/interesting pictures these days. I'm blaming the weather for today - it's dreary out with light rain showers sprinkled throughout the day. That's not conducive to picture-taking.
Still, any window these days is distracting enough that I'm choosing to study in the dank darkness of the library basement. It might be dreary out, but it's perfect weather for riding. Warm enough to make me feel guilty about not riding enough, and just the right amount of cool wind to keep me from being a sloppy, sweaty mess by the end of my ride.
Man, I can't wait to get back on the bike today...!

me, myself, and i

A few weeks ago someone asked me what the patch on my bag was about.
"What's 'pedal strike'? Like a band or something?"
Due to the fact that I keep my blog/hats/personal life details far farrrrrrr away from law school, I managed to mutter something about what pedal strike is, fixed gears, bicycles, and something about a nickname.
...Yeah...um...what? Nickname? No one calls me "pedal strike," even though it's way easier to pronounce than my real name. Okay, granted, if I was actually okay with letting people at school know about my life, it might have been easier to explain. But I still find myself stumbling over words when people ask me about the "pedal strike" thing, even though I'll smack it on hats, websites, and even bikes.

I'd hate to call it a "brand," mostly because it sounds so pretentious. "Logo" is only marginally better; it still seems to smack of commercialized bullshit and the implication that I should be handing out [figurative] blowjobs to get people to like my stuff. And I don't like to, because I'm selfish and lazy and deluded enough to think that I'm better than that.
Although that's completely not true, because my ego totally blew up when I saw "pedal strike" on the Freddy vs. Jason alleycat flier. Staring at it was almost better than that post-coital smugness you feel before you pass out in bliss. And while relationships based solely on how well you get along with the other person [or, activity in this case] between the sheets are never a great idea, no one said they weren't fun. At least for a little while.

Not that my relationship with my hats, sewing machine, "creative side" has devolved to that point yet. My fling with "marketing," "brands," and "labels" was always just that though. So I might be sticking "pedal strike" everywhere these days, but I'm going to justify that by saying that it's more personal than just a "brand," it's about me. Me, myself, and I.
Masturbation? Maybe. But hey, at least I'm not handing out blowjobs.