translating shoes

Whenever my Mom tries to admonish me about not being [insert any adjective of your choosing, popular ones include: smart, stylish, intelligent, prepared] enough, I pull out a handy Japanese proverb:
"A frog's child is a frog, Mom, I'm only going to be as good as you and Dad."*
To which she will either sigh, disappointed, and claim I inherited most of my genes from my father, or furrow her brow and say:
"You aren't the hawk the kite gave birth to?"**
I am no hawk. This is clearly evidenced by my inherited [from my Mom] love of shoes. Back in the Time Before Bike [TBB], I had at least 20 pairs of shoes - boots, heels, stilettos, kitten heels, ballet flats, etc. - that I actually wore; several more pairs had to stay at home in Japan. This complicates things when I'm at home, because all three shoe closets are taken up by my Mom's shoes. Thank God we don't wear the same shoe size, or the bickering [and borrowing] would be neverending.

The obsession [also applicable to handbags], sort of faded after the purchase of my bike. I'm currently running three pairs of sneakers into the ground, and I haven't bought a pair of shoes in over a year [to my best friend's absolute horror]. Well, until about a week ago.
Because when the going gets tough, the tough naturally go shopping. And retail therapy is never sweeter when it's presented as a huge sale. And there's no better deal when you can get a pair of shoes you've been fantasizing about at less than half the retail price.

Yeah, I'm officially rocking a pair of Sidi's. The footwear of champions and everyone who likes to clip clop in public. I understand black shoes are only for domestiques, but due to the fact that I'm trying to work my way up to that status, I think it's only appropriate. I picked up the shoes last night [after deciding against SPD pedals, and going with straight road ones], and clopped around in them in my apartment, gleefully. It even motivated me to shave my legs, which I hadn't done in about...oh...three weeks [okay, bumping into Croth and his perfectly hairless legs the other day probably motivated that decision, too].

I have to admit, I'm sort of scared of trying them out. Friends at IBC assured me that getting out of clipless pedals is actually easier than toe clips:
Jeremy: Because when you're about to fall, you'll sort of naturally twist your foot.
Me: So I'll just land on my top tube instead of crashing and burning with the bike attached to me?
Marcus: At least you're not a guy.
Indeed.
* "Kaeru no ko wa kaeru" - Meaning that a child takes after her parents, and will grow up to be pretty much just like them. ** "Tombi ga taka wo unda" - Used in the rare situation where a child out-accomplishes her parents.

[briefly] living the dream

Despite both of my classes having been canceled today, I rolled out of bed at the usual time.
Granted, I can't sleep past 8am on any day, anyway, but I was sort of excited to get up and pick my way across a floor littered with fabric, tailor's chalk, and some random pins [ouch!]. I scooted my chair in front of my sewing machine - not the laptop - and settled in for a morning of pins, seam rippers, and bias tape.

The need to stop in at school before taking the long way to CB meant I was working on a deadline. I slightly kicked myself for spending the majority of last night sitting at my desk, my chin resting on the top of my machine, while I read and clicked through the amazing photographs on Velodramatic. It's such a great blog! Clean, professional, and very well executed; it's where I get my Rapha fix because my current bank account balance won't let me actually do that in real life.

My foot like a lead weight on the sewing machine pedal, I didn't mind the pressure or undoing a seam or two. Mostly because this kind of near-sweatshop-labor is my definition of fun; I almost wished that I could hand embroider the "Boston" or somehow personalize each a little bit more. But with limited time and a pretty saddle waiting for me, the screened versions had to do for now.

Then I crawled into a pair of rain pants [yes, dorky] and jumped on the bike first to school, then to CB. The saddle's hanging from a bag on the bars of my Dolan, on the secret 3rd floor of IBC. UPS is currently killing the possibility of a finished bike this weekend, but by this time next week, I plan to have something incredible between my legs.

repeater

Not a Fugazi reference, although I like that album too. I tend to fall on the side of depressingly pessimistic in regards to most aspects of life...but when good/fun things happen, I sometimes retrace my steps, do all the same things, consciously reliving moments, in hopes of repeating the fun.
That almost makes me sound like an optimist. Scary.
It did make me wind my way over to Cambridge Bikes again yesterday, on the way home. Okay, I had a few excuses - I was buying something off JT and wanted to make sure that he got my cash money and that said items were still available. I also finally turned in my legal note; my official excuse to socialize and hang out for half an hour.
But while the ride there - minus throwing my chain this time - was the same, I walked into a shop that looked very different:

It was apparently Zack's idea, and I love how it opens up the shop. When you stand by the cash register, the track specific section in the back is clearly visible. This means that its magnetic pull on those obsessed with pretty anodized track components [read: me] is even stronger. I think I dumped my bike by the cash register, turned, saw the track section, and [probably rudely ignoring "what's up?"s and "hey how are you?"s] made a beeline for it.

A sparkling new 44cm Bianchi San Jose sitting pretty in front of the display also snatched up my attention. This is what my bike used to look like! Freewheel, flat plastic pedals, black bar tape...it makes me happy that someone [equally short] in Boston might buy this beauty. Seriously, she's worth every penny you'll sink into her - and so shiny too!
A pink Bareknuckle frame hanging from the ceiling had me craning my neck with my mouth hanging open in envy [before the Dolan, I desperately wanted a Bareknuckle...until I found out that unless I wanted to be riding on the top tube, there would be no way I could fit on one]. While my head was stuck in that slightly uncomfortable position, I managed to check out things displayed at higher altitudes. And found the hottest pair of arm warmers:

Like a kid in a candy store, I was so overwhelmed by everything bike that I totally forgot about how exhausted I was. I shot up the hills on the ride home, buried in my drops, curled up and mashing to keep pace with Pete [yup, another repeat ride home]. I didn't feel tired until I ate dinner; a full tummy and juiced out muscles meant no work got done. Gchat [read: my best friend] kept me awake until I couldn't resist sleep. And like most days since I started racking up the miles, I passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow.
I can't wait to do it again. Stop. Rewind. Repeat!

this isn't working

It's funny how on some of the most beautiful days, you end up in the foulest mood.
The ride in yesterday was fine, the day at school was fine, the ride home [the long way] was fine...
...until, getting reckless because I wasn't willing to accept that a guy bombing down Mass Ave was, in fact, faster than me, I threw my chain chasing him. There was an ugly snappy crackling sound and then I found myself pedaling...but nothing was working. My back wheel didn't lock up which meant that I was pedaling air for about 5 whole seconds until I figured out, oh, I have brakes [and now might be a good time to use them]!
I flipped my bike over, pulled out the wrench and started untangling the mess. I was planning on stopping into Cambridge Bikes anyway, so after getting my bike operational, I slowly gimped my way there.

I arrived with a stunningly attractive mix of dirt, brake dust, and chain lube covering half of my face. Of course, I didn't know this until I walked into the uber cool, hip shop that is CB. But, as regular readers may know, I've pretty much lost all sense of dignity by this point, so I almost didn't care that I looked like I had just made out with my filthy chain.
The only thing keeping me from throwing my bike into the river on the way home was trying to keep pace with Pete [I managed to scoot into CB right before closing, so we headed home together]. Dragging a 20lbs+ fixed 'cross bike, plus an overstuffed bag, plus all my extra weight...I was hating life.
Seriously, my bike's a tank. Utilitarian, but a tank. I made up my mind today to sell her when the new bike's done. My friends are sort of right...I should be looking into road bikes so I can do decent rides. And while the tractorino's been good to me so far, I just don't see the point of having two fixed gears. And come on...am I really going to ride the tractorino once the dapper Brit's up and running?
So...anyone want her?
[Just kidding. I wouldn't sell her for the world...but it is April Fool's Day :D]

poseurcross

A friend once asked me why I didn't just switch my squealing, impossible to adjust cantilever brakes - the front refuses to STFU, so in retaliation, I refuse to use it - to center pull caliper ones.
"It's not like you're ever going to race 'cross," he said.
I stubbornly refused to switch them out though; and for once, I distinctly remember that decision being motivated by something other than my automatic reaction to being told that I can't do something ["Oh yeah? Watch me"]. Because even though I had no idea what cyclocross was when I bought my tractorino, once I found out, I've been secretly crushing on it since.
I mean, who can resist a cycling event that looks so hardcore. Not only does it involve biking through grass and mud, you have to run [up hills, even!], and then jump over stuff. It looks like pure masochism. It totally turns me on.
Unfortunately, I currently lack the balls to actually do it. But laziness and the need to go to the BC main campus sometimes fires up the cyclocrosser poseurcrosser in me. Because when the options are biking up a hill or taking the stairs with a bike over your shoulder, well, I made the obvious choice.

Okay, I admit, I didn't run up them. More like plodded at a steady pace while the undergrads snickered about the psycho girl hauling her bike up too many stairs. And those stairs were killer. But they still fuel daydreams of running up them in cycling shoes with friends, bikes over our shoulders, in preparation for an up-coming cross race. Only to descend them to do it all over again, thighs burning, heart and lungs about to burst, but still laughing.

It hasn't happened yet, but those agonizing cantilever brakes are a constant reminder. Through all its screaming - when I absolutely need to use it - my front brake keeps that dream alive. I'm definitely keeping my fingers crossed on this one.
No pun intended.
[My favorite underage bike mechanic is turning 21 today, too -- Happy Birthday Chris!!!]

officially hardcore

Apparently, when you randomly offer to help a guy without a sewing machine hem his pants, and then go out for beers with said guy and his best friend, you can also end up with a friend that 1) rides bikes [duh], 2) lives about three blocks away from you, and 3) encourages following through on bad questionable ideas like training for a fixed century.
Pete - my new friend/riding partner/coach/ass kicker - and I planned to head out on my very first training ride yesterday...for the past week or so. Since Pete has work from noon [at Cambridge Bikes], we decided on an early morning ride [hence the Diet Coke last night]; there was some rain coming down, but it was more like mist. Weather.com predicted "showers." I was optimistic.

After Pete adjusted his cleats, we headed out. The first few miles were fine, a little wet but I figured I'd be sweating buckets soon anyway. Speeding down Comm Ave, dodging runners training for the marathon, we made an interesting combo: Pete likes to climb hills in his saddle, with his hands on the top of the bars; cool, relaxed, and gentlemanly. I like to get out of the saddle but stay in the drops, like a faux keirin racer if they had to do things like climb hills. We pedaled down toward Newton, then through Watertown and Cambridge, taking the loooooong way.

Too bad it started pouring. By the time we hit Harvard Square about an hour and a half later, both of us were drenched and cold. Stopped at a light, I made a fist with my gloved hand and water gushed out. I wasn't wearing anything close to waterproof ["water resistant" apparently means "drenched within 5 miles of riding"]. Pete couldn't feel his hands. I couldn't feel my feet. So, we made a much-needed stop for coffee.

Sipping deliciously caffeinated beverages, we sort of managed to dry off. Our gloves were beyond hopelessly drenched. My underarmour leggings stuck to me like icy saran wrap [without the water-weight-reducing-sauna-like effects benefits]. Not only was I soaked, I was also covered in bits of dirt. My hair drenched in streaks from my helmet, worn out from battling rain and wind, with no eyeliner on, I was a total mess. Good thing there were no mirrors around - ignorance is bliss in this case.

We wrung out our gloves, even though no matter how hard we twisted them, more water just poured out. And then we actually got back on our bikes and waded through more cold rain and wind towards home, with only the thought of hot showers keeping us going. I could barely get off my bike when we parted ways - my feet being numbly frozen. Our high-five to celebrate a ride successfully completed squishly sprayed water. Not that it mattered; we were so saturated with Boston rain water, we were both verging on prune-y.

It wasn't a fast ride; but it was the first time I've ridden more than an hour on my bike. I know, not impressive, but baby steps, baby steps! And besides, Pete and I both decided - no matter what, riding through that mess definitely makes us officially hardcore.
I irrationally can't wait for next Sunday morning...