sleepless anticipation

I've never been an endurance athlete, so I knew I was going to putter out of steam sooner or later. Even with blogging; my fingers are actually tired from typing. Because - did you notice? - I blogged every day in March.
It was a personal goal that had me sprinting to bike events, parties, and shops across town. Spinning, snapping pictures, typing, publishing...phew! It's no Battenkill, but it sort of took its own toll; I was shaving off sleep, yawning on my ride into school, and drinking too much coffee. And just when I get a long weekend, I'm looking at endless hours of outlining in preparation for that final emotional and physical wreck that is "finals."
I've already had a meltdown or two; only ameliorated by staring furiously at pictures of a bike that's thisclose to being complete and ridable. In times of extreme stress and self-doubt, though, it's not the prettiness of the bike itself [although, I'm definitely not complaining about that] that tells me to keep my chin up. I remember something Jeremy mentioned a few weeks ago:
"That steerer tube is so burly, it's emasculating."

And it is. Despite how light [and fast] she feels, there's something tough and burly hiding under stem cap, stem, spacers, and integrated headset. And that sort of gives me a lot of hope. Because even if I'm falling into bed too late, tossing and turning trying to schedule my tomorrows, and waking up too early, I'd like to think that deep down inside, I'm made of something equally tough [although maybe not as emasculating?].
I'm taking the long way home tonight, with a slight detour at a UPS pick-up center planned. That's right, tonight. I guarantee...tomorrow is going to be a very Good Friday.

greasy madeleines

Like Proust and his madeleines, certain scents can have me mentally reeling back to, well, remembering things past.
I still have a soft spot for Old Spice Sport which will eternally be linked to college boyfriends, late night games of beirut, the beer-soaked floor of fraternities and a particular red vinyl couch [patched with duct tape] I used to pass out on. The smell of good leather sends me back to barns, horses, and that inexplicable feeling of flying when jumping my first "chicken coop." And that unique smell of a hot iron and the stringent scent of turpentine brings me back to summers spent in Lenox; painting, drawing, and, of course, sewing.
My most recent scent-linked-to-memory is admittedly...more...wtf in comparison. Because these days, I'm in love with a certain Phil Wood.
There's really no describing the distinctive smell of Phil's deep green, greasy goodness. Incredibly smooth, he stands out from the rest of the pack in his sleek, Bianchi-celeste-green-esque packaging. His cologne is, for me, all things bike, mechanics, bike tools, and intact threads.

It was only natural then, that I made sure to pick him up a few days ago when I swung by IBC. The new tool set-up and rummaging in a few drawers for a requested rubber hammer resulted in pure tool envy...and a reminder that I needed some action from a particular Mr. Wood. Although, I admit, the pure abundance of a Mr. Park was almost enough to derail not only my purpose for dropping by IBC [other than hanging out as per the usual], but my wallet/bank account as well.

I almost didn't notice the new tool board until later, but instantly wanted the same set up in my future bike home/garage/workshop/studio space. The organization, designated spot for each tool, and the grouping of the tools by function and size had my OCD purring in contentment. When I saw Wes return a tool to its rightful place, I almost sighed in happiness.

This is what bike shop dreams are made of - friends, tools, grease, and smiles. And while I forgot to drop that tube of Phil in my bag this morning, I'm pretty sure I'm not going to need to huff that tube for a while.

eat drink bike sleep

Oh, and study.
That's pretty much all I did yesterday. I fell into bed early on Saturday in anticipation for the Sunday morning ride, even though there was no route planned. And possibly no ride partner, Pete having texted me late Saturday night that he was up for the ride but was an "anarchist party." I figured he'll be a no show.
I woke up bright and early to a comment on my blog from Pete. Written well past 1am. Yeah, right, he's going to be ready by 8.30am, I thought. Screw it, I was going to do two 15 mile loops without stopping anyway [my first 30 miler - sad but true], Pete or no Pete. But a small chat box popped up in gmail around 7.45 - Mr. Pete Shelby himself, awake and willing to go on a ride after about 5 hours of sleep, even with work from noon to 6pm at CB. He picked up a Red Bull at the Store24 and we headed right into gusty winds towards hills and, for me, 30 miles of fixed [anticipated] agony.

We didn't stop [minus the few red lights we didn't blow through] until we had thrown down 14 or so miles, and we pedaled past an apparent fire in Brookline. There were about seven fire trucks, the road was blocked off by police cars, and ambulances also lined the street. I used it as an excuse to snap a few pictures, eat some offered gummi bears, hydrate, then slide my feet back into the clips to do 15+ more miles.

My toes numb by mile 20, I was seriously jealous of Pete's Sidis [I haven't set mine up yet]. My legs were sort of on autopilot halfway through the second loop, and only familiar landmarks and the desire not to be seen/labeled a lame quitter kept me pushing on the pedals. Well, that and good jokes - seemingly perfectly timed - which had me laughing to the point of not realizing that I was already halfway up a hill and that I just had to push a little more to crest the mofo.
My knees seemed to think 28 miles was quite enough as the last stretch home got slightly uncomfortable. That could be due to my sprint through the intersection in Washington Square, though; we never seem to make the light, except on Sundays. Sighting a green as we came down Beacon Street, I yelled ["It's Sunnnddayyyyy!!!"] and whooped as we burst through the light as it turned yellow. Gritting my teeth, sniffling while trying to breathe/pant, head down, slouched into my drops, we finished the ride in two hours and change. Less than 15mph; yeah, slow. Still, don't hate.
I proceeded to stretch, shower, stuff my face, and fall asleep on my books [missing polo!], but dreaming of pretty bikes, summer rides, and all things Rapha [Pete unzipped his jacket just enough as we said goodbye to reveal a baby blue Rapha jersey...yeah that whole "starving artist" front is totally just to get chicks].
Next time, we'll do it faster.
[Today's also my older sister's birthday - the only person who is capable of making me cry in sheer envy of her artistic talent, call me on all my bullshit, and the first person who taught me that what doesn't kill me will only make me stronger. Thanks, Kanako. Happy Birthday!]

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!