laced

I woke up this morning with my face pressed against wire. Wtf?
And then I walked into the bathroom to find two bare rims in my bathtub and tubes hanging from my shower curtain rod. Oh yeah, I left my bike in pieces last night. Oops.
Not the Dolan; I had enough sense to perch that next to my couch before battling my Bianchi. I turned it upside down [due to a lack of a bike stand] last night, thinking I'd quickly switch out the tires for my ride today. "Quickly" turned out to be half an hour of frustrated screaming which degenerated into a crying fit of frustration. I hate hate hate it when I can't do something by myself. Being faced with a lack of physical power was the last straw in the estrogen blitzkrieg that's been assaulting me lately.
After crying pathetically with a wrench in my hand for about 5 minutes, and seized by that "crazy" that powers women through irrational decisions and ugly fights with significant others, I finally managed to wrench off both wheels. I was covered in black stuff up to my elbows. I tossed both the wheels into the bathtub and tried to forget about how inept I am.

It was harder to forget how depressingly lonely times like this feel, and reminded me of something a friend from school told me:
"These past two years have been the loneliest years of my life."
I couldn't agree more. Law school - an environment in which you're pitted against your peers - isn't conducive to developing trusting relationships. Add to that the fact that we see each other every day and by Friday, it's understood that our weekends are saved for whatever we have outside of school: college friends and girlfriends for my friends, my bikes for me.

Bikes don't console you when you're depressed though, and they don't give you high-fives when you manage to accomplish something stupid like getting some rusted over axel nuts off your bike. My hands sore for hours afterwards, I bawled in front of my computer to an ever-diligent best friend about how much I wanted to leave Boston. There's nothing here for me, I claimed, and no one really gives a shit, so what does it matter? I'm waiting, studying, cycling...to leave.
As I threw copious crumpled up tissues into my trash can, something grated against my desk. I looked down to see a bracelet I had nearly forgotten about wrapped snugly around my wrist. It's a DT Swiss spoke - light, flexible, and a reminder that there's a place I can go to hide and recharge. It's an upgrade from the bike chain bracelet I was sporting last summer - a heavy ring of metal that I was wearing just to seem cool and bike-y, but carried with it too many double standards and expectations I just couldn't [and didn't want to] meet.

The spoke bracelet was made by Chris at IBC, and everyone behind the counter seemed to be sporting one yesterday. Needless to say, I passed out last night with it around my wrist, my hands and arms still black and blistered, but feeling just a little bit better.
Maybe, just maybe, I won't pedal straight out of here when I get that J.D.

paris-roubaix, boston-style

Always having been the less talented of my parents' two daughters, I was constantly presented with two choices: excel in something different or be content and find value in being, well, inferior. It's easier to be the latter...but my parents didn't raise me that way.
Unfortunately this can usually results in me doing things just to prove that I can do them. Like biking year-round in ridiculous temperatures. Or sort of training for a fixed century. Or deciding that doing a longer ride on a track bike I can barely ride with increased gearing would be a fantastic idea.
Which is exactly what I did yesterday. Planning out a simple 20 mile route, Pete and his extremely pale yet freshly shaven legs assured me that my jump in gear inches was fine, and that we could do 20 miles easy. I blindly believed him and failed to factor in the whole twitchy lightness that seems to be characteristics of a true track bike, as well as mostly unwrapped bars and gloves with no padding.

My hands and arms absorbed the shock of every crevice and bump we went over...and quite frankly, my ass didn't fare much better. I mentally told myself to toughen up and keep plowing through. Concentrating a little too much on actually planning out and holding a line [my 'cross bike lets me truck through anything and everything], we got lost and had to backtrack a few times. Spotting the river, we decided to ride down River Street in Waltham towards Watertown and Cambridge.
It was the worst road I've ever ridden on. About a mile in, Pete yelled that it was like riding the Paris-Roubaix...and it certainly was. His superior bike skills allowed him to deftly dodge obstacles while maintaining a constant speed. Already nervous about being perched on something that felt like air compared to my 'cross monster, I was a stressed mess. Brake with my legs, cautiously roll over uneven layers of asphalt, skitter around unexpected potholes, attempt to maintain enough speed not to piss off the drivers speeding by, try not to lose Pete. It was like that "don't step on the cracks in the sidewalk" game I used to play as a kid, except my teeth were clattering, I was developing carpal tunnel, and it was way more painful.

While half tempted to stop and take pictures, the desire to get to the end of this ass-beater of a road had us riding as fast as we could. The worst part? It didn't seem to end for a really, really, really long time. When we got back to civilization, normal Boston roads - despite all the cracks and potholes - felt like sliding on butter. The people milling about in Harvard Square looked at us oddly as I [finally] lurched into Cambridge. Maybe we let our guards down a little too much as an older model Volvo cut off Pete on Mass Ave without signaling, causing him to slam into it as he maneuvered between the curb and the car [he's okay, though]. The driver claimed her signal had "fallen off," which had us giggling on our way through Cambridge.

We inhaled bagels [sorry Eric] before heading home. I wasn't sure my legs and arms were still attached to me but Pete assures me that they were the last time he saw me. Normally, I wouldn't be adverse to go back and take pictures of River Street. Normally. Because unless you give me a full-suspension mountain bike, I'm not ever riding Boston's Paris-Roubaix, again.
Unless, of course, you challenge me to do it...

velo love

I remember the first time I rode something I knew I couldn't control.
A black, half-trained filly - back in the days when I was obsessed with real ponies/horses - everything had to be done in reverse. Pulling on the reins made her tuck her head in resolutely and take off. The natural human reaction of leaning forward and squeezing your legs around her in response to the unexpected acceleration just egged her on. She was prone to sprinting out of control and rendering riders into frustrated tears. No one really wanted to ride her.
I was terrified as I was handed the reins. But even with the unhelpful "don't pull on the reins to stop her," it turned out to be a match - for one brief summer - made in heaven. There was a way to slow her down [pull, release, pull, release, give, take, give take], and I learned how to manage to stay on something that clearly had its own agenda [stay calm, lean back, don't freak out]. We got each other...or at least to the point where I wasn't galloping out of control while my classmates watched in horror and pity.

Years later, I found myself test riding a half-built customized bike on hand-built wheels, the thick steerer tube still uncut, brakeless, and on flat pedals. Finally understanding the meaning of the words "stiff," and "responsive," that taste of fear, excitement, and acknowledgment of a lack of an adequate sense of control came flooding back to me. I knew this bike wanted to accelerate, and never stop, and that sort of terrified me.
She's made to go fast, as Erich accurately pointed out. And he would know, as this is almost more his baby than mine. I felt a little strange rolling it out of the shop, back on the street where a few people gave me interested glances. The weirdest thing was that none of those people knew that it was New Bike Day for me, or that I was popping my track bike cherry, or that I felt more than a little guilty walking that bike away from its surrogate home for the past two months.

But most importantly, they don't know how much love has been poured into this bike. And I'm not talking about how much I've been petting the frame. It's the too many late hours Erich's put in, the collective excitement [feigned or otherwise] at IBC when I brought in parts for the bike, Chris's adamant desire to play a part in the build, and Eric constantly telling me how pretty it is. And maybe that's the best reward; building something with a group of people who I consider solid, real friends [and yes, I feel that my "watching" constitutes participation]. I can't thank you guys enough, and I'm going to love her to absolute pieces. It's good to know, too, that she'll always be welcome at 89 Brighton Ave.
And yeah, this is definitely a match made in heaven.
[More pics - like of the drive side - coming soon...]
For the bike nerds:
Frame: Dolan Pre Cursa -- 45cm [on 700cc wheels!] -- customized by Erich at IBC Wheels: Velocity Deep V's laced with DT Swiss Competition double-butted spokes to Miche Primato hubs [double-fixed] -- built by Erich at IBC Bars: Nitto B123 with Champ grips Crankset: Sugino messenger Brake: Dia-Compe "deluxe pearl" Saddle and seatpost: Soma Ensho [glitter white] and Alpina seatpost Pedals: MKS Sylvan [from my old bike; switching to clipless soon] Gearing: 46/17 [because I have hills to climb]

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!]