sweet and salty

Until about a week ago, my friends [other than my IBC crew, obviously] who got to see progress pictures of my bike would constantly ask me when it was going to be done. It was more out of politeness on my friends' part though, as most of them don't ride bikes; and it's a too-easy topic of discussion that'll make me blatantly happy. A friend put it bluntly:
"Your face just lights up when you talk about that bike. Like what normal girls do when they talk about shoes."
I was sort of glad, though, that my lack of funds and thus, parts, was slowing down the whole process. It was still legitimately cold out when I bought the frame [in mid-February], and the days of alternating snow and icy rain kept me from wanting to jump on that bike ASAP.

Late nights in the library and a lack of lights for the Dolan are keeping me from riding it to school this week. But as I chased down a guy on a fixed gear this morning - white bike, spandex, some awesome kicks, and thighs that looked like tree trunks - I noticed something that made me smile.
Gasping for air as I attempted to keep pace with the fixed guy, I wasn't tasting salt anymore. That's become my barometer for full-on-New-England-okay-I've-had-enough-can-we-have-some-warmer-weather-now? winters. When my tires stop kicking up an invisible layer of salt dust grime, it's officially spring. No more snow or ice. No more getting stuck behind those salt trucks just as they start scattering the stuff [which resulted in an inadvertent facial exfoliation via rock salt]. No more white flakes of dried saltwater peeling off my bike.

I understand it's fairly disgusting to actually know that the aforementioned salt dust grime is going into my mouth. That's not to say that getting a taste of cycling is always salty, though. Because bike shops will always feed you, and when it's finally spring, Easter M&M cookies become not only muscle fuel, but also sweet promises of summer.
I'm already getting hungry [again].
[Thank you Bud and Mrs. Barry for the delicious cookies!!!]

[k]nightrider

I'm not gonna lie, I used to love that show.
Long after I stopped watching it, and after learning how to fully appreciate alcohol, I'd sometimes wishfully long for my own KITT as I stumbled into that infamous McDonald's in downtown Tokyo at 4am to wait until the trains started to run again. A car that would not only talk to you and advise you against bad ideas, but also come to your rescue? The idea of KITT still makes me wish I knew how to drive.
As the days turn warmer and longer, I ironically find myself wishing I had a car and the requisite knowledge to operate it. For the next few weeks I'm looking at very little riding, and a lot more late nights in the library. Until now, I had managed to escape the library in time for dinner at home; I left last night well after it was dark.

The good part is that there are fewer anxious drivers eager to get home and drive you over in the process. The bad part is that after 10+ hours in front of a computer, I can barely see, much less see in the dark. Add to that my simple desire to just zone out and I tended to forget that my feet were attached to my pedals. Despite my fears that the freewheel I'm on is going to make me both lazy and weak, I was grateful for the ability to sit on my bike and do nothing for once.

I'm already missing the sweat-drenched long rides home and the burning exhaustion in my thighs when I manage to finally limp through my door. The bright sun shining through classroom windows are an absolute tease and the warmer weather has me daydreaming of the all the riding I'll be able to do once finals are over.
Until then, I suppose I should learn how to use those rollers.

rolling uncontrollably

I'm a great fan of "to do" lists. I installed Post-it software on my computer specifically for this purpose. Well, specifically so I can type out my to do lists days in advance, and then put the extremely satisfying "DONE" next to each task.
I checked off my last "to do" task - outlining my tax law course - with shaky, sweaty hands last night. I think my feet were drenched in steamy sweat too. My right forearm was twitchy from overexertion. I am really full of terrible ideas.
All because of a simple entry on my "to do" list: "rollers." I escaped the library early yesterday to meet a friend who was selling his rollers on the cheap. With only two single-speeds, I was advised that trainers wouldn't be nearly as effective, so when the rollers went up for sale, I immediately called dibs. The first person claiming them dropped out - lucky[?] for me.
As I planted "DONE" next to tasks already completed late last night, I saw the "rollers" entry. For me, that originally meant "get cash, be at home to pick them up." That somehow turned into "well, let's try them out!"

This is sort of the time I kind of wish I had roommates to stop me from indulging my insanity. Against my better judgment, I set up the rollers in my hallway and propped my bike on top of it. And then I climbed on. That was the easy part. Now I had to actually get on my bike that was supported by this thing called air, and try to balance. I was half bracing myself against the wall, my hands flooding with nervous sweat as I attempted to push the pedals. Hunched over, clinging to my bars for dear life, I tried not to think about Mark's roommate, who managed to fly off his trainer into his TV, or Jones's friend who flew into his dorm room closet at 35mph.

I'll admit, my courage lasted me a scant 10 minutes on the rollers, and that includes trying to get on. I left it in the hallway though, right in front of my door. I'm hoping the guilt of seeing it when I walk into my apartment will serve as extra motivation. And hopefully it'll also stop my hands from constantly sweating every time I think about them. Because unless I can master those rollers, my fantasy of watching movies with bike friends who are all on rollers/trainers is going to stay just that...and that's just unacceptable.

freewheel fun

Almost exactly six months ago, I was still freewheeling it on the Bianchi. I bought into the hype and was consequently terrified of going fixed; hence I was stuck in that gray area of the freewheel where I almost got scene points until I started coasting. The resulting inferiority complex really killed me.
Ironically, I flipped my wheel over last October not because I wanted to belong to a "scene," but because I stopped convincing myself that I wasn't good/cool/skilled enough to go fixed. Fuck the "scene," fuck the trendiness, fuck my scarred up knees - it couldn't be that hard. And, honestly, it was stupidly easy. I even stopped crashing every month.

Six months later, I'm back on the freewheel...and I'm quickly developing a new appreciation for it. Having officially gone clipless, I figured I'll minimize the chances of crashing [I don't really miss it] by getting used to the whole clipping in and out thing on cranks that don't always have to move with your rear wheel. I struggled with it both on a trainer and in the parking lot behind IBC but managed to clip in, not crash into an SUV, and get out on the street.
In the middle of traffic, I belatedly realized that I wasn't fixed anymore. I tried to slow down by stopping my feet and nothing happened. I was still moving. And I was headed straight into the back of a stopped car.
My sluggish brain finally pooped out a memory of Erich, a mere 10 minutes ago, saying, "oh yeah, you have brakes. Use them." Brakes! Shit! Use them now! I managed to slide up next to the stopped car, slowing down, then accelerating again as I jerked my knees up and down like a wind-up toy soldier until I figured out that I needed to clip out to stop because my feet were attached to my pedals.

It took about a good half hour but I finally got the feel of a freewheel again. There's more planning involved, now that I don't have my feet to slow down with, and going really slowly is actually really hard. On my evening ride last night, I felt faster though; and while hills are sort of a bitch, coasting through turns is so much fun.
This might be cheating, but I'm almost tempted to keep that freewheel on for that century...

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...