fearless

Last summer, I encountered my first pack of roadies.
Plodding home from work, mostly zoned out, a male voice behind my ear called out:
"On your left."
As those words hit my brain, I instantly found myself floating in a sea of matching spandex. Six or seven cyclists drew up alongside me before passing by effortlessly, as I struggled to hold a decent line. Oblivious to everything but the goal [wherever that was], they swept by in perfect coordination and cadence. The proximity to the adrenaline, pure abundance of power, and muscle leaving me positively dizzy.
It's true what they say. Roadies are fearless. A "me and my team" mentality that can verge on the obsessive, and one that takes a kind of neurotic commitment that I respect and admire. It seems like a mentality that forces you to build character, or at least learn how to Shut the Fuck Up and Deal. Because, as a friend once put it:
"Cycling's different...your heart won't give out before your legs do."

And it's so true. In cycling - any kind of cycling - you'll always hit that point where you're tired and panting, but there's just a little bit more hill to conquer, and while your heart's still functioning, the only thing that's not listening to you are your legs.
That's when my heart really wants to explode. The desire to do well/conquer/go faster...and finding myself with no go. I was useless last night, and these aren't days to be useless. I need to stop cutting out of the library before 10pm, stop desiring sleep, stop feeling the pain in my knee and the stiffness in my sciatic nerve. And, in a sad way, stop thinking about pretty much the only that makes me happy: bicycles.

These days are kind of like riding fixed, but brakeless, clipless, and helmetless, all that's keeping me from an ugly crash right now is a hope and a prayer. But as I attempted [in vain] to keep up with two cyclists this morning - a Ridley and a Guru that looked like it lacked a third dimension - I spotted a hawk clutching a dead squirrel. It was sort of oddly comforting, and changed my mood for the better as I coasted [freewheels are ah-mazing] into the library.
I still might need a big dose of fearless from Team Shut the Fuck Up and Study...but I have a feeling [or at least a hope] that I'm going to make it through finals in one piece.

work + play

There seem to be two kinds of law students here: those that share their personal lives with each other and make normal friends, and those that keep work and play distinct. I clearly fall within the latter. In the past two years, I've perfected the art of putting off social events until it starts to verge on rude, and then only showing up to put in the requisite face time before jumping back on my bike.
It probably comes as no surprise, then, that only a few key friends at school know about my small corner of the internet. Drawn together by insensitively sarcastic humor, they're the choice people with whom I've managed to form comfortable bonds of trust. And in an environment as ruthless as law school, that's saying a lot.
Outside this tiny group of real friends, people just know that I'm obsessed with bicycles, not that I blog about them or make cycling caps. Which works out well for me; besides, if someone is going to put in the effort to look over my shoulder, google me, or otherwise stalk me and find this blog, well, congratulations, you've found me out...and earned some major creepy points in the process.

Maybe I keep my guard up a little too much, but with the gossip that flies around the library and locker room, I like my wallflower-melt-into-the-walls status. That's not to say I don't take risks...or that I'm not prone to new-bike-mom-narcissism. Because when the weather's this nice, and a lunch has been organized with my law peeps, I'll bring the Dolan to school.
I carried her up three flights of stairs because there was really no way i was going to lock her up outside. And, okay, I had class with Mark, whose ear I've been chattering off about this bike, and Ethan, the owner of an absolutely beautiful Cannondale CAAD 8. Both had listened patiently while I gushed about hubs and danced in circles while describing custom decals and pink cranksets. Both, along with a few others, got the see the bike build progress through emails and pictures. I wanted them to be the first future lawyers to meet her in person.

Despite shaking their heads at the impracticality of a single, fixed gear, they humored me by telling me that it looked awesome. I gloated. It may not be a time trial thoroughbred, but I love my little pony. Especially when she sits through my last ever Constitutional Law II class with me.
Yeah, that exam's going to be a complete clusterfuck. Mostly because I'm woefully unprepared. But hey, at least there will be something waiting for me at home when this is all over and done with.

marco...!

Cruising home last Sunday on the new track bike, a tall, lanky boy caught my eye.
Brown tussled hair, dressed in black, and features that can curl up into a super cute smile. Added plus? He was loaded with polo mallets.
I shouted out his name and gave a wave before turning onto Harvard Ave. Carefully rolling through the uneven patches of pavement, I heard a bell ring and turned to see none other than Jav, The Responsible Mature One of Boston Bike Polo's main regulars [and of course, one of the best Boston's got]. With increased gearing on my track bike, I felt like I was running through water on the slight incline while Jav's ridiculously low gear ratio had his knees bobbing faster than Jennifer Beals' in Flashdance. We rode through Harvard together, catching up, before parting ways all too soon on Beacon.

Then, last night, as boredom and cabin fever from being trapped in the library for too long crept up on me, making me more than a little bit homesick, my favorite polo player IMed me. I unfortunately missed their Sunday Polo/BBQ event last weekend, but was told lots of people showed up, even a fair share of girls [my cougar bait - a long-running joke - is apparently still single, though...phew!]. Jamie, one of the sweetest boys I've met in Boston, also demanded to know where I've been before leaving me with some sage advice [re: cougaring]:
"You need a man, not a bitch."

I had to cough to stifle my giggles and cover my mouth so no one would see me laughing at my computer screen. Jamie somehow always knows the right thing to say, and he's totally right about my inexcusable absence from polo. All signs are pointing to the fact that I need to go back to see the people that didn't tell me to gtfo after crashing into walls, other bikes, and generally being completely useless on the court.
Don't be surprised if, come this summer, at least half my posts are about...
1-2-3 POLO!!! [8 more days until ESPI 4!]
[Yes, these are old pictures...another sign I need to go back to play polo.]

puff, puff, [or] pass

Section 280E of the Federal Income Tax Code says that drug dealers can't deduct any expenses related to the drug trade from their tax returns. Well, that doesn't apply to the cost of the drugs though, you get to sort of make back that investment.
It was almost painful reading that on Monday. Monday. Marathon Monday. 4/20 Monday.
I should have expected it, too, the inevitable IM from a college friend. Something along the lines of "can't wait to get out of work...sad for you if you're not celebrating." I sighed, wishing that sigh was an exhalation of sweet, powdery, swirls of smoke, snaking out of my lungs and throat, ending with the rattled cough and the declaration, "wow...wow..."

I haven't done that in too long, and that may be for the best. Even if only for financial reasons, I couldn't afford such a habit. That's not to say I'm not fighting an internal battle against carcinogens these days. It happens the last few weeks of every semester when too many hours in the library, not enough riding, and guilt for not working hard enough combine and my brain tells me that something's gotta give.
And when that happens, I make up some excuse to get outside, get grabbed by a good friend I haven't spoken to in weeks, and find a cigarette in my hand, smoke between my lips. Inhale. Exhale. I'll feel like shit later, and that's when I'll crave another.

I thought about it last night as I passed the Store24. I had a few bucks in my pocket, a lighter at home. Add coffee to that and it would be my college breakfast all over again. I sighed, thinking, "maybe, maybe."
Instead I stretched, laid out on my floor, and looked up at a bike built to go fast. It looked like it wanted to pounce and break out of my bare apartment under a pair of strong legs and a set of reasonably workable lungs.
"Okay," I said, defeated, feeling even more guilty, "I won't. Not tonight."
And hopefully, not tonight either.

beer.cupcake.mustache [the party]

I got up this morning and made a beeline for the bathroom. Nearly tripping over the rollers in the hallway, I wondered why 1. I had to pee so badly, and 2. why there were clothes strewn all over my floor.
Oh, yeah. Beer. Cupcake. Mustache.
Well, the party, I mean. The book itself, created by Natasha of Pedal Power Photography, is a collection of beautiful photographs which, standing alone, would be more than sufficient for coffee table book status. But it's even better. It's a true "who's who" of New England cyclocross with interviews and questions concerning favorite beers, cupcakes, and 'cross races...and who can really resist that kind of combination?

I almost feel nervous flipping through its pages, anticipating that grungy streak down the side of the book from too much thumbing through. And there will be [much] thumbing through [and reading!]. Like Facebook but better - because you can stalk without fear of discovery and be able to show up to birthday parties with a 6-pack of a cyclist's favorite beer - it had me ogling its pages after I managed to stumble home last night.
As for the party itself [held at Washington Square Tavern], the title of the book was only too fitting. Vegan cupcakes were demolished, free Chimay was had, and ample mustaches were in attendance. Needless to say, I got completely smashed [something that happens rarely these days] and ended up dizzily guzzling water [with lime!] before skipping home in the rain.

Flipping through its pages again, I had to force myself to put it down this morning, to stretch and head to school. The misty rain and lack of a front fender meant that bits of grime and dirty water got splattered on my bars and jacket, my face only spared [most of] the grossness thanks to a cycling cap [which, ironically, I never tend to wear]. It gave me a taste of New England falls though, and the possible hope that I'll be able to at least watch some 'cross races later this year.
The ride home is going to be wet and dark. But I'm already looking forward to the post-shower zoning out with beer, cupcakes, and mustaches.

best of boston

Attempting to organize the hundreds of pictures I've apparently taken in the past year of all things bike, I realized that this time last year, I hardly knew anything about bikes.
It's weird...has it really only been a year? The tractorino's official [Boston] birthday is January 7, 2008. Before that, the last bike I rode was [according to my sister, because I don't remember] a Giant mountain bike and I was probably 12. I barely knew how to lube my chain, much less tension a chain or fix a flat last year. I can't believe I just admitted that.
So forgive me if I didn't know the who's who of bike mechanics and shop employees until this year. Luck decided to stop backstabbing me and leaving me when I needed her most when I became a regular at IBC and met Erich and the rest of my IBC peeps. I learned a little more about bikes, started making hats, and got lucky again with Kip, Jason, Zack, Pete, Tom and everyone at Cambridge.
I still don't know the official who's who of Boston cyclists, but I do know a few mechanics who are known around town as some of the best.

Maybe I'm hitting a lucky streak, but when I dropped in to buy something blatantly hang out, one of Boston's reputed best tweaked a few things on my bike. It progressed from the usual: I walk in during a lapse in the busy day, prop my bike up somewhere, and while I'm talking to a friend, someone much taller than me decides to hop on my mini bike and ride it around the shop.
This time it was Tom. Tom, who does no handed skids in the shop while wearing one of my hats. Tom, whose beater bike is a stickered Bareknuckle with cruiser bars and a basket in the front [I wanted to kill him out of pure jealousy when I saw it, even if I'll never fit on one of those frames]. Tom, who, like Erich, is known as one of the best mechanics in Boston.

Almost instantly, my bike was put in a stand. My impossible front brake [which was being a little sticky] got adjusted ever so slightly, and my baggy chain tensioned. Meanwhile, I went into paparazzi mode.
I got so excited I started taking pictures of everyone, including Zack and his hair.

And if the hairstyles of the CB staff aren't enough incentive to stop by the shop, my front brake came out working, and I can now ride confident that my chain won't hop off my chainring and try to kill me. Sure, those aren't terribly complex tasks, but it's in doing the simpler things where you see the difference between "good" and "okay." Or, at least in my case, the difference between "good" and "total suck/fail."
I heart you guys. For serious.