bike shop christmas

As per the usual morning routine, I grabbed my eyeliner pencil yesterday morning, unsheathing the magic black wand that helps accentuate the eyes that I don't have. One eye squeezed shut with the accompanying eyebrow raised, hand poised, leaning in towards the mirror...
I stopped. Who was I going to need this for? The exam proctor???
The pencil got capped and tossed back into my make up bag. Besides, I figured that looking absolutely haggard would keep me from hanging out anywhere on the way home.
I should have known better. I mean, I do know better...but despite my age, I'm still recovering from junior-high-nerd-status and can't resist the opportunity to hang out with the cooler kids. Bags under my eyes, skull still freshly throbbing from the effects of a tax law exam, sweaty from being overdressed for the warmer afternoon weather, and with no eyeliner on, I bounced into Cambridge regardless.

And found that not only were all the cool kids working there yesterday, so was the infamous [and slightly intimidating] Mr. Croth. I got to bask in his vicarious cool for a grand total of five minutes before he jetted off in those rocking red gloves and the giant Ortlieb bag that was made to smuggle small children into the country. Meanwhile, customers came and went, Jason had his nose buried in paperwork and I started to feel bad skipping around and just being in the way.

Until, of course, Dan came in from the service door, announcing a shipment of bike goodies that Pete described was "as big as a Christmas tree." And indeed it was. There were countless boxes of...everything. Taped and tied together, then wrapped in a plastic cocoon, all it was missing was a big red ribbon. It was like Christmas morning; for once, the bags under my eyes and general haggard appearance seemed appropriate for the occasion. And with the energy born out of unexpected surprises, I pitched in a hand, carrying and ripping open the plethora of boxes.

It was awesomely fun...the best part being that I didn't even have to clean up or organize the huge pile of everything. I left two hours later, secure in the knowledge that Cambridge is currently fully loaded with pretty much everything I happen to currently need. Tubes in every size imaginable? Check. Wicker baskets? Check. Freewheels? [Yes, freewheels.] Check. Cookies? Probably.
Well, okay, maybe they're not stocking any mini road bikes with my name written all over it. But I'm working on that. Maybe, hopefully, for Christmas.

taking a breath

Law school exams are sort of like that space between comfortably drunk and black out drunk. Okay, that's kind of a big range, but you know that phase that starts when everything goes numb and the room spins a little. That phase when that booze-fueled fog that's making bad decisions for you clears for a moment and you realize that that shot waiting for you at the bar is totally unnecessary, but you take it anyway.
The last time I did that, I went home in a cab around 7pm [yeah, we started early] and I was puking my guts out until 3am.
I thought I was going to die.
The next morning, I patched together pieces of the previous evening, only remembering hours later that I had literally crawled from the elevator to my sister's apartment that night. All those embarrassing moments, slowly filtering in, like your memory won't let your ego die of shame by bringing it back all at once.

That's kind of what exams are like. Really. It's a numbing three hours where at the end, you're not even sure what happened. And in a lot of ways, I don't even want to know what happened. I have three more exams coming up; how well I did [or not] is a question gladly deferred until my ego can handle it.
So when I walked out of my tax exam around 1pm today into a warm, sunny afternoon, I couldn't resist the longer ride home. A day this beautiful can't go to waste, especially when I have the handy excuse of "well, I need to clear my head after that exam totally effed me in the a." And so, I mercilessly exploited that excuse, riding through Watertown then heading through Cambridge, stopping to see flowers and trees with [green!] leaves on them and groups of friends or happy couples strolling lazily with coffee cups in their hands. And cruising past it all, I gulped in the fresh, spring air, trying to clear my lungs of the cobwebs and dust that's forming in them.

I sucked in more air when I stopped by Cambridge, and stomped around in my Sidis, running inside and out. But that's for tomorrow; for now, coffee [and maybe a little more law] calls.

this is taxing

In T minus too few hours, I'll be going Chernobyl on a tax exam. Or more accurately, I will be attempting to survive the nuclear winter that will be my tax law exam.
I'm in good company, at least. Misery, a common theme this time of year, still manages to make itself useful by forging bonds of solidarity. As a few friends and I navigated the intricacies and tiny little details of the tax code for a few hours this morning, fluctuating between comprehension and utter confusion [yes, even with the exam less than 24 hours away], there was the unspoken understanding that if we fail, we'll fail together. And until then, we were going to pretend that that just wasn't a possibility.

Dragging my feet back to my carrel after the study session, a friend who sits at the carrel next to mine spotted me in the hall and held up a hand for a high five. I reciprocated weakly, half missing his hand, mentally thanking God it wasn't Zack at Cambridge who would undoubtedly make me do it over and over again until my palm was numb. I sighed at my ineptness and stepped to walk past him when he asked:
"Do you know why I just gave you a high five?"
"No." [I mean, did there have to be a reason???]
"You're getting published."
He took three steps past me before I realized what that meant. I shrieked a little too loudly, and attempted to hug him before he pushed me away in feigned disgust, muttering something about how he now needed to take a shower. The failed hug was made up by a subsequently successful one with another friend and journal-mate who was also selected for publication. My fantasy of getting my name [and note!] in the Westlaw database is actually coming true [in Spring 2010].
That means more work, more time in the library, more pounding my head into walls over the issue of homonymous names of geographic indicators of cheese in the European Union. But those are things to worry about next winter. For now, as taxing as my current situation is [pun totally totes intended], the news gave me a much-needed academic ego boost and sort of hinted at the possibility that maybe I don't completely suck at all things legal.
...Well, that might not include tax law, though...
[And yes, the pictures of papers all over my desk will stop soon.]

train wreck

Just a warning: this blog will becoming increasingly...boring...for the next few weeks. At least in the cycling department [which is the whole point of this blog, right?], due to finals.
However, it might be mildly entertaining in that can't-not-look-at-that-train-wreck kind of way. In moments of clarity and sanity, even I'm amazed at what finals can do to me. I woke up this morning to some pretty disgusting carnage.

My knuckles are still sore from typing nonstop for the past two weeks. And there's the final sprint to the finish which consists of a 3 hour exam where no one can manage to type fast enough to get every single issue out on paper. But that kind of fun starts in a few days. Until [and through] then, I'm apparently surviving off [bad] coffee and beer.
I got soundly hammered after drinking less than a third of that beer last night. I drunkenly stared at my notes, feeling guilty enough to try to study but knowing deep down that I was just staring at words that made no sense [although it's debatable if they make sense when I'm sober]. I looked at my rollers, decided that maybe I should wait until the Asian glow subsided to try riding my bike on them, and ended up passing out after just barely managing to brush my teeth.

Never much of an endurance athlete, I'm clearly losing the marathon that is law school [drinking this time last year would have been unthinkable...clearly my priorities have changed]. But the race is already on and I'm almost, almost two-thirds done.
And while what doesn't kill me might make me stronger, my apartment and bike are clearly showing signs of wear and tear [the resulting decrease in value, which, by the way, is not deductible from your income tax return]. I've been reduced to begging the Bianchi to last through the next three weeks [please, please pleeaaase don't break/fall apart]. The dust bunnies in my apartment get no comment.
Except, maybe, that it'll be May [12th] soon enough.

drowning in embrocation

My Mom has this tendency to flip through clothes with a dismissive, almost violent hand. Hangers squeak loudly against poles as she'll cast aside suits, shirts, and pants, unable to find that perfect, impeccably tailored, designer whatever. Meanwhile I try not to completely lose it as the product of someone's hard labor is violently shoved aside.
She does the same thing to books. Pages grating against themselves as she tries to find a quote or phrase. The fragile tissues somehow withstanding her abuse but clearly bearing the battle scars of wrinkles and too much wear. It drives me absolutely insane.
Maybe that's because I love print publications [and yes, clothes]. I prefer print-outs to reading things online, newspapers to the internet, letters to emails. My favorite books, while read and re-read, manage to remain mostly unscathed, the gloss of their covers still largely intact.

So you can imagine why I almost wished I had those made-to-handle-antiques cloth gloves on when I ripped open a package left mysteriously on my front doorstep [delivered by bike, I later discovered, with a $5 bill tucked into its pages for the shipping I had paid for...thanks, James!] and found Volume 3 of Embrocation Cycling Journal. Pulling it out of its envelope with slightly sweaty hands, a surge of goosebumps swept up my back as I ever so gently flipped through its pages.
Taught the importance of font and layout by an extremely critical sister [who happens to be a graphic designer], I ran an eye over it, almost bracing myself for something I wouldn't like. Something that wouldn't make sense. Something that would inevitably disappoint. Instead, my eyes feasted. And not just on the layout, which, though beautiful, seems only complementary to the sheer talent behind the magazine itself. Because that's what sets Embrocation Cycling Journal apart - the realization that that intangible something that all cyclists share managed to somehow collect the best of its members and spilled their gifts out onto its pages.

Due to the fact that I ride a single-speed 'cross bike, it was only too fitting that my first introduction to Embrocation Cycling Journal came in the form of an issue focused on cyclocross. Between the smorgasbord of stunning pictures, including photos by the incredibly talented Michael R. of Velodramatic, were stories and interviews, cyclists relating their love for racing, fabricating, and training. The pages kept turning as the laptop [and work] got pushed away. Even after owning it for several weeks, it still has that effect.
Which is dangerous. Especially because I now happen to be in possession of Volume 2 as well. Focused more on road racing, there's that same, strong talent behind every page. Just enough to give a sense of the potential Embrocation can grow to, but not quite done with puberty. And like a really good date with the high-school-nerd-turned-successfully-wealthy-hottie, it doesn't disappoint, but definitely leaves you wanting more.

That doesn't mean I won't be turning back to these issues once Volume 4 comes out. When sad, lonely, and covered in grease and brake dust, I turned to Joshua Gunn's "Bird Watch," careful not to blemish the pages with tears and snot [Volume 3]. When lacking artistic inspiration or dreaming of tattoos, Peter Rubijono's drawings [Volumes 2 and 3]. When fantasizing about custom-built road bikes, "N.A.H.B.S." [Volume 2].

It's all there - feelings of victory, disappointment, desire, excitement, fuzzy contentment...all tied together by a shared love of bicycles. The effect? Intellectual and emotional embrocation [the cold weather kind]...without the stickiness.
[Buy yourself a copy here.]

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.