espi 4

In a former life, I would either be currently attached to a TV or in Kentucky, with a ridiculous hat and a mint julep.
Because, hello, today is the Kentucky Derby.
The first of the coveted Triple Crown, I've dreamed of watching this legendary race in person for years. And back when I would have made the weight cut, I even considered training to get an exercise jockey license. Because, you know, that would bring me one eensy, tiny step closer to the Kentucky Derby.

Instead, today, I'm off to the polo courts in Allston and Somerville, with a few prizes in my bag and full of expectations of good hugs from good friends. Finishing up hats for ESPI last night, I suddenly realized that I had promised to make these the first day I showed up to polo. In October. It was just starting to get chilly; I had just watched my life as I planned it go down the shitter, and the only thing I seemed good at collecting were rejection letters from firms. In retaliation, I painted my nails bright, bright red.
And started spending Sunday afternoons with a mallet in one hand [or, at least a beer], and forming those bonds that make bad days, weeks, or months just unravel. I remember biking down Western Ave, then that paved sidewalk to the court itself on sharp, verging-on-winter fall days my mind an emotional mess of "I didn't get that job I was dying for, my note's a mess, my future is falling apart, blah blah blah, wah wah wah wah..." And trying to keep myself from bursting into frantic tears, I'd look up and see a raised mallet or hand waving, Jamie stopping by the wall to say hello [cigarette in one hand, mallet in the other], and Nick making some smartass comment as he coasted by [laughter, in any case, inevitably ensuing].

In any life sans polo, I'd find a way to watch the Derby. But even with three more finals staring me down, I'm going to make a little time to deliver on promises, and watch my polo peeps own. I may not be able to offer any kind of tangible support on the court [unless you count my trademark "get in everyone's way" move], but that doesn't mean I can't cheer or heckle.
And even if Boston doesn't take every single prize offered [including a Volume cutter frame thanks to Kip and Bud at Cambridge], at least the winning team will be forced to rep Boston whenever they might turn these brims up. And with the Derby favorite this year named "I Want Revenge," well, I think that's all too appropriate.
[And if you're reading this, with nothing to do on a Saturday afternoon, pedal your ass over to one of the courts. Right now. GO.]

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.]