...from my rollers...
...is absolutely amazing.
Took an exam this morning and I have one coming up on Friday. Then Tuesday. Then sleep, maybe.
I'll be back Friday afternoon. Cross my heart.
il pirata
Or, more accurately, Marco [Pantani]. That's what Pete jokingly called me when he saw how I like to climb hills. I really really love to stay in my drops. Risers? Flat bars? Bullhorns? Never.
I dream of being a decent climber. I dream of ascending steep hills and knowing exactly when to shift to keep a constant cadence. I've been dreaming of road bikes, too, spending an hour here and there fantasizing about custom frames [Igleheart? Indy Fab? Seven?], pretending I had the money to sink into yet another bike.
I know, I know, I just got a new bike. But it's an addiction; cycling, that is. It's sort of totally changed my life, too. I'm not going to go out and get that bike-related tattoo just yet, but I'm hoping if I ever do, it won't be something I regret.
I'm doubting myself, though. I've been through enough phases [from punk to sourdough baking to boxing] to hedge my bets a bit. And when finals arrive and I'm more than a little unprepared, the doubting becomes worse as I desperately try to find something I'm good at. Because it's certainly not law school [unless you count being spectacularly mediocre at studying law some kind of impressive feat]. I've been doing a fairly okay job of clutching onto the last shreds of my sanity though. Well...until yesterday.
I ran into Mark outside the library and hitched a ride into Newton Centre to get a decent cup of coffee. On our way back to the library, we ran into a guy in our Constitutional Law II class; a guy who is on Law Review with Mark. He mentioned going to meet with our professor to ask some questions before the official review session, and, looking at Mark, invited him, pointedly ignoring me, saying:
"Yeah, I'm sure the guys will be okay with you coming. All the smart kids are going."
I gulped awkwardly, then managed to excuse myself from the conversation that I was never a part of, to head back to my carrel. Biting my lip, I pushed aside feelings of frustration, inadequacy, and not being good enough. I have too much shit to do to feel stupid over petty comments; so I dove back into my work.
Hours later, back home, I gave myself a 20 minute break to sprawl out on my bed and think about nothing. Turning my head to check the time, I glimpsed my pretty Dolan. I wondered how long this was going to last. I dream of being fast but, like punk rock and boxing, sometimes I wonder if I was ever really built for this obsession I've immersed myself into [the answer to the aforementioned interests ended up in the negative, mostly because I couldn't seem to excel at either]. When passion turns into that hungry, all-consuming desire to be better, faster, stronger, smarter...does it all end there?
Even if I'm never good at cycling, am I still going to love it...?
I'm honestly not sure. For now, I'm going to do the only thing I can do: keep my head down, in the drops, and just try to climb.
west siiiiide!
I've never been to California, or the West Coast. Even with the beautiful weather and equally beautiful people, I was always convinced that the dreary, cold, bitterly sarcastic East Coast [or, at least the New England area] suited my personality much better.
These days, though, I'm flirting with the idea of checking out the other coast. Seattle, in particular. Yeah, I know, it rains a lot. Yeah, I heard it can kind of suck to train there. Yeah, it's probably not the cyclist's paradise that I'm convincing myself it is. Yeah, yeah, yeah.
It'll never be associated with law school, though, which is part of the appeal. That's not to say that the decision over whether I should even try exploring my options west doesn't fluctuate as wildly and as often as Britney's weight. I'll make a decision, and then scrap it within the next 30 minutes, think about it while zoning out on bike rides and nearly run myself into parked cars.
Because Boston's got its charms. It comes in the form of bike shops and polo, and awesome people who give great hugs. Standing alone in a crowd at the ESPI finals - having wedged my way by the door of the court which now lacked the usual chainlink fencing for better viewing - someone squeezed my shoulder and I turned to find Tom...then saw Croth, Matt, Clark, Cole, Reuben...Boston represent!
So when Seattle played against Boston yesterday in the finals, I shamelessly cheered for Boston, despite the fact that I was literally surrounded by strangers. Toby and his friend turned to me, telling me that they were conflicted as to who to cheer for because Seattle played so well. For me, for that one game, the choice was blatantly clear.
Constitutional law [and the fear that accompanies final exams] had me jetting off before the final game. East Vancouver took 1st place though, with Milwaukee taking 2nd and New York City taking 3rd. All points west.
And Seattle did win over Boston in that game. I was sorely disappointed but hey, it happens. And even with the magnetic pull that Seattle's had over me recently...well, maybe we [and I mean Boston] can win that trophy next year...
Congrats to the winners and everyone who played!!! It was amazing to watch!
[To get your official ESPI 4 fix, head on over to Legit Bike Polo.]
[Pictures here...and some by Croth here and here.]
polo madness
Did I really write a half-sentimental, verging on fuzzy-wuzzy post on bike polo yesterday?
Yeah, yeah I did.
Wow. That's kind of embarrassing. I mean, sure everyone who plays in Boston is incredibly laid-back, but the reality of playing polo is more "Fight Club" than "Sister Act." More "Kill Bill" than "Snow White."
It involves squeaky skidding, the loud thud of the ball bouncing off wheel covers and the clatter of the door hatch as players tap out. The occasional heckle and the cheers when bikes tangle and crash, players get shoved aside, or make kamikaze-like sacrifices.
Because when the best from around the country [plus Canada!] get together in possibly the biggest polo event, ever [35 teams showed!], things get fast, bloody, and broken. I arrived at the Allston court in the early afternoon and got to watch some of the best players in the country unleashed upon each other for the 4th East Side Polo Invitational.
I knew it was going to a complete sausage party [aren't all bike events?] but I was unprepared for the frothing-at-the-mouth-testosterone-fueled competitiveness. With Boston locals clearly in the minority, it was like stepping into a different world. I actually stood in the middle of the crowd for about a full minute, searching for familiar faces, rummaging in my bag like I would somehow find my friends in there.
Not that these strangers didn't look interesting. There were enough mallets, tats, tight jeans, and bikes to make me swoon. Fortunately, being dressed in spandex and knee highs and arriving on my vanity track bike made the situation sufficiently awkward so that swooning would have been out of the question. Fortunately, I shoved aside the awkwardness for a few hours to watch some amazing games. And, fortunately, the players I did end up meeting didn't seem nearly as crazy off the court.
Although, once mounted on bikes with mallets ready, all the teams were fueled by something more than just the desire to win those Volume frames. Pride is on the line, and apparently that makes for some spectacular games. I snapped pictures furiously, leaning over the door, watching the game through the small screen of my digital camera.
Impending final exams [and the need to study for them] forced me to leave early. But ESPI finals are today. You know where to find me.
[Pictures from yesterday here.]
[Edit: and more pictures by Croth from Saturday and Sunday.]
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.