rolling in place

I don't deserve it so I'm trying not to take one.
A break, that is.
Because that'll free up time to think about things that fuel headaches and cramped shoulders. There's a lot to do in the next 48 hours...and after that I'll be looking at my final year of law school. It might be cause for celebration [although, when I finished my first year and claimed in a Facebook status message that I was "done," my sister pointedly asked how I could be done when I had two more years left], but I'm pretty sure I won't be getting sleep. It never ends, I suppose.
I have a summer to get into shape [and the past two weeks have wrecked havoc on my health], and hats to make, other favors, more projects, and all the other things I can't think about doing right now but I'll agree to do because I'm a total pushover.

So while some classmates are done with exams and will IM me claiming to be completely lost as to what to do with their lives, I'm scrambling. Tuesday, I'll finally be done with school for the year. Tuesday, the skin on my fingertips might finally stop peeling due to too much typing [gross but true]. Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday.
It's something to look forward to, I guess. Still, that damn Tsunami Bomb lyric keeps running through my head on rides to school and back, when I'm zoning out, falling asleep in the library and desperately hoping my best friend will get back on gchat and IM me to keep me up.
"How long 'til I'm my own?"
How long, indeed.

suspecting sunburn

Melanin. It's such a bitch.
I understand the appeal of sun-kissed tans and healthier complexions. But where I come from, halfway across the world, white is beautiful. The desire to maintain or achieve pale, nearly translucent skin has women carrying parasols, applying "whitening" lotions, and wearing long sleeves in the humid, scorching Tokyo summer.
I assume the paleness used to connote status and inclusion into a higher socio-economic class that didn't have to toil in rice paddies. The sheer irony is that I inherited my relatively pale skin tone from my father who grew up in the countryside, not my city-born-and-raised mother. And while my looks might not have my parents' friends complimenting me, they will always mention how "incredibly pale" I am.
Or, perhaps more accurately, how pale I used to be. I was hoping a New England winter cold enough to necessitate biking to school in a down jacket would blast away the color from my skin. Maybe enough hours in the library would wash away the embarrassing tan lines. Maybe that computer monitor tan would counteract the real brownish tinge my skin acquired last summer.

It was all in vain. Yesterday, peeling off my leggings after my third final exam and stepping into shorts for about the third time this year, I realized that my legs are still ridiculously tri-toned. I don't mind the clear line of my shorts tan; that can be worn as a cyclist's badge of pride. It's my propensity to wear knee high socks that's resulted in the ultimately embarrassing: my calves are significantly paler than my thighs.
My legs looking like candy corn, I pedaled home in knee highs, then, despite the bruises scattered over my unshaven legs [I've been busy, okay?], I bit the bullet and pulled on some shorter socks. If I want my legs to look somewhat normal again, my calves are going to have to get some sun. Nevermind the inevitable cycling socks tan; we'll cross that bridge when we get there.

Self-conscious about my multi-colored legs, I was pedaling furiously through Allston and Brighton hoping that the blur of motion will somehow blend all the colors together. I came home, my calves no less stunningly white, smears of chain lube accentuating their lack of color even more.
Meanwhile my thighs, nose, and cheeks are suspiciously rosy red. Maybe I should look into getting a recumbent...

the perfect pout

I've been perfecting my pout lately. Not the confidently sexy one that I may or may not put on with a cute outfit and shoes that aren't Sidis. The other one. The burning-with-envy-and-bordering-on-temper-tantrums one. The one that belongs on girlfriends trying to guilt their boyfriends into doing buying something for them. The one that belongs on a five year old who doesn't want to take "no" for an answer.
Holed up in the library, glued in front of a desk and computer, I'm pouting. Because outside, it's verging on summer, the days stretching out with the sun finally growing reluctant to leave the sky. Cyclists are everywhere, meeting in groups, reconnecting with team mates, and flowing down the streets in packs of colorful Lycra.
And just when I'm getting used to slouching over my notes, outlines, practice exam questions, and too many cups of coffee, pushing bikes out of mind [for now], friends will drop me an email, reminding me of their upcoming summers. And I'm left pouting, again. This time in furious jealousy.

I feel like I'm 10 years old again, standing nervously in my sister's shadow, her artistic talent far outdoing anything I could offer to my parents. But this time, there's no lingering bitterness when I'm living vicariously through gorgeous pictures and poignant journal entries. There's none of that disconnect that comes with knowing that you're outside the loop, that you're simply spectating. It's more a cocktail of envy tinged with excitement; the desire to actually live that, combined with a dash of "I want to be faster" and a generous squeeze of "I need a road bike, like right now."

Not that I'd ever be able to keep up with the gentlemen of Rapha [which is probably a good thing as I'm far from the photogenic creatures they've managed to find to fill their stables]. Which is more reason to pout...if it weren't for the Internet, blogs, and my stalkerish mouse hovering over this particular bookmarked page. Instead, I can't resist a smile as I draw my laptop closer, tuck a leg underneath me and pretend I'm coasting effortlessly on a team-issue Rapha bike through Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas...
I've got one more exam before a summer of sweating on a single-speed. One more furious dash before I can collapse into the shower, steamy and starving after a decent ride, anticipating sleep only so I can do it all over again. And between the pedaling and stretching, I know I'll find time to quietly peek at the boys of summer men of Rapha.
...And, yeah, I feel the penis envy coming on already.

the view

...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.]