highways and hurdles

Dear Mark,
I assume you're not passed out in a ditch somewhere after whatever may have transpired last night to celebrate the end of 2L. I'm hoping you can read this through the haze of your hangover.
Remember yesterday when I ran into you again after our rescheduled exams? And you told me not to take that route to Natick and I should go to Dover instead? And you said that this one route would be good and I'd like it because it's sort of hilly and quiet and nice?
Well, I was really excited about it, and got all changed and jersey-fied for this ride. And then like 5 miles in, I hit a highway.

I actually tried to ride on it, and then I figured maybe I shouldn't, and I tried to see if it was just a sort-of highway that ends but it was kind of scary and I couldn't imagine how I would get back. So, instead, I ended up taking the usual 12 mile loop home and then passed out when I got to my apartment. Dover, fail, apparently.
But today, I managed to make it to Arlington via Lexington. And let me tell you, it's like a whole different world. There are trees and little traffic and even bodies of water were involved! I was totally channeling Rapha Continental [but maybe without the speed, style, and grace]. I mean, this does not look like Massachusetts. Or at least the Massachusetts I'm used to.

The people are incredibly nice too, at least if you're a girl and sweating buckets on some isolated private way with no clue where she's going. Oh, yeah, I did get spit on by some kids on the way back, but I guess that comes with the territory [don't worry, I showered].
And I got lost about five times, but that goes without saying. It made the 35 mile-ish ride into something like 40, and other than a 10 minute break in Arlington, I hardly stopped. Progress, right?

I think I've found my daily route. It even has some legit hills, and twisty roads. If you weren't leaving tomorrow for New York City, I'd drag you and Obersheimer there tomorrow morning. Even though with your respective gears, you'd both dust me. But come August, when you're back, I plan on being at least a little bit stronger.
Time to sink my face into some food. Then a nap maybe, and gym time. Yeah, running starts today. I have difficulty walking, so this will be interesting. Anyway, I'm hungry. See you next week in the city, yeah?
oxox, k

between books and buttons

Books are officially closed for the summer.
And before I have to slip into button downs and the occasional suit, I have a small window of freedom. Well, I have a growing list of things that need to get done, but that comes after I regroup, mentally assess the mess that my life and apartment are in, and say fuck it for now and fall asleep without worrying about anything.
I have incredibly selfish plans for the next few days. They mostly involve doing whatever the fuck I want, mostly on my bike, mostly by myself. I have miles and miles of training to catch up on, places I want to pedal to, and that ever-persistant obligation to fall asleep in bliss and not wake up until late morning. And if that wasn't enough, there are beers to be consumed, Americanos to be sipped, and cookies to be baked and eaten.

Oh, right, and hats to make. Running to the grocery store after a quick post-exam ride, I parked next to a bright red Iro. Coming out of the store, I met its owner, who greeted me with:
"Hey, I know you from the Internet!"
I have to fix a hat for him. I was planning on putting that off until tomorrow, or the next day...but the guilt's winning out. So, I'm starting that tonight...after purging my inbox, a cup of coffee, and being completely lazy.
It's going to be a struggle getting that last one done, though, I can feel it already.

lucky charms

I'm sort of drowning in them. I keep finding them here and there, scattered in odd corners of my apartment.
No, I'm not talking about the cereal.
I understand I may be burned at the stake, but it's not exactly my favorite cereal [it would take a life-changing event to wrench Life from that special place in my heart]. I'm not sure I've actually ever bought a box of it for myself. I'm talking about the charms my Mom's been sending me because she's terrified I'm going to kill myself on my bike.
I attached a commuter-safety-specific one to my bike last winter and lost it two weeks later when, my cross tires clogged with snow, I took a digger on Mass Ave. I guess it worked because I only ended up sliding down the road on my ass, and my knees stayed intact. And while I keep forgetting to ask for another commuter one, my parents are sending them in all shapes and sizes.

To be fair, I've managed to avoid anything involving blood since I've had one on my bag. But with all these choices, I haven't decided which to attach to my saddle. And seized with that indecision, I've chosen to sort of favor the cereal over the small pretty charms.
No, I'm not stuffing my face with Lucky Charms. I do know people who will eat it by the handful, though, savoring those dry, sugary marshmallow lumps. The same people who feel strongly enough about it that they'll get in arguments over the merits of Lucky Charms over Cinnamon Toast Crunch and, if I'm involved, Life.

Maybe it's that fanatical devotion to the packaged cereal that appealed to me. Okay, granted, the picture of Chris on Facebook with this exact jersey on pretty much sold me. When I grabbed it off the sale rack at IBC, Marcus gushed that it had been waiting for the right person to buy it. Well, here I am.
Yes, correct, I rock this. It makes me look absolutely ridiculous. Or just 10 years old. Either way, it's currently my favorite thing to sweat in. It's also the first thing I'm slipping into when I get back from school tomorrow. And oh, will I be sweating.

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.