disaster zone

Imagine newspapers, fabric, bottles of screening ink, plastic tubs of cottage cheese [for mixing ink], and tailor's chalk strewn around the floor, cardboard boxes spewing out fabric with a track bike wedged into a corner and you have an idea of what my room currently looks like.
Needless to say, it's a mess [no, I'm not posting pictures of it]. Any ordinary person would probably think I've completely lost it. And sometimes I think I might have as well.

After spending most of the day [unforeseen circumstances dictated that I got the day off] alternating between screening, cutting, hopping between laid out fabric, and sewing, my shoulders were sufficiently cramped to allow for a break. Observing the destruction wrought in my room, and some mostly complete hats, I took a breather to pat myself on the back. I've been productive today, I thought.
And there was only so much I could do; the bigger box of fabric from NYC hadn't arrived yet. Thank God. I can blow off certain projects for a few--
And then the doorbell rang.
Yup. That box came.

So it was back to work, hands sometimes covered in ink, other times finagling fabric under the foot of my sewing machine. My trash can filled up over the course of the day to the point where it was vomiting out slivers of fabric, pieces of thread, elastic, and all the bits and pieces associated with crafting. Pushing my machine to work harder and faster, I almost didn't feel guilty about wimping out on my ride.
Okay, I admit, I did a mere 6 miles today. I know. The guilt. But if it makes it any better, my knee was stiff by the time I called it a day and took my foot off the [sewing machine] pedal. My shoulders were feeling it too, and even my fingers were a little tired [although, that could be the endless gchatting].

Finally extracting myself from the hat factory [i.e., my desk], I stretched my fingers while thinking about my next ride, slightly dreading those hills. And that's when I noticed it. Despite the layers of sun screen I pour onto my arms before rides, I'm officially rocking the hood tan. My thumbs and forefingers are a noticeably darker shade than my other fingers. Great.
At this point, the only thing that's going to save me is an airbrush tan. Although, I suppose this is another badge of [cyclist] pride.

operation

When I was little, it seemed like every household except mine had that game. I loved it though [who didn't?].
I remember seeing a friend with the game in college, and attempting to pick out the plastic pieces for the first time in over 10 years. Even sober, it was hard, and after about 12 or so attempts, we'd finally give up on the wishbone piece, letting the game buzz while we just tried to dig it out.
Operation was the closest I'd gotten to any kind of "surgery" up until about a few days ago. I loved biology in high school but the sight of blood and scalpels always made me queasy. Besides, I can't do math, don't understand physics, and chemistry gives me a headache.
But give me a wounded garment, thread, seam ripper, and a needle, and I will dig right in. JT at CB gave me that exact opportunity with the snapped brim of his Laek House cycling cap. Given his great compliments on his own pedal strike "Boston" hat, I couldn't say no to his request to get it fixed. Besides, cycling caps always have some kind of sentimental value...not to mention how cool that ELVS stuff is.

So I got to ripping seams. Aggressively but carefully, taking care to remember how it was assembled so I could stitch it all back together once I was done. As soon as I got 90% of the brim free and tore it open, shattered pieces of plastic poured out, cracking even further as I undid the last few stitches holding the plastic in place.

The pieces were swept into the trash can before the hat was washed once for good measure. A solid piece of interfacing was measured out to match the shape of the brim, then fused into place. The layers of fabric were then pinned back together the way they came. The sweatband inside was re-aligned and then the whole thing went under the needle of my machine.

It came out looking like new, the brim clean and whole. And minus the whole washing and drying, the entire operation look about an hour, total. That's probably less time than a game of Operation, and the plastic pieces weren't so hard to dig out.
Don't worry, I'm not entertaining any ideas of entering the medical profession. Blood still makes me a little sick, and my hand-to-eye coordination is terrible. I'll be sticking to dissecting inanimate objects, for now.

oral fixation

Yesterday, I almost couldn't wait to dump my face into food after a mere 30 miles. And I did.
Because I took a friend, Matt, on my recently discovered 40 mile route. We met early to throw down a few miles; he on a geared bike, kitted out, and looking every part the serious roadie [minus the shorn legs]. Me on the Bianchi, messenger bag strapped to my back, but jersey-fied and sporting a new CB hat. We made an odd combo and I almost cringed at how I must look - the novice female friend with ill-equipped bike, sans kit, struggling to keep up with the more seasoned male cyclist [despite the fact that Matt's more runner than cyclist].
And was I struggling. The first time I've ridden that route with another person, I was throwing all kinds of things into my mouth.

Matt set a quick pace and while we alternated drafting, he predictably dropped me at almost every climb. 10 miles in and I knew my knee wasn't going to hold up. So before the mile-long thigh juicer of a climb, I stopped to pop an Aleve [don't hate], and then watched as Matt became a small white speck, the "Boston College" emblazoned on his ass mocking my pathetic efforts.
We climbed, rode, swerved around potholes, and bumped into two members of the Harvard Cycling Club. I held on for about 3 whole minutes before getting dropped [again]. But with 2 miles to Arlington, I caught sight of a couple that had passed us a few minutes ago. Getting my second wind, I decided I was going to catch up and cling on. Nose nearly on my stem, curled up in my drops, I stubbornly refused to let them shake me. They probably thought I was completely insane. But hey, Matt and I ended up making it to Arlington in record time.

We stretched a little and then headed back to Waltham to refuel. And finding Wilson's Diner, we gulped down cups of coffee and calories in the form of blueberry pancakes [for me], and eggs, hash, and homefries [for Matt].

We rolled home, me mostly drained of energy. I spent the next few hours sitting at my desk, trying to regain the feeling in my legs. And between eating a few more things, I passed out on my bed, screened, and stitched.
And today, it's breakfast on the run, lunch in the office, and dinner between a run and more stitching. My summer job starts today. Not that that's going to get in the way of my munching, pedaling, or sweatshopping.
...Especially the munching.

farmer's tans

"Nice tan you got going on there," Chris said as I casually walked into the mechanic's floor of IBC.
I knew the tank top was a mistake. You can clearly see how pale my shoulders are in comparison to my arms, and then that arm tan gets cut off into the glove tan around my wrists. As if the thigh-calf tri-tan wasn't enough. Now I'm starting to just look splotchy.
I was trying to nip the problem in the bud by going downtown in a sleeveless top that day. And sporting a clear farmer's tan, I obviously had to stop by the Copley Square Farmer's Market. From May to October, on Tuesdays and Fridays, vendors pitch tents and sell yummy, fresh produce, baked goods, and jams, meats, and cheese. Fridays last summer meant hopping on my bike to stuff my bag full of zucchini, corn, juicy tomatoes, and crisp bell peppers.

And it's not just the produce. I remembered a loaf of just-sweet-enough banana bread purchased last summer. It was huge, and took days to polish off; but it never dried out. I almost expected it to be too sweet, something that i'll eat in skinny slivers with several glasses of water. Instead, I nom nom nom-ed away at it in thick slices, consciously resisting its pleading to be eaten before, after, and in between meals.
Spotting that same banana bread, I remembered some people who would be on their feet all day, fixing bikes. People who will undoubtedly appreciate banana bread. Propping my bike up with a hip, I squeezed myself into Breadsong booth, I grabbed two - yes, two - loaves, and nestled them on top of all the other junk in my bag before I biked back out west. Biked towards my homes. All three.

The smaller loaf went to Pete and JT at Boston Bikes, then I made a brief stop at home [as in the place where I sleep] before heading to IBC. The nice weather meant that everyone there was working and swamped with customers. The bread was slipped on a side counter; nutrition for when busy friends can sneak in a mouthful of food between customers.

I almost regret not cutting a piece off for myself, but those loaves will be on display every Friday. And this year I'm rocking a Baileyworks that's way bigger than the small Chrome bag I was using last summer. Take that to its logical conclusion and you'll know where to find me on Friday evenings, between 5pm and 6pm.

a satisfied itch

Face flushed, dizzy with that mixture of satisfaction and exhaustion, I finally broke my dry spell yesterday.
And what a satiating way to do it. Biting my lip between panting and gasping for air, goosebumps were shooting up my neck. Even with a cramped up shoulder, there was no way I was going to stop. It felt wayyyy too good.
It hurt, too, but the masochist in me was loving every second. Bent over in a slightly awkward position, all I wanted to do was go harder and faster. Keep going. Don't stop. My hair was getting sweaty but I really didn't care. This is what I've been waiting for. Finally.
Hills.

It's been a few days since I've ridden to Arlington. And from Waltham north, there's one particular road that's a solid mile of pure climb [the pictures don't do it justice]. The first time I did it, it was all I could do to keep my bike upright near the top. I can't imagine doing it in anything less than clipless pedals, and while I can still barely breathe at the end of it, I'm pretty sure my calves look amazing from the back.
That stretch of road is one main reason I'll drag my feet before the ride. But once I'm on it, thighs burning, clutching the drops in a white-knuckled grip, ass in the air, I remember why I love this route. And coming back from NYC - a city as flat as it is exciting - I threw myself into the hills, extracting that manic pleasure from the searing pain in my legs. Keeping a constant cadence up these babies is pretty near impossible [without gears], so all there's left to do is mash [and hope I don't just fall over].

And it's not just that one mile stretch. It's climb after climb. Enough to keep it interesting, at least. And enough to have me simultaneously considering flipping my wheel to go at it fixed, but thankful for the ability to coast downhill. Ascend, descend, ascend, descend...it might get repetitive and boring for some, but for me, that moment of cresting another hill is priceless.
I also can't get enough. The goosebumps and the pain, that feeling of release as your muscles finally relax and blood is bouncing through your veins in an adrenaline-fueled frenzy. Only to speed to the next climb; a modern day Sisyphus on a Bianchi. Well, without the sense of total futility. Because at the very least, I'm gaining huger legs.
I used to think good chocolate was better than sex. Climbing hills on a freewheel definitely beats good chocolate though. Definitely.

impatient voyages

Remember the "ipod nod"? Back when only a select few had ipods and they were far from touch screen? And those white earbuds would qualify you for that so-geeky-it's-chic, sage nod from another ipod owner? That secret, shared understanding of owning something...superior?
I like how that died within a year as ipods and Apple just continued to take over the world. Now everyone has one, it's just another gadget attesting to your status [or lack thereof]. There's nothing special about owning one anymore. No more of that exclusiveness. No more of that excitement that comes with belonging in a special group of the select few who really, truly understand.
Bikes are different though. Proof? I saw two pairs of excited eyes yesterday that seemed to hum with elation. I nearly nodded.
After a [miserable] run and then a bike ride downtown, I showered then hopped back on the bike to get drenched in my own sweat all over again. Because Marcus was putting the finishing touches on his new 'cross bike, and invited me on its maiden voyage. Like I could ever miss this. I skipped into IBC, dumped my bike next to Wes's Merckx [hottt!] and clopped my cleated feet over to 2nd Cup for some coffee.

Picking my way back to the shop, I saw a guy who had just purchased a Trek. And just before he pushed off onto the street, I asked him if it was New Bike Day. He happily answered in the affirmative and, with bright, happy eyes, jumped onto his new steed. It never gets old, that feeling. Even when it's not your own bike...because you know. You understand.
Back at IBC, I climbed the stairs with caffeine in one hand and a camera in the other, and paparazzi-ed Marcus as he put the finishing touches on his new baby. I seemed to be the most impatient person there; I couldn't wait until it was ready to be ridden, and I literally jumped up and down with excitement when I first saw it, it was so so so close to being complete.

Bars wrapped perfectly [by Chris], cables adjusted, chain measured out, and pedals finally installed, we headed out for a quick ride down Comm Ave. And wow, is that bike hot. In the light of the setting sun, the silver frame looks almost white, and seemed to shift like butter. My knee was being stupid but with vicarious excitement coursing through my muscles and fueled by adrenaline, I was springing up the hills, alternating between following Marcus and leading.
We parted ways after babbling about practicing dismounts, jogging, and how good his frame is going to look with mud splattered all over it. Plans are in the works for practicing and falling over our bikes in dark fields when no one else is around. It's going to hurt and probably be slightly miserable.
As usual, I can't wait.