fabricated crises

1.57am. That's when I finished.
Not like that's unusually late these days. Between rides, blogs, and scheming, late nights are becoming part of the whole routine. A dizzying one that has me nearly falling asleep as I brush my teeth and having small fits of existential crises over gchat. All while some part of me lists all the things I have to do the next day, then tells me to stay up some more. I'm not that tired, am I?
Actually, I kind of am. But it's totally my fault.
I chose to hang out yesterday after my ride, instead of finishing off the latest batch of hats for Cambridge. So those got done after dinner, stretching into the next morning. There was good IMing company, but in the end it was me, a needle and thread, and a pair of scissors. Hand finishing each and every one.

But I like this batch, a lot. There are the classic black ones [Zach insisted on more black], then some lighter ones, more summery and a little more adventurous. I even mixed some gray ink for the brims, the white getting slightly redundant.
The sewing was getting redundant too, though. Barely able to see, mostly unable to think, and completely dead tired, I was rambling and ranting to a partner in crime.
"What am I doing? Why am I doing this? It's 2am," I said.
To which he advised:
"The best cure for a 2am existential crisis = sleep."

Yeah, maybe. I mean, I should do more of that. Soon. After I finish some more hats, cut some more fabric, take some more pictures, write some more posts. After that, and the errands, then the gearing up for work on Monday.
After that, maybe.

[imaginary] friends

One reason I tend to ride alone is the blissful ignorance of how fast I am not going. No fancy cycloputer on my handlebars, no stop watch, just a cell phone and a mental note of when I roll out.
Of course, when you ride with friends with gears, everything sort of changes.
Not in a bad way, though. You just start to see things differently. And while I dread using the word, in a way you start to compare.
Heading out this morning on a ride, alone, I almost wondered why I wasn't with a friend or two. It's gorgeous out. Just cool enough to keep the sweat from flowing down your face in rivets, and the sun shining just enough to head out in shorts and a jersey. Not even a strong wind to discourage the ride; and thank God for that, because I was definitely dragging my cleats.

Those are sort of the times I wish I had a friend who didn't have social obligations on Saturdays, and would drag me out on rides. Maybe someone on a single-speed. Because remembering the constant dropping and catching up of a few days ago, my ego wanted to be coddled a bit, not shattered into a million pieces.
I was still pretending, though, that Matt was churning those cranks ahead of me, almost hearing that wet sound of a chain being funneled through a derailleur, and the clickety-click of shifting gears. I mashed harder on the hills, imagining him ahead of me in that bright white kit, and flat terrain meant I had to go even faster to catch up to an imaginary friend.
And I did it fast. As fast as Matt and I did it last time, even. And descending those hills, I remembered how Matt flew down them. Finally catching up to him, I said:
"You don't like to use your brakes, do you?"

He smirked in response as he shook his head. Ah, the irony of learning that brakes are unnecessary from a roadie. Or, maybe it's not so ironic at all.
Home at last, I stretched while struggling out of a sweaty jersey, shorts, and cycling cap. And oddly enough, I finally realized that while my friends may be working while I ride, I'm sort of carrying them with me wherever I go. The jersey from IBC, the spoke bracelet from Chris [plus the two bracelets from my best friend], the cycling cap from CB.
Then, of course, there's the bike. But that a whole nother story involving more friends, sub-stories, and a few broken parts. Suffice it to say that it's the product of a lot of love, and of course, very real friends.

slipshod

Dress up. Dress down.
Change shoes. About three times a day. Another summer working in Boston.
I love shoes, but this is getting to be a little too much. It feels like I consistently have three pairs of shoes on me that I'm actually wearing. Needless to say, my outfits are changing, too, almost a la Britney in "Womanizer." Almost, because I'm keeping most of my clothes on.
It doesn't go so far as "role play" [and it's not nearly as kinky]. It's just what anyone who bikes to work deals with - a change of more professional clothes carefully folded and packed in my bag with gym clothes, running shoes, and the odd energy bar. And when I scoot into the office, I change out the helmet for a ponytail, shorts for a skirt, and Sidis for heels.

The first time I've been in heels in what seems like forever, I've been feeling sort of tall this week. Which, at 5'3", is absurd. Walking around in a skirt and button down shirt added more weird to the whole mix. I might even have looked lawyer-ly, shockingly enough.

And at the end of the day, I switched out the heels for Sidis, and clipped back into my bike only to change into running shoes 15 minutes later.
In the grand scheme of things, running is closer to biking than, say, burying my nose in trial briefs and motions. Or so it would seem. Too bad I'm more comfortable with the latter two activities than the former. Stuck on a treadmill, following a running plan supplied by Jones, I tried not to hate life too much. At least it wasn't that crowded; only a handful of people got to watch a cyclist trying to learn how to run.

Predictably, I couldn't wait to switch out of those shoes for the cleats. At the end of the day, finally taking off my shoes for good, I wiggled my toes as I stretched and sighed. Another relatively physically productive day [at least my legs think so].
Summers mean shoes, shoes, and more switching out of shoes. Hopefully I'm on my way to getting shredded in the process.

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.