the keys to my heart

There's an odd painting hanging in my sister's apartment. A man and woman are facing each other, playing poker. The man is fully dressed, the women completely nude. And yet, you can see the man's hand, while the woman keeps hers [cleverly] out of sight from the viewer.
Ah, men. So predictable [if you replace "common sense" with "what would make sense if you just wanted to get laid"].
Unfortunately, I sometimes feel like I'm completely naked and showing off my hand. I make it too easy, I guess: I perk up at the mention of bikes, I gush when anyone asks about cycling and training rides. I even smile and giggle.
Talk to me about bicycles and there's a good chance I'm going to walk away loving you.

And while those less closed-minded than me might entertain the prospect of dating a non-cyclist, [assuming I had the time for a relationship] for me...well...that's not really a possibility. Because cycling ends up seeping into your skin and permeating every aspect of your life if you get as addicted as I have. Cycling doesn't become a smaller part of your life. You just end up rearranging life around cycling.
And I don't even race [yet].
Sure, I'm predisposed to guys that ride hard [pun intended], but that doesn't keep me from thinking that it's great that newbies are out there these days, testing the Boston commuting waters. Because it is, and the streets seem to be crowded with strings of slightly blatantly inexperienced commuters. It's just that, even if that means more eye candy for me, a lot of them are simultaneously breaking my heart.

Call me neurotic...but...really? Sure, a bike is just a bike, but like a trophy wife/husband/girlfriend/whatever, that doesn't mean you're allowed to blatantly parade around the fact that you think it's dispensable. I think it actually took more time for my brain to process everything that was wrong with this picture than it would to cut through the lock and steal the bike.
Yes, I love cyclists; but no, I could never date this guy [assuming he was hot and interesting].

And apparently it's not just isolated to male cyclists. It's good to know that if I wanted a relatively new pale blue cruiser, that I could have one within 5 minutes. It's a cute cruiser, too, and one that probably gets its fair share of love. Just, maybe not enough from the right source. And though I don't doubt that the owner has good intentions, she's never going to realize what she had until she loses it.
We've all been there. With things possibly more precious than a bicycle. And there's really no point in setting yourself up for unnecessary heartbreak. Which is why I don't like to make it easy. I'm not condoning playing games; that's a waste of everyone's time. Just, you know, make it a little more challenging to steal the object of your unconditional affection.
Seriously. U-lock that shit.

re-gruppo-ing

The unpredictable [well, more than usual] mood swings, the sometimes swirling depression, the desire to drown myself in ice cream and potato chips [at the same time]. All signs pointing to a very reasonable suspicion that my uterus is currently getting out of control.
Estrogen, I hate you.
The weather doesn't seem to make it any better either. Overcast with a just-enough-so-it's-annoying misty rain, it's encouraging me to blow off after-work rides and stay in to work at my machine. Which is beginning to get slightly stressful.
But when some Motown beats channel their way through my ipod and out my speakers, and a friend drops me an IM about receiving an inexcusably late birthday present, I'm tempted to get back on the bike, or at least on the rollers.

Having known Jones for about 5 years, I owed him a birthday present, big time. Yes, his birthday was in March. Yes, I attempted to make up for the delay with a cog I've been lusting after myself. Yes, I like to gift things that I like.
I did get one for myself, too, but it's been staring me down from my desk, shoveling on the guilt for not riding my bike enough. Much less installing it. Admiring its sharp edges last night, I put it on the never-ending list of things to do. Cut, sew, design, embroider, email, run, ride, write. Mix and stir with an estrogen blitzkrieg and I'm tearing out my hair and crying for hours over gchat.
Ah, the disadvantages of being the sole member of Team Flying Solo. I wrongly assumed that riding/working/writing alone, I couldn't possibly drop myself. But last night, I sort of did; I found myself in the existential equivalent of that dreaded scenario that hardcore roadies talk about - getting dropped from the pack, 70 miles from home, just as it starts to rain. Oh yeah, and obviously cursing my lack of gears.

Shit Life happens, I guess. And when you're stuck in that kind of "OMG FML" situation, there's really nothing to do but get back on the bike. So this morning, I made a promise to mentally regroup, sort through all the bullshit, and be a little less crazy.
Which is why I'm wearing my new favorite t-shirt. A Gage & Desoto original. Well, at least the first that's been printed on an American Apparel Tri-color Track shirt. M1 wasn't offering girl's shirts when he got in touch, which meant I even got to pick the color of the shirt. And do I love it. Even if wearing it while pedaling a single-speed is dripping with hipster-esque irony.
Yeah, I know. Sometimes it does pay off to be a girl.

ketch[ing]up

It's Tuesday, I know, but let me tell you about Sunday.
Because there was ketchup involved, pre-5pm, and that is always a good thing.
I think ketchup is a food in and of itself. It's not a mere condiment; labeling it that strips it of its innate glory. It's a pureed, red mess of vinegary deliciousness that makes everything taste better. I'll opt for ketchup with my grilled cheese over tomato soup, and I'll even throw it in a pan with pasta [don't ask].
Did I mention how NYC can make me ridiculously happy? Even after scant hours of sleep and a throat hoarse from chattering and laughing too much the previous day? Well, it did. And ketchup was, of course, involved.

It came in the form of brunch at Cafe Orlin. The brioche french toast sounded incredibly tempting...until I saw the goat cheese, avocado, and tomato omelette. This neat yellow package packed with creamy goodness with a touch of Tabasco and Heinz's? That combination made me forget that the back of my eye sockets were burning from lack of sleep. I woke up a little, even [although that may have been the Americano], and managed to recall some of the ideas M1 and I came up with the previous night.
Needless to say, I stuffed my face. M1 rolled me back downtown and hung out while I waited for the bus with an amazing early birthday present from Lauren: the perfect, pink, vintage suitcase, complete with a "K" monogram.

M1's pile of stuff was the last thing I took a picture of before jumping onto a crowded, cramped bus headed back to Beantown. 4.5 hours later, I was home, pumping up my tires, and throwing a leg over a bicycle. Once back in the saddle, I momentarily forgot how much I already missed the city. And sprinting up the hills, I remembered why I absolutely, frantically, desperately love biking. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I suppose.
And while fighting the temptation to book another ticket to NYC, a ball of pure happy uncoiled in that space between my lungs and the back of my throat as I clipped in and sprinted. Shooting smack couldn't beat this.

disorder & [cookie] anarchy

Somehow, miraculously, in the two days I was in NYC, I only watched one episode of Law & Order.
Yeah, one.
And for a girl that seemingly makes the four-hour bus ride down there expressly to watch TV, that's a huge deal, folks. But there were cookies and pizza to be consumed, and cups of really, deliciously refreshing coffee to be gulped down, and even work to be done. And I'm not just talking about researching great burger joints.
Saturday started with, of course, a bike shop: NYC Velo. Dropping off hats would usually take a grand total of 5 minutes; instead I hung out for almost a solid hour, checking out the new shirts and the mix of people who rolled in and out of the door. New shop employee friends were made and loitering accomplished before I made the trek to Mood once again...but this time with a companion [Mike Spriggs, a.k.a. M1] in tow.

Thread and fabric were purchased and then wandering ensued. Strolling around the garment district, our ability to detect all things Rapha led us to the new Ace Hotel, where some of the Continental team had had drinks just over a week ago. Sinking into the plush, red couches, we rested our feet, sucked in the lobby with all of our senses [okay, we didn't lick the couches, though], and took goofy pictures of each other [the picture of me will not be posted here].

Our stomachs growling loudly, we demolished burgers - veggie for me, meat for him - at the Old Town Bar & Restaurant. A two-floor bar established in 1892, it's what you would expect from an old pub. But the high ceilings are peeling paint, the booths are solid wood, and the tables bear the marks of decades of use. Impressively authentic, I munched on fries as skinny and delicate as the women strolling around outside while snapping even more pictures.

Bloated, fat, and happy, our feet automatically led the way down to the bike shop. M1, though, with other things in mind, cleverly directed me down a few streets, and with one casual remark, had me drooling.
"Oh, this is Momofuku Milk Bar...wanna check it out?"
Before he finished his sentence, I was assaulted by the smell of freshly baked cookies. I nearly swooned. We grabbed two cookies - blueberry cream and cornflake - to go, before I was ushered out onto the street, following the brown paper bag in M1's hand.
And it didn't end there. My pulse started racing yet again less than 10 minutes later as my lips touched the rim of a cool glass of cold brewed iced coffee at Abraco. Served with cream and sugar [unless you request otherwise; I opted for milk instead of cream], this iced coffee will change your life. This is to iced coffee what DiFara's is to pizza; genuinely delicious, it almost makes you wish you had never tasted it because now, you can't stomach handing over money to drink normal iced coffee. And when coupled with cookies, it's enough to rekindle my love affair with New York, NY.

Back at the shop, Mike and I sprawled out on the couch until another famous face, Ethan Laek of Laek House came through the door. And before I knew it, I was in NYC Velo after closing, feeling just a little bit exclusive.
Of course, Saturday nights in NYC never stop at 7pm. Pizza from Lil Frankie's was demolished along with a pear, arugula, and gorgonzola salad while ideas were bounced around for upcoming projects. As I masticated cheese, bread, and tomato sauce happily, M1 grabbed the TV remote:
"Hey, wanna watch an episode of Law & Order?"
Ah, New York City...you know the way to a girl's heart.

surprisingly exclusive

I'm not going to lie, I secretly love owning exclusive things.
The earrings I got in a small store in a stylish Tokyo neighborhood, the bracelets I never take off, and the tiny track frameset I now proudly own. Sure, other short people own the same Dolan, but none in Boston, and none have doused that frame in so much pink.
Small surprise, then, that I like to make exclusive things too.
But, it is sort of surprising that I'm currently [back] in New York City, with a bagful of new hats, for a new shop. The concept is the same, but the everything else seems completely different. Which sort of resulted in something like two weeks of crazed hand painted hats inspired by bright sneakers and my personal love of the 80s.

And it also resulted in panicked fits of nervousness and apprehension and the conviction that these are not going to move. I almost backed out of a weekend down in the city, despite a promise for Americanos and french fries on someone else's tab. I spent the morning sipping coffee, stalling and balking at leaving my sister's apartment to head to the shop, the bag full of new hats still burning a hole into my confidence and self-esteem.
I'm finally getting off the couch, off the Internet, and out of the apartment to head to the East Village though. Because I hold myself to keeping my word, and a promise was made to NYC Velo for an order of 10 hats [okay, I did one better, literally, and am delivering 11]. It took some late nights, some stress-fueled tears, and some coaxing by friends to get them done. They're finished though, and seemingly just in time; I'm so anxious right now that I almost need them out of my life.

And with the added weight of being an exclusive run for a very reputable shop [evidence of their awesomeness here, if you scroll down a bit], I'm going to worry about them. Obsessively.
One more reason, why, if you're in the city, you should stop by. I mean, even if only to let a worried mother hen know how her babies are doing in a strange new city.

stretched thin

Wow.
I haven't seen you in months. And while I never thought it would work out between you and me...well, I'm having doubts.
Because these days, we've been seeing so much more of each other. I've been resisting it, though, and I always tell myself how it might not be a good idea to pay yet another visit. But I do anyway - it's becoming part of a routine by now - convinced that I'm going to leave in tears.
Is it me or have you changed? I'm actually starting to enjoy our time together. You're so different from everything else I'm used to...and I'm starting to feel like that that isn't so bad. And after our sessions together, I come home, lie on the floor and just think about you. Staring up at my ceiling, slightly dazed, trying to absorb what just happened.

That's not to say you don't leave me in some pain. You do. Oh, you do. Some days more than others. Which is why I've avoided you for so long. I couldn't keep up with you physically, so I just gave up and didn't bother trying.
I guess it's better to fail than to never try at all. Or, at least that's what I've been thinking these days. See, you've even gotten me being kind of optimistic! Seriously, sometimes I really question what's been going on. And I'm always questioning "us".
You know I'm careful with that kind of thing, though. And with everything on my plate, I can hardly manage a relationship.

I don't want to scare you away...but...I don't know...I might, just might, be kinda falling for you.
Oh, gym, do you think we can make it work?