axle agony

Newly single after my first ever break-up, discussing boys and dating, my best friend asked a seemingly rhetorical question:
“Don’t you like to be taken care of?”
I remember giving some ambivalent answer. Never having been comfortable batting my eyelashes, I still find it hard to expect to be taken care of. It’s too lady-like. Too La Dama Bianca. And with a passion for drop bars and mostly horizontal top tubes, I’d like to think I look better in a kit than a white dress.
Besides, white is so not slimming.
And when you’re handling bikes - or even just one - nothing stays white for long. Which is why you won’t find a Dama Bianca dress in my closet, much less anything very lady-like; things like tensioning my chain, wiping down my bike, and scrubbing my rims bring me too much joy.

Well, when I can actually do them.
Skipping home last night with a newly purchased pedal wrench [yes, I didn’t own one until now], I gleefully flipped over my Bianchi to switch back to single-speed-ness. With the ghetto lack-of-bike-stand set-up, I fitted the equally ghetto 6” adjustable wrench on the axle nut. And pushed. And pulled. And leveraged. And gritted my teeth. And seethed. And threw a temper tantrum.
The thing wouldn’t move. I know the adjustable is probably at least half the problem, but nothing feels more lonely than helplessness. The worst part being that when I do bring it in to IBC today, the guys are going to loosen it with a quick flick of their wrist, oblivious to the sheer misery and pain it brought me hours earlier.

I love those guys, but today, I hate the idea of going back to the shop. I don’t ever want to be seen as “the girl that uses her lack of a package to get bike mechanics to do things and consequently doesn’t know how to work on her bike.” Because I’m not. I wanted to flip that wheel and switch out my pedals, by myself. I wanted to know that I could still do it, even if it was the most simple of bike maintenance tasks.
Maybe that’s why it was so disappointingly frustrating. I’m going to buy a new wrench today though, and insisting on tightening those axel nuts by myself.
But just for the record, I’m not breaking up with IBC. I just need some independence...and room to wrench.

pony express

Coffee table books.
I love them. Not because of their sheer size and authoritative weight, but because they reveal so much about their owners. When a person’s willing to spend at least $50 on a book - especially in this day and age of Internet everything - you know they have to love the subject.
My coffee table books, tucked away in a designated corner of my bookshelf in Tokyo, are all about horses. The real kind. And tucked between the encyclopedia-esque tome on every breed of horse and pony and the one simply called “Horses” that’s clearly from the ‘80s is a book on paintings by Remington. Because no other artist could depict the vibrant adrenaline of the Pony Express.
And while I’m working on building up my own coffee table book collection of all things cycling, I’m still switching out ponies and imagining that I’m delivering letters across the Midwest [okay, or just through Boston...from my desk...at the office...]. The Bianchi is made to fit this fantasy, too; the simplicity of a single-speed combined with the this-thing-can-roll-over-strollers-and-babies toughness.

But remembering this time last year when all I wanted was another bike, I stopped back home after a morning doctor’s appointment to switch out ponies. Because I can. Because I have two bikes. And I’ve been neglecting the other one for way too long.
And the Dolan is fun. Like the first time I jumped up on a Thoroughbred, it’s fast, light, and streamlined, but also twitchy and skitterish. It has personality you can feel at the first turn of the cranks; it wants to burst out of a gate like a tightly wound spring and accelerate. Gripping the top of the bare track drops, I remembered pulling leather reins desperately as something much larger than me bucked once before taking off, my hands tangled in its mane, clinging on, trying not to vomit out my heart in fear.

Good thing I tend to putter around on my bikes. I do feel guilty about it, though. And it’s not just about how slow I’m traveling. Like that feeling you get when you stand next to someone clearly more attractive than you, riding it sort of makes me feel apologetic for not being as hot as the bike between my legs.
I suppose I can just learn to ride faster. That way people will just end up seeing a blur of black, pink, and some massive thighs.
Admit it. That would be hot.
[Note: My modem has officially died so posting might be sparse until Monday...Sorry!]

monsoon in mass

I firmly believe there are three kinds of sweat: the hot, dry kind of casual summer rides around town, the squeamishly humid kind that won't ever seem to abate, and last but not least [and possibly the best], the drenching, dripping, addicting kind that can only be a product of a decent training ride.
I've been experiencing too much of the second kind these days.

And even if I've spent the past few days running around NYC, then Boston, with someone who's already seen me sweaty and eyeliner-less, it's still bothering me. The sweat, that is. Or, more accurately, the sweat/rainwater mix that necessitates cycling in a soft shell jacket which can never ventilate fast enough and instead wraps me up in its suffocating, sauna-like grip. By the time I get to work, I'm almost dizzy with dehydration.
Okay, it's not that bad. But when you have a friend visiting, the rain tends to really kill your plans. Thank God, though, that M1 loves good coffee, because other than my favorite bike shops [IBC and CB], I'm only capable of hanging out at places where I can cradle a good Americano.

So after a [too early] Sunday morning bus ride back to Boston, that's exactly what I was doing at Cafe Fixe, savoring an intensely dark Americano in small sips until I felt my heart pumping that rich brown liquid through my veins. Caffeine buzzing in my brain, I wondered what I would do without promises of coffee waiting for me before, after, and in between rides [the answer being "be more of a complete raging psycho-bitch"].

Especially when the weather outside makes you simultaneously shiver and sweat; the rain sticking to your skin and mixing with that humid steam that won't stop pouring out of your pores. And especially when, in typical New England style, you finally jump back onto your bike after taking shelter under some scaffolding because you think the rain's let up, only to be caught in a mini hurricane on your way across the Mass Ave bridge.
At least there were more friends and a piping hot Americano waiting for me on the other side.
If I keep this up, stock prices for espresso beans is going to skyrocket.

rainy optimism

Blame the NYC Bicycle Film Festival and the weather for keeping me from blogging regularly lately. Ironic, I know.
A busy weekend full of bicycles and hats can do that to you, though. Saturday morning started with brunch before heading to NYC Velo [yet again] in the increasingly persistent rain. We hurried to the shop with heads down, attempting to shield our faces from droplets of water, to pick up a tent, a banner, and a box of goodies. An Ortlieb bag was packed with Gage & Desoto gear, my own Baileyworks stuffed with hats, some optimistic hopes crammed into our pockets, before the whole operation was carried to the street fair.

Despite the flash flood warnings, even Jason K. [check out his pimp profile here] showed up with another Ortlieb's worth of t-shirts and flyers advertising the silk-screening classes he's offering. And with good company and plenty of bicycles, there wasn't much to complain about...well, other than the damp weather, of course.

Wrapped up in a borrowed raincoat, I mentally cursed the weather as I watched the sky. I seemed to be the only one, though, as BMXers happily did tricks up and down the street, slipping on the wet pavement. A crowd of people gathered to watch, and as the rain finally let up, the cluster of people eventually grew to a slightly surprising size.
Or, maybe, it was only surprising to me. This is the BFF after all, and even in the rain people were showing up on bicycles, dripping wet but eager to have fun. And this being NYC, there were cruisers, hybrids, track bikes, BMXs and all manner of bicycles. Sales weren't great, but the people watching was well worth the time spent under the blindingly orange tent.

We folded up the operation a few hours later, caffeine withdrawal calling us back to NYC Velo, then Abraco [yes, I'm an addict]. Later, fish were gutted, dinner cooked, more ideas bounced around before face-planting on my sister's couch, exhausted and braindead.
But not before the weather forecast for Boston was checked. It says rain. All week.
I'm trying to stay optimistic, though.

reconning

The last time I reconned a ride, it took me 4 hours and at least 5 miles out of my way. It was fun, in hindsight, but slightly mentally taxing. No ride buddy, no iphone, no extensive map, I was at the mercy of whoever happened to be passing by.
But yesterday I did manage to recon a ride; and recon a small part of a city as well. And with a good friend leading the way, all I had to do with pedal and follow.

And pedal I did. Too lazy to flip over my wheel, I did the 25 mile ride fixed - the first time I've done anything longer than 10 miles fixed in months. And with a light-as-a-feather Cyfac leading the way, I was struggling to keep up. But not mentally. So even though I complained liberally about my fixed gear status, I got to see a good part of the city from the saddle of my Bianchi, without the terrifying sense of getting very, very lost.

After a loop around Central Park [my first, ever, by bike], we headed back downtown to showers and food. And finally, at Habib's Place, I was able to keep up on the nom-nom-noming front, inhaling a falafel sandwich that was so good, I can't really remember what we talked about while I ate. Then, fat and happy, we strolled to Abraco for iced coffee and ricotta-filled pain perdu.

Time was taken to loiter/digest on the couch at NYC Velo, before more hanging out and coffee was consumed. More bike-related sites were reconned for future projects before I was led to dinner at Brick Lane. And giggling over my food [the way to my heart obviously being through my stomach], another late night in the city commenced. Ideas were bounced back and forth, slightly disturbing TV shows watched ["Intervention" and "Obsessed"], a rooftop visited, and a few hats finished before plans were made for the reason I'm here - the Bicycle Film Festival Street Fair this afternoon.

It looks like possibly bad weather, but I'll be at the NYC Velo table. Come get rained on with me, say hello, and recon a few bike films. It'll be fun, I promise.

a fuzzy city

On my way back down to NYC again today [for the Bicycle Film Festival Street Fair on Saturday - come say hello at the NYC Velo tent!], I'm simultaneously sort of glad I live in Boston.
And not only because riding downtown with an overstuffed Baileyworks bag and another tote bag half hanging off my handlebars is actually possible [even sans helmet, if I so chose].
It's because the establishments I frequent [other than the bike shops] might remember me once in a while, and not in that creeped out way. Which makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and loved inside. Okay, they just might be remembering a girl in crazy outfits, perpetually clutching a helmet, but they still remember.

It's only appropriate that I've recently achieved "regular" status at one of the two sewing/fabric stores I go to in Boston: Winmil Fabrics. Arguably the only fabric store left in Boston proper, it's no Mood, but remains a go-to for my basic lining fabric, thread, needles, etc. And, as an extra bonus, the husband-and-wife team behind the counter are definitely some of the nicer people in this city.
My purchases are usually fairly small - 3 yards of black fabric, a spool of thread - but I'll consistently be chatted up about my bike, where I go out riding, and if I have any more gears yet. On the topic of my lone gear, the owner stated:
"Well, I bet your legs get much stronger."
"Yeah, they're huge," I responded.
His wife laughed.

I love this kind of friendly banter. The kind that's only really possible in a small city if you're working on limited funds like I am. So even if I'm headed to glamorous NYC later this afternoon, I'm trying to keep my head on straight. Not crush on it too much. Not drool over all the places, people, and things to do in NYC while only seeing the limits of Boston.
Because, other than Tokyo, no other city has achieved warm-fuzzy-loved status with me. Yet.