flopsy cranks

Handshakes. The first physical contact with a stranger you're supposed to like. A strange social greeting with which you can gauge the other person's social confidence.
Well, at least if the hand offered to you is limp, slightly damp and hardly makes an effort to grip your hand. There's almost nothing worse. It leaves me mentally recoiling, searching for the first opportunity to wipe my hand somewhere without anyone noticing. Unconsciously I usually end up pushing the hair out of my eyes, then almost getting dizzy with panic at the thought of limp handshake sweat near my face.
It's the worst. I think most people would agree.
So it was kind of surprising that that was the first thing I thought of when I finally switched back to the freewheel last week. I had only been riding on the fixed side for about two weeks, but when I hopped back onto my bike, my cranks were positively floppy.

And limp...! Lacking the resistance of a fixed cog, I was lurching around on the street, silently freaking out at the unfamiliar feel of a bike that seemed much looser. And consequently much harder to control.
It took about a block or two until my legs finally understood that pushing back on the pedals did nothing except result in small spurts of terror as the bike continued forward. I consciously had to force myself to coast and stop pedaling when descending. And I was back to dragging my bike up the hills, no momentum pushing my pedals up.
But heading home from work last night, I weaved through a few cars and squeezed though some tight spots, remembering a few weeks ago how I split lanes for the first time in NYC. And while I was fixed then, I realized I was using my brakes to crawl forward on my freewheel, something I know I couldn't have done [without crashing] a year ago.

Stopped at a light, I watched a guy on a yellow IF ratchet his pedals, his cleated feet never touching the ground. I still can't do a trackstand to save my life, so I opted just to watch, leaning on my handlebars, half sitting on my top tube. The light turned green and a small hill was up ahead.
I beat him on the way up. Then got my ass handed to me on the way down. It's the small things, I guess.

rim friction

Inexplicably, I get less sleep on the weekends than during the week.
Well, "inexplicably" to the ordinary person. Usually asleep by 1am, up by 6am the following morning, I try to be out the door and on the bike by 7. Anyone who goes out on training rides knows the deal. Besides, riding early means less traffic and having the planned route all to yourself. And riding alone means I can sometimes sleep in until 7, without worrying about scrambling to meet a friend.
Even on 5 hours of sleep, the freedom of flying down wherever on a bicycle is totally worth it.
After a long week, I was aching to go on a ride Saturday. I got up and did the usual routine of not stretching enough and forcing myself to eat before jumping on my newly-freewheeled bike. I had a shorter ride planned and my bag stuffed with gym clothes and running shoes to force myself to head directly to the gym afterwards. And coasting down Beacon, I was on the fringes of zoning out. Finally.

Still searching for that happily numb flat-lining my brain does when I'm out on a ride, I pulled on the brakes at a red light. And as I attempted to hop back on, I felt resistance.
Confused, I looked back at my rear wheel and saw something I am [unfortunately] all too familiar with. A misaligned wheel [from when the hub was flipped over on Friday] was rubbing up against one of the brake pads. I was only about 7 miles in.
My slowly forming bubble of happiness popped. In fact, it shattered into a million sharp pieces which then dug into a rapidly reviving stress monster. My adjustable wrench was lying on the floor of my apartment. I was somewhere in Waltham. Total suck fail.

I refused to turn back and just pulled at the brake pad to loosen it whenever I stopped. Each tug was coupled with a sigh that was also fueling an exploding sense of bitchery. This was the worst day for this to happen.
Ironically, I was only able to zone out much later as I ran on a treadmill. The wheel got realigned after my scheduled time in purgatory [read: the gym] and the promise of a better ride the next day alleviated the panicked sense of bike hypochondria.
Yeah, I know, another [preferably geared] bike I can use for training rides would be [more than] useful. I'm working on it. Really.
[I know, I didn't post this weekend...but if you're really curious about what I'm up to, I just may be on twitter...]

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.