maillot jaune

It might feel like October in Boston, but you know it's summer when everyone starts chasing a yellow jersey.
Ah, the Tour de France.
Having no TV, blown out speakers on my laptop, and drowning in different projects with ridiculous self-imposed deadlines, it's a wonder I even know the Tour started on Saturday. But then again, why wouldn't I know? I'm fully convinced Lance and I are meant to be, after all.
So I'm chasing coverage of the Tour like Jan Ullrich after Lance on the L'Alpe d'Huez [coverage of the 2003 race being one of my all-time personal favorites]. Following The Man himself on Twitter is somewhat helpful. I'm dependent on friends and the Internet to fill me in on the rest.

That's not to say that the shame of having no clue what's happening at each stage isn't excruciatingly painful and embarrassing. Using handy excuses of a need to stitch, scheme, and get in shape, I'm half attempting to play it off like I'd rather be riding than watching le Tour. But honestly, I'd like nothing more than a strong cup of dark roast coffee and a brioche, feet propped up on an ottoman, watching the love of my life race from Monaco to Paris.
Instead I downed an iced Americano at Cafe Fixe while catching up with a friend. Then got deets on the second stage while IMing and coordinating projects on the phone, conversations punctuated by bursts of my sewing machine whirring. But between frustrated sighs and cramped shoulders from being hunched over a laptop or a piece of fabric for too long, I managed to slip out of my apartment for a few brief moments looking just a little bit pro.

The Rapha scarf was an instant favorite and is already on heavy rotation. But paired with a Gage & Desoto tote bag repping one of the best cycling teams in the world, it was easier to push aside the guilt and longing to go on longer rides, more often.
Which is probably a good thing. This month is looking to be a whirlwind of activity - good, fun, activity, but activity nonetheless. That's not to say that the bike won't be making the usual daily appearance, just that bike people might be coming first.
And yes, that includes Lance.

rapha [scarf] fridays

The first time a girl kissed me - a brief peck on the lips - I was left with the sensation [through a drunken haze], that her lips were almost too soft.
That's sort of what this scarf is like.
Wrapped in plastic and slipped into a envelope, it arrived on my doorstep a few days ago just in time for the newly-instituted Rapha Scarf Fridays. A gorgeous square of black, hand printed silk, I gingerly attempted to peel open the wrapping, only to immediately draw my fingers back. Unbelieveably smooth, my calloused hands felt peasant-like in comparison, and my first thought was:
"I can't wear this!"

I sat there for a few minutes, thinking about it. Then holding my breath, I took it out of the plastic and wrapped it around my neck. Incredibly light and smooth, this scarf is like a cloud of feathery air that feels like a million soft kisses when the wind presses it against your skin. And while Rapha might be a gentleman's club, we're not talking the kisses that come from masculine lips with accompanying sandpaper-y stubble. We're talking sexy, full, soft, feminine lips. The kind every girl should have.
And every girl should have one of these, too.

Taking a cue from one of my favorite cyclists [okay, I'm just outright copying him here], I dressed it up and down. First, I did the usual tie-around-your-face-like-a-bandit-then-just-let-it-hang deal. This is only the first step in how to wear it properly, Rapha-style, but paired with a t-shirt, it's a little more casual. Note how I was already half-giggling in excitement.
And being that I was already having trouble taking this scarf off, I tucked the scarf up and over itself [girls will definitely have to retie and tighten it afterwards] and peeled off the t-shirt for a button down.

I thought I did the librarian-esque thing well, but this brings it to a whole nother level. The black will go with almost any outfit, and the design is just subtle enough to work at the office. Top button undone, Rapha corner pointing downwards...you might want to wear this when you "accidentally" run into that workplace crush.
Did I mention how sexy this thing is too? Or how absolutely sexy it makes you feel? And how I'm having kind of a hard time taking it off?

Don't even pretend like you haven't thought about it. And for the record, I'd like to think it's more mysteriously sexy rather than crass and kinky. Unfortunately, I don't think it's long enough to tie someone up with. But I suppose you can always get two.
All semi-nudity aside, the Rapha scarf is hot hot hot. And not in that flavor of the week kind of way, but - like most things Rapha - with a timeless class that you can be sure will never go out of style.
Get yourself one [or two] here.

storming through

There were some crazy thunderstorms this morning. Like the kind where lightning flashes blindingly bright followed by a shaking crash of thunder and you wonder if the world is ending.
It's funny how the weather reflects your mood sometimes.
Although the thunderstorm this morning is more reflective of yesterday where everything seemed to go wrong. I locked myself out of my apartment by accident, headed to work late as a result, and battled two paragraphs of a gigantic appellate brief for...8 hours.

It was the first time I nearly cried at work. I know how cliche [and consequently, lame] that sounds. I managed to check the tears, but ended up spending three minutes [three whole minutes] with arms crossed, pouting furiously in the bathroom.
And when 5pm came around, I was completely worn down. But on the way home, someone drew up alongside me, and surprise, surprise, it was Mr. Croth. I hadn't seen him in forever, and chatting while riding with him [my first time, ever] definitely lightened my mood.

It was a hint of a much better end of the day that I was hesitant to anchor a definite hope on. But like the currently clear skies after the thunderstorm from hell, riding out to run some errands, I ran into two people who I only know through this blog [I ran into one twice!]. Which, of course, made me smile. And finally arriving home, I shrieked a little in joy when I found a slim package waiting for me, from Portland.
But that's for tomorrow. For now, I'm out to get coffee while the skies are still a little bit clear.

sunny sailing

I never really understood the obsession with protein until my hot cousin married a yachtsman.
Tall and ruggedly handsome, sporting the perpetual tan, I was impressed. He also happened to be a super nice guy, and we shot the shit about the Louis Vuitton America’s Cup, the then-new yacht used by Team New Zealand that ended up breaking into pieces, and what it feels like to be on a yacht that is fucking flying. On water.
He also told me how, when he was racing full-time, he was eating about 10,000 calories a day.
Back then, I was all wtf. But following and befriending a few real cyclists, it makes sense, and consuming that many calories doesn’t seem so much like a death sentence to skinny. Well, that and the fact that my cousin’s husband had a regimented diet balanced out for his sailing skills.

I don’t have a nutritionist, unfortunately, so I’m left to my own devices of “don’t eat too much processed shit” and “eat balanced meals.” Which translates to “eat stuff that won’t break the bank.” Too bad when you start riding a lot more, you tend to get hungry. Like all the time.
So in comes protein [to supplement my massive caffeine consumption], which is supposed to keep you fuller longer and help build muscle and all that goodness. But being a former vegetarian, I'm a tiny bit wary of animal products. Still, when a friend comes up to visit his parents who own some free range chickens, and hands you half a dozen fresh eggs, dinner for the next week is going to be omelettes and sunny side ups and scrambled eggs.

Cracking open the first one in the pan a few nights ago, I was tempted to bike down to M1’s parents’ house. Or at least steal a chicken. These things are huge. These eggs are to grocery store eggs what Chris Hoy would be to a sad anorexic hipster. And as delicious [looking] in comparison.
I've actually been hoarding a few; making that half dozen stretch. And as odd as it may sound, this is dinner food. I somehow still can't manage to eat much before a ride. Call it a digestive system used to a day that starts at school or the office, but eating anything before 9am [even with a ride planned] takes a conscious effort. Although, of course, that could just be a sign that I need to do more riding.
At least these delicious protein bombs have me pedaling faster on the way home...

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...]