breaking away

Still spinning on this tdf high, it's all I can do to wait for the weekend where a tdf brunch is planned.
I'm secretly [okay, not so secretly anymore] scheming. Brioche from Bouchon Bakery or Balthazar? Or should it be a croissant? Coffee or an Americano from Abraco? I'm torn.
But one thing I'm certain of: even if I don't expect him to win, I'll have my sights on Lance, for sure.
Can you tell I'm a fan? And being Japanese, that's defined in the most manic way possible. Because although I've never been to Austin, TX [or even close to Austin, TX], I'm already a fan of Mellow Johnny's. Ignoring the obvious Lance connections, the concept of Mellow Johnny's is hard not to love: a coffee shop attached to the bike shop, all kinds of incredible bikes, and they even offer spinning classes and rides for women.
I may have posted about PDX earlier, but Austin is looking like a very good contender city, too.

And when the object of my affection throws a party with Mellow Johnny's to celebrate the 30th Anniversary of "Breaking Away" [even enacting the last scene!], well, I'm going to celebrate in my own way.
Unable to watch the Tour, but dying to be a part of it, I hatched this idea about a week or so ago, and got to embroidering late last week. My first attempt at embroidering something so minute, I found out that not only do I dislike embroidering straight lines, curves sort of bother me too. And this, like most things, was [unfortunately] full of both.

Completed late Sunday night, it made me feel sort of better that I won't be able to fly down to Austin this Sunday, when the men of Rapha will partying at an event that, if you're in the area, is not to be missed. But if I could, I'd be wearing this hat - hand embroidered with lots of love for the tdf, Lance, Mellow Johnny's and Rapha - hollering "CUTTERS!!!" at the top of my lungs. Instead, it's been entrusted to a modern day Dave Stoller to be delivered to Austin, TX. Hopefully on a bicycle with the drivetrain on the correct side. And perhaps even on his head.
Meanwhile, I'll be pushing away feelings of jealousy and the urge to pout in disappointment at another unattended not-to-be-missed event. I may even be crossing my arms. But hopefully this will be on a couch, in front of a TV with cable, brunch within easy reach, and surrounded by bicycles.

promises of portland

Like any good cyclist, I have dreams of Portland, OR.
Never mind that I've never been there, or that I hate rain, or that a city overflowing with cyclists is more than a little bit intimidating. It's the ultimate destination for anyone who is completely obsessed with cycling, even if, like me, they can barely stay on a bike.
I've been having doubts about the rain, though. Because lately, Boston feels like PDX.

There was a weekend and a day of sunshine, and now it's back to unusually low temperatures with accompanying rain. Which should mean more preparation to just get to work. But have I told you that I'm incredibly lazy? Because when it starts to drizzle, then rain, I'll foolishly choose to bike through it, even with a raincoat in my bag.
"It's not that bad," I kept telling myself. Then 4/5s of the way there, it finally dawned on me. It's fucking raining. Not like showers, or drizzle, but straight up motherfucking rain. And I was drenched.

Barely able to keep a decent grip on slippery brakes and hoods [gloves, like chamois shorts, are yet another item on the "to purchase" list that consistently gets deprioritized for bike parts], I attempted to wipe my hands on a damp t-shirt while sliding around the Public Garden. Goosebumps were running up and down my arms and water was dripping down from my elbows. Great.
I arrived at work, cold, wet, and already miserable. Coffee hit the spot and once again I was grateful to be changing into a long sleeved shirt. Sheltered for most of the day behind a desk, I headed out to the gym under suspiciously gray skies. And once again, emerged from an intensely sweaty run to a sky that had turned blue and clear, the weather dry but cool. Perfect bike riding weather, in fact, if my legs weren't already dead.

Maybe this is just a preview of a future in Portland. Maybe the powers that be are conditioning me for the rainy, seemingly schizophrenic weather way out west. One can only hope, I suppose.
In the meantime, it's July. Can we get to the part where the sun's shining and it's not pouring every other day?

pins and needles

Despite all the pins and needles scattered around my desk and floor, it's my knee that's feeling it today.
But it was so worth it.
Yesterday was gorgeously beautiful; a clear summer day with radiant blue skies and the kinds of clouds you want to chase on a bicycle. Summer had arrived in Boston at last. And that kind of weather necessitates a post-work bike ride, even if you've been battling the urge to pass out at your desk since 3.00pm.

And what perfect timing, too. Projects have entered that lull in the storm where waiting becomes the primary task. Restless waiting. The kind that just seems to take longer when you've been cooped inside for extended periods of time. Besides, one look at my desk and it's obvious that I've been doing too much of one thing and not enough of another.
I love Rapha [clearly] and le Tour, but watching, looking, seeing others ride had me itching to get back on the bike. And yesterday, for the first time in weeks, I rolled around slow and happy, with only dinner and a crumpled shirt in need of ironing waiting at home. No five hour stretches of eye-searing, temple-hammering work, post-real work. No to do list that never got completely checked off. No stressful mess of hats that had to be completed by whatever date.

Not that I don't enjoy that kind of work. I'm a workaholic, after all. Just that sometimes, when I manage to give in to that small tiny voice that tells me to relax a little bit, I need my rides to be long stretches of mental numbness concerning the uncertain future. Just me and my bicycle, here, now, in the present.
A friend - a runner who sometimes cycles - complained to me the other day about how long it took to go on rides.
"It takes hours. I can just go and do an hour of running."
True. But that's what I love about cycling. Hours and hours of solitary quality time with some steel/aluminum/carbon fiber tubing. The ability to get away from it all. The inexplicable feeling of getting lost but forgetting all about going home because this grassy field you've just discovered is fucking awesome.
I need to do more of that. A lot more.
Now if only this knee will hold up.

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.