almond croissant disaster

Despite how addicting it was to watch le Tour over the weekend, I was grateful yesterday was a rest day. It was one less thing to miss, and simultaneously, one less thing to sigh and roll my eyes about.
Don't get me wrong, I love watching the Tour. It was what came afterwards that has me shaking my head in remembered misery.
In fact, Sunday started out in a picture perfect way. A quick bike ride up to the East Village, beverages acquired at Think Coffee, then a jaunt into Soho to pick up pastries at Balthazar. Then, strolling back east on mostly-still-sleepy Sunday morning streets, walking within mere feet of Terry Richardson. Because a weekend in New York always requires some sort of celebrity sighting.

And then, of course, the Tour. With orange brioche, galette aux pommes, and an almond croissant that I'm still thinking about. Grabbing the last flaky half of the galette, I was half lying on the couch, feet supported by the trusty ottoman, plate resting on my chest, pastry shards flying as I shrieked and cheered on Pierrick Fedrigo and Franco Pellizotti over the soothing cadence of Phil Liggett. All, fortunately, with company that [hopefully] wasn't noticing what a complete slob I can be.
Still humming on the tdf high, I reluctantly boarded a bus back to Boston at 1pm, leaving behind a city that's quickly becoming a favorite. And two hours later, I was on the side of the highway.

In Connecticut. The middle of Connecticut. With a broken down bus and not enough seats to take us all home on the next two buses passing through. A random taxi pulled through and offered to take some of us to South Station for $250. It was tempting but none of us took him up on the offer. About two hours later, I threw my bike under yet another bus, and lulled into a sense of reassurance, passed out for a few hours in a jam-packed bus.
7 hours after I left NYC, we finally lurched into South Station. Grateful for the calories consumed earlier that day, I made it home by 8.30pm, then it was back to work until too late, and up too early for another Monday at the office.
I'm already planning another trip down to the city in a few weeks. And while Sundays in New York can start off decadently sweet with almond croissants and cycling, fearful of jinxing myself, I'm more than a little hesitant to indulge in both again.
But, you know, I can be persuaded otherwise...

peanut butter pro

I promised myself I wouldn't mention it.
But you know how it goes. Promises made to yourself are the hardest ones to keep.
And this, well, this is something to write about.
Because I turned 26 a few days ago. Usually that's not something worth celebrating. Mostly because I'm not 13 anymore, and because birthdays - even my own - tend to be a huge hassle. Even the promise of presents can't really get me excited about turning a year older. I'm more inclined to let the event slide by, unnoticed and undetected by even my closest friends.
But this year was different. Not because I didn't vehemently insist that anyone who happened to remember it forget about it immediately [because that's exactly what I did], or because I didn't treat it like any other day [because I did], but because of a small package wrapped in brown paper, tied with a string.

One of two presents I got this year, I sighed in exasperation when I heard about it. Then complained loudly that my birthday was not - under any circumstances - to be celebrated. But two days after I crested [and passed] the milestone that is 25, I felt almost, just almost, like a real cyclist.
Because underneath the paper wrapping was the iconic Campy 15mm peanut butter wrench. A simple, one-sided affair, made of smooth, sleek metal, it's understated shape and size are definitive of its coveted status. Well, at least amongst the bike nerds. And as I pulled that wrench free of its paper cocoon, I gaped. Then stared at it for a little while before, half-smiling, I managed to stammer out:
"Wait...really?"

I love it - who wouldn't? - but it also signifies a lot more responsibility and a gentle push into a direction that is intimidatingly more pro. True, it's a gift from the kind of friend who will listen to my schizophrenic desires to own a road bike while remaining fearful of hating anything with gears. The kind of friend that won't judge if I never race [geared or otherwise]. The kind of friend who doesn't just see me as a pair of ginormous thighs on a single-speed tank that weighs more than both of his road bikes combined.

It didn't hit me then, as I carefully slipped the wrench back into its paper casing, before flipping through issues of Rouleur [and of course, seeing the infamous Rapha peanut butter ad], and watching too many episodes of "Intervention." But it's also a tiny bit terrifying that people - friends who know me well, even - believe I'm worthy of such a tool.
Or maybe it's actually the opposite - the single-sided nature of the peanut butter wrench specifically points towards riding both my single-speeds more often. Enough to flat. And maybe that's what M1 was getting at: ride more, ride harder, ride until this Campy wrench becomes battered and scarred up from use.
Point taken. Still, that wrench is going to stay wrapped up in paper while it's in my bag. Dinges and dents might be inevitable, but I'd rather them come from work on my bike, or at least from a peanut butter jar, not from all the nonsense in my bag.

superbly hot

I'm really good at making faces.
You might not think it if you just met me. Or maybe you would. In any case, my Mom hates it. Which makes me just do it more, until, finally unable to hold in her laughter, she'll watch me contort my face with a mixture of disgust and amazement and say:
"You keep doing that and your face is permanently going to stay that way."
She might be right. At least about crinkling my nose too much.

But I have friends who are looking out for me, clearly. Because while I never tend to wear my own cycling caps, I'm building up an interesting collection via friends. And they're shielding my face and eyes from sun, wind, and crows feet. And for someone who habitually forgets to slather on the sunscreen, that's love.
So when yesterday turned out to be one of the sunniest in weeks [Jason apparently schemed with the weather for months to make that happen - thanks!], I was grateful that I was wearing one. Well, I've been wearing this one for a few days now, and for good reason.
It's the new Superb cycling cap.

Designed by both Jason and Croth, this hat is all about the details. The wallpaper background, when viewed from a few feet back, looks like innocent damask. But when you get close enough [to check out the person wearing it], you notice the bicycles and the subtle curves and flicks in the logo.
And then you get a little bit closer [because, please, anyone wearing this is guaranteed to be hot], and you see the underside of the brim. Teal or purple, it's a hidden sort of hip; the kind you don't need to flaunt for people to know you have it. But if you're the one doing the attracting, well, it wouldn't hurt to turn it up a notch and flip up that brim.

But no analysis of a potential mate is ever complete without a view from the back. And that's when this hat really works to your advantage. With "Boston" emblazoned on the back, you'll know where to find this hottie [or at least where to hang out to find such hotties]. And if you're the one wearing it, even better. You can still give the sexy look over your shoulder and saunter away into the crowd; because, come on, anyone with decent game can take a hint and at least try to break the ice with banter about the Bosox.
Lucky for you, this hat dropped yesterday. Check it - and the rest of Superb - out.

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.