only if...

Yesterday morning was a disaster. Zero coffee until 11am, a dentist appointment I was late to, frustration at not really having a bike I can do anything with, the empty sense of not really belonging anywhere, and mood swings like woah.
Funny, how, a little past noon, I was standing in a place I would have never expected to be a year ago, surrounded by friends who work in a bike shop in NYC, comfortably snapping too many pictures. And then having lunch with the incredibly awesome people behind Independent Fabrication.

Yup, that's right. I went to IF. I'm still not quite sure how it happened. But when NYC Velo became an IF dealer a few weeks ago, a trip to Boston was planned, and a casual "you should come" turned into a full day of adventure.
It started, of course, in Somerville, at the infamous IF factory. A place I couldn't have dreamed of entering without some tangible pretext [most likely in the form of a credit card and an order form for a custom frame], I entered empty-handed and left with an SD disk full of pictures, a few new friends, and some capacity to dream of racing bicycles again.

Mostly broke and with a knee that's slowly giving out, but simultaenously terrified of the obligation to race that would come with having a fully-functioning geared bike, I'm currently having a classic love/hate relationship with the Bianchi. Yesterday it was mostly hate/hate to the point where I was hating all bicycles. Yet somehow I dragged the tractorino to Somerville to a place full of too pretty bicycles and a spray-painted wooden sign that demanded those within those factory walls to "Live the Dream."

An audacious command, the desire to do exactly that seems to permeate the people of IF. But in a way that doesn't reek of douchebaggery or condescension. The somewhat intimidatingly large logo on the factory door leads into a bike nerd's paradise, but one that's full of friendly, incredibly laid-back people. Serious people who have managed to retain the fun in their work and craft. And that is impressive.
IF's passion for bicycles cleared the doubting depression over my ability to do anything of value on a bicycle. Team jerseys became coveted items again, as did derailleurs. Over lunch at the Tavern At the End of the World, I even jokingly recalled a casual suggestion that, to me, seemed completely absurd: that I should get an IF and race for NYC Velo in Boston. Too bad it was snatched up as "brilliant" and "great" with Andy and Joe [of IF] informing me that I could "totally pull off a Factory Lightweight" but I'd have to wait on a NYC Velo kit that would actually fit.

I blinked before backpedaling in panicked fear, the thought of an IF Factory Lightweight a little too much for my awkward legs to handle. And while talk of racing seemed centered around the kind that involves two derailleurs, NYC Velo managed to leave with the infamous pursuit IF track bike in the back of their car. I even got to touch it.

With a Dolan in my kitchen, racing track seems much more feasible. But when I do decide on something with multiple gears and the ability to shift between them...well, that Factory Lightweight is looking really sexy...

espresso d'italia

I can be such a bitch in the morning without coffee.
This isn't news. Especially not to me. So I try to do the right thing and inject myself with caffeine before I really speak to anyone at work. That obviously doesn't keep me from being a ranting maniac on the morning commute, but I figure that'll keep me on my toes and somehow prevent me from getting run over. It makes a weird sort of convoluted sense [to me, at least].
So when I showed up at NYC Velo in the late afternoon last weekend and claimed I hadn't had a sip of coffee all day, the bug-eyed suspicious look of incredulous amazement was to be expected. But oddly enough, I wasn't on my typical caffeine withdrawal rampage. Because Andy had just offered to pull a shot of espresso from a chrome box sitting pretty on the counter.

Ah, finally. Finally we meet. Glittering invitingly in a space formerly occupied by a Brooks saddle display was the very limited edition Giotto Giro d'Italia espresso machine [number 62 of the 100 made]. On one of my very first visits to NYC Velo, the idea of purchasing one had been thrown around, gently pushed, and cleverly researched and pitched. With the names of every Giro winner engraved in the side, polished like a bright mirror, and the crowning touch of the pink dial, it belonged in a bike shop. It was just my luck that that bike shop was NYC Velo.

Sitting in my usual spot on the couch, I sipped a delicious shot of pure, thick espresso. Just strong enough to remind my blood to turn it up a notch, within seconds my caffeine-starved brain started to hum into a happy high. I instantly forgot about my cramped shoulder and that uncontrollable, animalistic need to bite someone's - anyone's - head off with some snarky i-totally-have-a-tree-up-my-ass comment.
Fully aware of this neatly averted disaster, it was the least I could do, the following day, to deliver half a dozen cupcakes from Pinisi to a bike shop that I'm starting to call my New York home. They were devoured in the typical style of starving bike mechanics, with Jared - the first Cat 1 racer I've ever met - even posing for pictures.

And this afternoon, the deal gets even sweeter. Because these guys are coming up to Boston, and I've been invited on their little excursion. Good [free] espresso might still be a few weekends away, but running around my city with new friends will probably be enough to keep the bitchery at bay.
...Probably.

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.