braking up

Like most people, I really hate heartbreak. The crying, self-doubt, nights alone that used to be spent either on the phone or giggling with a boyfriend, and just the complete emotional exhaustion. It sucks.
I suppose I was incredibly lucky when, the morning after my last break up, I ran into a friend who had broken up with her 4-year boyfriend. Which put things into perspective and I was all oh shit, never mind. And besides, it wasn't long until I felt those almost guilty pangs of relief that it was over.
By this point in my life, despite my limited track record, I understand that's a glaring sign that things would have never worked out anyway. I'm a little concerned, though, because I've been getting that feeling of guilty relief too much these days.
Oh, Boston. You're endearing, quaint, and so charming. It's just that I can't keep myself from humming Kanye's "Homecoming" as I slide down streets slowly coming to life to catch a bus down to NYC. I thought it was just a fling at first, but I might be bordering on emotional cheating.

Because even if I get caught in rain and end up slip skidding around on a city full of oblivious pedestrians, I'm resisting returning to Boston already. And with a shop full of friends and trucks serving real wafels de liege, can you really blame me?
A plan that had been tossed around, talked about, and even duly noted in an iphone to-do list since we came up with the concept for the "Breakfast of Champions" shirt, M1 and I finally hunted down the Wafels & Dinges truck yesterday afternoon. In the rain. After Twitter-stalking to find the truck's location, I found myself dodging cabs while attempting to catch up with a 40lbs Dutch bike with a coaster brake that, once it gets going, seems pretty much unstoppable [M1 managed to skid stop on it, which was incredible to watch].

Pedaling up from the East Village to Midtown, we steered around cabs, cyclists going the wrong way, pedicabs, and pedestrians, in rain that was getting progressively stronger. Around West 28th Street, I questioned whether the general discomfort of riding in the rain and the resulting frazzled nerves from biking in the city was really worth it. I mean, this was just a wafel, right?
Verdict?

Totes worth it. I mean, do you have eyes? Are you seeing this picture? FYI that is a warm wafel de liege coyly blanketed in a gooey layer of nutella, the powdered sugar on top just enough to make sure we both get diabetes [M1 and I shared one, in some half-ass attempt to justify stuffing our faces with pure sugar and fat].

And stuff our faces we did. About 14 seconds after being handed a paper tray/plate containing belgian deliciousness, we sat in sated insular shock despite the rain coming down from increasingly gray skies. The wind started to pick up, and as the afternoon slipped into the early evening, temperatures dropped just enough to be noticeable.
Half-jogging through the rain to spend some more quality time on the NYC Velo couch, the weather reminded me that it would be fall too soon, school would start, and with it cyclocross season. And with a bike that hovers around a solid 20 pounds, it seems that I'll be doing more spectating than participating again, this year.
Still, I'll be in New England, center of East Coast 'cross. Which makes me think that there's still hope that Boston and I can make it, despite this summer NYC fling.
[And, of course, it's Rapha Scarf Friday.]

lazy rain

I don't know what my parents were really thinking but my name is a homonym for "silkworm" in Japanese.
Or maybe they weren't really thinking.
The characters are different, obviously, but it still makes for somewhat awkward introductions. Like oh, hello, my parents named me after a worm that you eventually boil in its own cocoon to get silk thread, and no, my family isn't [legally] insane.
These days, though, the name seems more appropriate than ever. Because with thunderstorms predicted for the next week and the desire not to get sick, I'm dutifully wrapping myself up in a proper raincoat...and steaming in my own body heat all the way to and from work.

Put a cycling cap and a helmet on top of that and I was actually dripping sweat [yeah, seems like a common theme nowadays] when I got to work yesterday. The worse part being that when I got to the office, I couldn't get my raincoat off fast enough. With a sheen of salt water covering my arms, I ended up standing in front of my desk, waving my arms around as rivets of sweat ran down my face, desperately trying to free myself of the waterproof fabric.
Ripping off my shirt and tank top, all I wanted to do was douse myself in some ice water. Instead, in the tiny space between two desks, I struggled into a button down shirt, skirt, and heels, looking like I was ready to start another 9-5er at the office.

I say looking because although I was seated at my desk, a cup of coffee clutched in my left hand, I really just sat there for about 10 minutes, staring at a completely unexciting inbox, trying to somehow stop my uncontrollable sweating. Of course no amount of mental willpower actually did the trick; my mind only slowly flickered on when I heard the familiar stuttered rumbling of the AC kicking in.
Of course, the way home was worse. Refusing to wrap my legs in the same sauna-esque waterproof material, my bare legs got drenched within minutes, the water running down my thighs and the back of my knees to slowly soak into my knee highs, along with my misery. The rain and my own sweat worked to slow me down, and it wasn't until the mystery guy kitted out in an IBC jersey drew up beside me at a light that I realized that the streets were pretty deserted. The usual commuters just weren't out in this shitty weather.

With nothing to fuel my uber-competitiveness, I crawled home at a record slow, hardly bothering to pedal in better circles. The worst part being that when I got home, I was too drenched to bother getting on the rollers.
I'm justifying it as a "day off. We all need a few of those, right? I promise to do some time on those things tonight, though. Even if I get home absolutely soaked [with rain and/or sweat].

kinky or kissena

Call me a creature of habit [or just lazy], but I tend to get stuck in the same mundane routine. Getting up at the same time every morning, going through the same motions at work, doing the same rides. Ironically I sort of like it when someone will pull me out of my rut, give me something to do, and unleash me on something new. Even if it totally messes up that same comfortable daily song and dance.
Especially when it comes in the form of a declaratory statement accompanied with crossed arms, from the mouth of a person who can actually be a little scary if you piss him off enough. So when the words Kissena, track, and Dolan were uttered in the same sentence...I may have uttered my habitual "yeah, but..." but I knew M1 had a point.

Because quite honestly, riding track bikes on the street is sort of like, well, anal sex. It looks hot and kinky, and the concept behind it is forbiddingly tempting: the skill involved in being able to ride a rigid, aggressively stiff bike that was made to only go fast and turn left on city streets is really fucking pimp. Too bad in actuality, it's actually pretty uncomfortable and slightly painful.
But you try it because of all the hype. And then you try it again after you sort of pop your cherry, hoping it's going to be somewhat enjoyable. But then you end up running into the safe harbor that is straight up Vanilla sex. Or just your beater/commuter/road bike/hybrid/whatever. You know, something that was actually made for the road.

That's not to say that people who can ride track bikes on the street aren't hot shit. Just that I'm not that kinky. Kind of like how I'm fully comfortable with only hooking up on floors and beds, as opposed to public beaches and cathedrals. So heeding M1's advice, I'm going to put that Dolan where it belongs, and not sweat the boring factor that might come from only riding it on a track.

Judge at will. But I have enough sweat pouring out of my pores these past few days, sprinting in intervals on rollers as I blast pop or country or whatever so-bad-it's-good playlist I have going on, to really worry about what scensters might be thinking. Besides, I'm getting faster, pedaling in more efficient circles and at least whipping a few things with gears up the hills.
It might be sticky-sweaty-hot outside, and thus perfect weather for rides to Concord, Dover, or just a park for a picnic. But I'm sort of dreaming of late fall, when I'll have the window wide open, a kitchen timer [hopefully] set for an hour, gritting my teeth in agony, churning pink cranks as fast as my short legs possibly can.

geekhouse-ery

Monday.
No matter how chipper I might be feeling on this day of the week, that line from "Office Space" will run through my head at least five times, in that same gratingly annoying voice:
"Looks like someone's got a case of the Mondays!"
And then there's that Swingline stapler by the copy machine that I wish was bright red and belonged to a co-worker that looked like Milton, who would mutter and stutter about the squirrels outside his window. The ones that were apparently married.
Oh, Milton. I loved his glasses, the timid muttering, that forlorn look when he didn't get any birthday cake, and of course, just his sheer geekery. Which might explain why, in a way, I love the name [and bicycles] behind Geekhouse.

And while I can't quite say that I love the people behind Geekhouse [yet], well, I'm at least in strong like of them. All [two] of which I officially met while infiltrating the NYC Velo ranks last Wednesday. After refueling on caffeine, we rolled up to a garage space packed to the brim with machines, tools, and [of course] bicycle frames, and we got to see Geekhouse at work.
I've actually been to this particular address in Allston once before [though over a year ago], but last week was the first time I got the full tour and a peek into the personalities behind the instantly-recognizable frames of Geekhouse. And though the space was vastly different from the IF warehouse we had just visited, the same intense love for building bicycle frames was crammed into every nook and cranny of the place.

From a one-man show started in 2002 by Marty, it's expanded to sustaining a full-time employee. And with frames painted in saccharine-sweet colors, a Geekhouse frame is hard to miss. Clean, simple lines and sometimes aggressive pursuit geometry, I've ooh-ed and ahh-ed at Marty's frames whenever I've gotten close to one [even though, yes, me + pursuit geometry = instant endo].
Too bad I'm broke. For the second time that day, my skin crawled with the desire for another bike. The most tempting part being Geekhouse's new powdercoating operation, too appropriately named Sugar Coat. While watching Joe spray powder onto a frame from a gun, I learned that they're now offering to powdercoat even non-Geekhouse frames. And with Marty putting together a 'cross team, I'm almost tempted to hand over that San Jose and attempt to pull off the faux Geekhouse 'cross bike look.

Okay, that would be beyond stupid. Still, you can't blame a girl who could never fit on a Bareknuckle to want a bubble-gum pink bicycle at some point [and just between you and me, I desperately wanted a pink track bike before I realized no one makes such a bicycle in my size]. True, the tank of a San Jose might not be the bike for that, but you know, it might just work.

At least until I have the cash money to throw down on a real Geekhouse frame.

cassette.

You know that feeling when you wake up at some absurd hour from passing out somewhere that is not in your own bed after a kind of long night and you realize it's probably a good idea to leave wherever you are even if you don't really want because, hey, there's always tomorrow?
That sort of defines the weekends I've been spending in NYC with M1.
But that's how it goes, right? One thing sort of leads to another and before you know it, it's 3am and you're like fuck, maybe I should go home, but this is really good, but I really should go home, so hold that thought and I'll see you tomorrow, oh brunch? sure, and...plans tomorrow night?
Wait, wait, back up. It's not what you're thinking. Really.

Because even if the late-night scheming, trips to the city, and hours-long daily phone conversations got me to paint my nails [something I haven't done in ages], it's really not like that. Sure we've both made huge commitments - emotionally and physically - but it's not like we're getting married. Still, we did sort of have a baby together.
Her name? Cassette.

A product of six weeks of nonstop work - three of which were entirely devoted to thinking up of a name [and no, I can't even imagine what it's like to have real children] - it's finally finished. There was the proposal, a few days after we initially met, of designing a single t-shirt together, which then sort of blew up into something organic with a will of its own. Then the honeymoon period of thinking that everything was going to just fall into place. Then the little fights, frustrated rampages, tempter tantrums, and tearful anxiety attacks [yup, that was all me]. Then finally, finally, a functioning site, and the possibility of a decent night's sleep.

And so, despite the panicked terror I secretly felt as I hugged M1 a little past midnight last night in celebratory congrats, here it is. Our baby. And while we sort of pulled out the main parts of this thing out of thin air, apparently having kids isn't just between two people. Because without supportive friends who posed, critiqued, pulled shots of espresso and told the obligatory "that's what she said"s, this project would have been as productive as...well, protected sex.
Of course, I'm not condoning unprotected sex. Or having children. Because if cassette felt like a mini dry run of pregnancy and [immaculate] conception, having real kids must be a complete fucking trip.
I have to admit, though, that I'm sort of hoping cassette will last for a while. I actually wouldn't really mind 18 more years of this. Of course, that all depends on how cassette grows up. Still, as a proud mother, I'm going to let myself gloat. At least a tiny little bit.
[Oh, and I almost forgot. It's Rapha Scarf Friday.]

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...