clandestine chandeliers

Sharing is caring, I know. But sometimes, I'm tempted to keep certain things to myself. Like those gems of whatever that you discover, and then hide away, at least for a little while, while you weigh who you'll let in on your little secret, and in what order.
The irony being that I don't really consider myself good at keeping secrets. Especially when they're good secrets.
Like the addicting soul of Eli Paperboy Reed & The True Loves that's been streaming out of my speakers for the past few days [not clicking on those links is your loss, so I'm not even going to demand you check them out]. Sure they've been around for a while...but with music like this coming from homey little Boston, and the NACCCs starting today, I feel just a little bit obligated to share this little gem.
And there's something else, too. And it's called Superb.

Conceived by Jason, it's the stunningly hip extension of Cambridge Bicycle's track bike boutique. The website went live earlier this summer, but it's the space that I want to talk about. The plans for it are unbelievable, and I've had the good fortune of peeking into the space [formerly that of Boston Bicycle] every few weeks and watching the whirlwind transformation. Gold and teal ceilings, custom damask, plans for a display that will blow your mind, and chandeliers.
I'll let you in on another secret, too. Jason was one of the first to know about cassette before her official launch, and when I dragged M1 to the space a few weeks back, it ended in a few iced americanos...and an idea.

A collaboration t-shirt between Superb and cassette, the idea was sketched out within 24 hours of that meeting, delivered to M1 and the concept finalized between 2 to 3am on a Sunday night and the hour before I boarded a bus back to Boston on Monday morning. The shirts were printed, cured, and mailed within 48 hours [did I mention we work fast?]. And just in time, too. Because with couriers from all across North America flooding the city, Superb is a destination spot, and then some.
Which is probably why I can't keep the fact that it's amazing and going to be totally awesome a secret. All exacerbated by the fact that late Tuesday night, M1 sent me an iphone shot of a test Superb shirt. I nearly screamed in excitement before reaching for the phone, the only words I could form being "dude...dude...that shirt...oh my god..."

"Yeah," he replied, "I want to sort of steal one."
And there you have it. Proof that it's a good one. And therefore a secret I am incapable of keeping. Want one? Stop by Superb...and make sure you say hi, too!
[And yes, it's Rapha Scarf Friday again...]

high off handlebars

I've always been skeptical of out of body experiences and the people that "experience" them. I remember, back in high school, a girl once told me how she got so high [off weed] that she felt like she had become the glass of water on her desk.
Somehow I restrained myself from telling her that she was fucking insane. Or just incredibly dramatic. Because while I've been fucked up enough to stare intently into a glass of water for about 5 minutes, I've never actually become one.
But yesterday, I sort of came close to an out of body experience. Or, I understood how weird events can sort of make one part of your brain pause and pose a logical question ["what the fuck am I doing?"] while the other part of your brain is like "holy shit, this is awesome!"
You'll laugh, but it's because I rode no-handed for more than 2 seconds yesterday.

Cursed with the ability to knock down glasses, spill any open containers, fall out of my bed, and crash while not even moving on my bike, balancing on two wheels takes a lot of effort. Add five crashes and hideously scarred up knees to show for it, and I'm not so keen on taking both hands off the handlebars unless at least one foot is firmly planted on solid ground. This results in overcompensation on my part; when friends ride no handed, I'll stubbornly stay in my drops, pretending as if I prefer that position, anyway.
But time on the rollers on a track bike makes you learn how to stay motionless while pedaling and gives you a new appreciation for how to use those hips to control the bike. And bored enough on my ride yesterday to throw caution to the wind, I tried it. And stared. And blinked. Because I was pedaling but there were these empty handlebars in front of me.
It was the weirdest thing. But so cool! I kept trying it, regardless of the fact that I was riding down Beacon and there were actually cars on the road. And like staring into that glass of water back in college, it gave me a strange sort of high.

Hours later, I even found myself staring into a glass of [the best] iced coffee [in Boston] at Cafe Fixe. While actually taking time to read a book for pleasure - something I haven't done in I-can't-remember-how-long. The irony being that the book ["Under the Banner of Heaven" by Jon Krakauer] is about Mormon fundamentalists. Which means it's a total fucking trip.
Of course, for every high, there's that sobering up period. So don't be surprised if I crash spectacularly today, somewhere along Beacon or Comm Ave. Here's to hoping it's more like a weed high though, and that the worst thing I'll do is end up eating 20 cookies, a bag of pretzels, and passing out on my floor.
Which would be a good thing. Because with NACCC starting tomorrow, I'd like to keep my injuries confined to those acquired on a bicycle.

tannery

I hate it when people ask me whether I prefer hot or cold weather. If I had to absolutely choose one over the other, which one would I pick? Like if all year long, it was either really hot or extremely cold, and you couldn't ever move again. It's kind of asking someone, if forced into this unrealistic hypothetical situation, whether they would rather choke themselves with a spoon or a fork. Both options have their pros and cons; but is this really going to happen?
Wait, I take that back. It actually might [the choking part]. Mostly because this heat is making me do some ridiculous things.
Like how I thought that time on the rollers would be a good idea at 8am, then decided after a pathetic 20 minutes that it wasn't a great idea and that I should really just lie down. And then falling out of my bed when I attempted to actually get up. And then heading to school on underinflated tires, thighs still twitching in protest, to stare at a few books without so much as a sip of coffee to power me through.

All of which resulted in me coming back to my apartment in the scorching afternoon heat, drenched in my own salt water [you might not be able to see it, but that is sweat from my face on my hand]. And to top it all off, I even got to experience exactly what sunblock, sweat, and eyeliner feels like when it drips directly into your eye.
Yeah, yesterday was fucking awesome.
Don't get me wrong, I love the summer. And with temperatures peaking at around 30C [or 90F], and having lived in Tokyo, I really shouldn't be complaining. It's just that I'm starting to look downright ridiculous.
The tan lines, I mean. I'm considering slathering on the fake tanning lotion. Because it's spreading.

Mid-checking-out-my-own-ass-and-weighing-exactly-how-unhappy-I-am-with-its-massive-proportions, I caught a glimpse of the back of my shoulder. Ah, the bane of sleeveless jerseys. Keep in mind that only the back of my shoulder is that tan. The front has some t-shirt tan going on that's a noticeably lighter shade. All exacerbated by the fact that I don't wear tank tops enough because the whole mess is so embarrassing.
Which makes me wonder why I'm actually smiling in that picture. The only plausible explanation is that the heat was going to my brain, again. Because after that picture was taken, I actually considered getting back on the rollers. Without coffee. Again.

The sheer amount of sweat in my hair made me think twice, and after scheduling a haircut, I ended up doing lots and lots of stretching instead [for once]. Weak, I know. But today, I'm out to a ride that might end at the gym, before I attempt to resist the temptation to cut all my hair off. Then, of course, time on the rollers.
Crazy, right?

asian cyclist fetish

Being single and female presents its plethora of problems.
Add "Asian" to the mix and it's like a whole nother universe.
Like if anyone seemingly flirts with me [a rare occurrence, thankfully], I immediately imagine their rooms: a tiny closet-like space filled with anime posters, Asian language books, pictures of ex-girlfriends [all Asian], and a corner devoted to video games. If social escape from said person seems difficult, I usually just try to open my mouth and curse like a sailor in an attempt to dispel any conceptions of the socially docile, obedient, Asian woman who also happens to be a total freak in bed.
I'm not sure if it works, but I've been completely creeped out enough to run the usual checks before entertaining even friendships. Paranoid? Probably. But I like to think I'm more interesting than my ethnicity.
Oddly enough, though, I fully endorsed fetishization yesterday. I even took pictures. In a bathroom.

Okay, it didn't involve anything racy [at least in the normal sense of that term]. Just that it was my first time using the NYC Velo bathroom [despite my love for iced coffee, my propensity to hang out endlessly at NYC Velo, and the fact that iced coffee also has me running to the bathroom every other hour]. And when you find yourself in a "unisex" bathroom/shrine to all things bike, with a wrench for the cold water knob on the sink, well, the camera is bound to come out.
Not to mention that entering NYC Velo's bathroom is like peeking into the Devil's handbook. If putting a ring on [or having a ring put on by] a cyclist is your thing, that is. The walls are plastered with posters of Tour and Giro winners, and where you might expect soft-core porn or Maxim covers, are pictures of Merckx, Lance, and Cipollini.

Which might make you question if putting a ring on the object of your affection [at least in NY state] is actually possible. But blatant homosexual crushes aside, it's also a glimpse into a world that has little room for other loves. And while that kind of obsession can too easily spill over into creepy-ville, I hypocritically felt right at home.

Declaring my approval as I exited the bathroom, I wondered what I would put up on my own bathroom walls. I couldn't think of anything [mostly due to a sheer lack of posters] but late last night after arriving back to my own apartment in Boston, I found it. A picture tweeted by Competitive Cyclist, it's something worth sticking up on a bathroom wall, in front of my desk, or even by my bed. And though still unable to do a wheelie [much less a wheelie off the ground on some bling tdf bike in front of the L'Arc du Triomphe after becoming the first Japanese cyclist to finish a post-war Tour], I'd rock that kit on a 'drome.
I'd even let him put a ring on it.

sweet goodbye

I'm boarding another bus this afternoon to head back home to Boston. Goodbye NYC, goodbye swelteringly hot printing studio in Billyburg, goodbye comfy black couch in NYC Velo.
And also, in a way, goodbye summer.
Not that it's over, technically. But most cyclists will probably agree that they're feeling it pulling to a reluctant close. The hot summer rides aren't going to taper off into more time indoors on trainers or rollers just yet [unless, like me, you're dreaming almost strictly of velodromes recently]. And evenings will probably still be spent - as they should be - with a cold beer or a sticky, melty ice cream cone.
Still. The Tour's over.

The cycling event that dominates three weeks of July, it creeps up on you as you long for clear, sunny days that stretch their light late into the evenings, and keeps you, inexplicably, lingering in front of the TV or computer instead of going on that planned ride. Then in a whirlwind of graceful muscle, it's over, only the ghost of Andy Schleck's smile reminding you of why you used to be in such a good mood in the mornings.
Maybe it was just the really good espresso, though.
Unable to watch the Tour on my nonexistent TV, I was limited to following it through riders' tweets, informative blogs, and friends who gushed about the day's stage. In response to being cut out from the excitement and adventure, I tried to block it out instead, pretending that things weren't actually happening over in Europe during the week. Weekends in NYC, though. That's when the Tour could unfold before my eager eyes via Versus, the lack of sleep from passing out well past 2am only to get up 5 hours later getting pushed aside as a video camera chased Alberto, Andy, and Lance.

That tends to catch up with you, unfortunately, just when everyone hits Mt. Ventoux. Exhausted from hours of printing the night before, I slept in to a ridiculous hour [given le Tour] and booked it through the heat to NYC Velo, where a viewing of the decisive 20th stage was scheduled, along with an espresso tasting of Gorilla, Abraco, and Stumptown coffee. Caffeine, friends, and the Tour? There was no way I could resist.
The promise of such a caffeinated treat pushed sluggish blood through still-half-asleep veins and I managed to scoot into NYC Velo in just in time to watch Andy pull Lance, Alberto, Bradley Wiggins, and a lagging Frank up a giant fucking mountain that no sane person should ever attempt by bicycle. And watching the chase - punctuated by bursts of speed courtesy of Andy and those white Jawbones - I completely forgot that I hadn't had coffee all morning. I was even okay with watching, standing, as the couch and stools were all occupied by those equally addicted to Andy le Tour.

The testy bitchery from lack of caffeine only just started to stir after Pellizotti crossed the finish line; one that was situated just over a hill that looked like it was at a 90 degree angle to the ground [wherever that was]. As Versus slowly unclenched its dominating grasp on my brain and ability to function, I was handed a good strong shot of espresso, and a Mt. Ventoux of pastries to choose from. Any smartass comment I had for friends died in my throat as I sipped brown nectar and munched on a piece of blueberry cornmeal cake from the Birdbath Green Bakery. And coming off the high that is the Tour de France, it was the perfect ending to a Saturday morning.

And, I'm almost tempted to say, the perfect ending to a summer. With no more Tour viewings until [gasp!] next year, I'm already slipping into the kind of immobilizing depression that's only appropriate for New England winters. The kind that has me staring at my bike before rolling over and squeezing my eyes shut in an attempt to fall back to sleep despite the resulting overwhelming guilt. Which actually sort of surprises me, and makes me suspect that maybe it wasn't just the coffee and pastries that had me so hooked on the Tour this summer.
Sure, it's a little late in the race [mostly because it's over], but maybe I'm seriously getting into this competitive cycling thing.

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.]