pimp pampering

It's one of those prerequisites to life. One of those experiences that everyone goes through and hopefully comes out a better person for it. Kind of like how you should date a total asshole at some point in your life. It's not something you're going to enjoy, but you'll learn a thing or two, ponder it for a few days, then mature and grow as a result.
It's never not disappointing, though. Sometimes it's sort of heartbreaking, really. Because when you've been crushing on someone for so long, hyping them up in your head, and you finally get drunk brave enough to lock lips...the realization that the crush cannot, for the life of them, decently make out, will always break your heart a little.
I mean, maybe the panic and desire to escape hits first ["oh, um, well...goodnight!"]. But afterwards, you're left weighing if the crush is cute enough to really merit make out sessions that are more akin to your dog attacking the ice cream smeared on your face rather than the sultry lip tangling you previously imagined.

That heavy feeling of resignation is kind of what the past few days have been like. After a weekend and then some of NACCC, things have been starkly normal and incredibly mundane. Sure, the sun's shining out and it's scorching hot; perfect weather for some crazy rides. Instead I have to force myself to get on the rollers before spending too much time putzing around my apartment, half-heartedly looking around for someone something to do.
Meanwhile my chain sounds like a two-pack-a-day smoker, my gearing is a bit spinny, and I have no idea where my No. 4 hex wrench is. Awesome.
But like the feeling of utter guilt and self-disgust after a night of binging on ice cream, chocolate, and peanut butter filled pretzels post-break-up, I knew I had to get my shit together while the summer was still extant. And pampering is always a great way to get over something less-than-perfect-and-bordering-on-downright-disappointment. So it was off to a place I can comfortably go to without perfectly tweezed eyebrows, bombshell hair, or even a slightly coordinated outfit: IBC.
And hey, I left feeling pimp.

My seat raised just a tiny bit, my gearing changed a little bit, and my bottom bracket changed a lot a bit, the Bianchi now rides like omg-holy-shit-i-can't-believe-it's-not-buttah. Which has the obvious effect of not only making me want to go on rides, but had me smugly cruising down Beacon, without a hand on the bars.

And with still-mostly-pristinely white Vans to complement the mostly-white bartape, white pedals, and white toe straps, I even felt a little pro[seur]. Excitement going to my head, I even did two sessions on the rollers yesterday, the pro high only fading when - yet again - sweat poured into my eye, leaving me nearly skidding to a stop, one eye squeezed shut, trying to mentally deal with the pain while trying to figure out how to get off my bike in one piece.
Yeah, I got a long way to go. But hopefully I'll [at least] look good doing it.

courier city

If it isn't obvious already, I've been gathering a list of cities I'd love to live in. NYC, Portland, Seattle, Austin...
And Chicago just made the list.
It really should be on there already; my best friend is at UChicago, and she's always telling me about her incredible vintage finds. But her horror stories of the Windy City weather also had me clutching my radiator in icy fear, not to mention pictures of the Tour Da Chicago. Boston's cold enough for me, I thought, and even Kanye couldn't lure me out to Chi City.
But apparently, the cyclists out there are among the nation's best. Or at least the couriers are.

And they're some of the nicest, too. Looking the farthest thing from a genuine courier, I slyly infiltrated a NACCC party Saturday night at Harper's Ferry, PBR Tallboy in hand, Baileyworks thrown over my shoulder. Good thing DJ Mayhem [a.k.a. Jason] was on the decks [until a random metal band started playing], Geekhouse was in attendance, and I managed to bump into Meghan, one of the funniest girls to throw a leg over a top tube. All of which resulted in me actually getting drunk. And dancing.

And even making new friends! Turns out Meghan was hosting four couriers from Chicago, and in a weird turn of events, I was already Facebook friends with one of them. The only out-of-towners I met this past weekend, they were the antithesis of the judgmental hipster courier stereotype. And milling outside Harper's Ferry after we all got kicked out, bike in hand, I even got asked if I had ever raced my bike 'cross - possibly the last question I ever expected during NACCC.
No surprise, then, that Chicago was already earning big points in my book by the end of the night. Sunday morning, lacking any official NACCC volunteer status, I took Jason up on his generous invitation to hang out at Superb, one of the race checkpoints. Tom was acting as a dispatcher and as couriers flowed in and out, I snapped pictures furiously. Bikes of all shapes and sized rolled through, couriers dressed in everything from Sidis to Chucks, and maps and crumpled manifests were pulled out of Ortlieb, Chrome, and Baileyworks bags.

With open roads and random manifests, there was no way to tell who was winning. And it wasn't until later that night, at the Middle East Downstairs, that I learned that Chicago had not only taken both top male and female courier wins, but that a female courier from Chi City had won best overall. And while I didn't get a picture of this history-making champion, I was fortunate enough to already call Nico, the top male courier for 2009, a [new] friend.

Which makes Chicago that much more appealing. And late Sunday night, goodbye hugs were dispensed, and promises to get in touch if I ever visit Chicago were made. True, the likelihood of getting my butt over there [along with a bike] before full blown winter is slight to none. But I've got that city in my sights; and with a track just north of the city, I'm finding it hard not to book a flight to Chi town, stat. I'll see you guys soon, though. I promise.
[Thanks to Jacobs, Croth, BBMA, and all the volunteers and sponsors that made this year's NACCC an awesome success!]

the embrocation card

There's something to be said for playing your cards well.
But I never really understood girls who consistently choose to play the sex card.
Maybe my own hedonistic desires get in the way of prolonging petty arguments. Maybe I don't want to sit and wait until "lack of play" gets a boyfriend begging for forgiveness. Maybe I don't like the power-tripping that's involved in all that.
So, apologies. I'm withholding posts about the past weekend where couriers invaded Boston, and NACCC was in full effect in this fair city. I'm withholding it for a reason, though, and a good one.
Embrocation Cycling Journal has a new site. And I'm a bi-weekly contributor.

Every other Monday, I'll be posting on Embrocation Cycling Journal. And every other Monday, on this site, you'll see a drawing instead of the usual photographs. And more often than every other Monday you should go check out Embrocation; because with some seriously good writers contributing new material every day of the week, this is porn for people who love bicycles and reading about how they consistently change and shape our various lives.
Don't worry, it's only for a day. Which is why I'm not really playing the sex blog card. And you can still get your fix; just in another place. Just, you know, make sure to come back once in a while, even with all those heavy-hitters churning out addictive content.
Because you know you love the action you get around here. Even if it's only from me.
[Now go read my real post.]

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?