sans scenesters

I'm somehow still in NYC.
And no, it wasn't the Yankees win against the Sox after 15 innings [although that was a pretty intense game]. And despite all the trash talk that I might be doing that Boston sometimes needs to step it up, it's not the bike scene that's keeping me here either.
Because there is none. And that's sort of why I love NYC.
While Boston might be more conducive to putting miles and miles on my legs, it's only ironically in NYC - a gigantic city immersed in fashion and style - where it doesn't matter what my ride looks like. It makes sense, too, because everybody rides a bike. Hybrid, road, mountain, 'cross, mixte frames, vintage folders, and straight up Dutch bikes from Amsterdam. If it exists, someone rides it in NYC.

And with millions of cyclists of every shape, size, gender, and stylistic inclination, there's no one right thing to ride. Not that there ever really is a right thing to ride, but the insecurity and judgment aren't nearly as blatant. Bike cliques only exist if you want them to, and aerospoke sightings are few and far between.
Which is actually kind of surprising, given the stop and start nature of pure, urban, NYC riding. The first time I rode here, I couldn't wait to flip my wheel over to the fixed side. I was convinced that city riding = fixed. Of course, I was wrong. Because I've never slithered through four lane traffic faster than when I was chasing M1 on his [geared] Cyfac [with full C-Record gruppo!], or descended a hill faster than when I first rode over the Billyburg bridge with M1 on his 40lbs tank of a Dutch bike. Geared or not, in NYC, it's really not about the bike.

Maybe that's why I'm resisting the bus ride home, delaying my stay here for one more day [okay, it also could be that HDTV has been distracting me enough from running all the planned errands for this weekend-turned-almost-week-long jaunt to NYC]. And because it's not about the bike[s], it's the friends I've made down here, too. Sure, I can't wait to do a longer ride, be able to roll out of a bed [not a couch] and hop on the rollers, and give my track bike some love. But I'm still sort of bracing myself for the usual questions I get about that bike when I'm in Boston: why don't you ever ride it? [I do.] Why don't you like it? [I actually love it.] Why do you only ride it on rollers?

The irony being that friends in NYC who have never seen the Dolan in person have never asked me these questions. Expressing the guilt that said questions make me feel, then the frustration at just not enjoying riding it on the street, Jared interrupted my self-pity fest:
"Wait...what kind of bike is it?"
"A Dolan. A Dolan Pre Cursa. It's a track bike," I responded.
"A track bike? And it's not meant for the road? REALLY???"
Touche. And that's why I love NYC.

kept

Like most women, in my laziest moments, I've considered it. The concept - at least in the abstract - doesn't sound so bad, and as long as you perform your end of the bargain, there are clearly some tangible rewards to be gained. And it's not like you're chained, unwillingly, to something you never agreed to. The whole concept revolves around acceptance and performance.
I am, of course, referring to being a kept woman.
In actuality - my latent cougar status aside - I could probably never do it [and that's not because of any record of poor performance]. Mostly pouring money into clothes, shoes, bags, and bling are part of a past life that just doesn't interest me.

Well, as long as said clothes, shoes, bags, and bling are not bike-able. I'll pass up the vintage Dior for denim shorts I can bike in and a cassette shirt, Anna Sui pumps for Sidis, Loew bag for the Ortlieb, and Vivienne Westwood earrings for a bike helmet. All signs that I should probably seek immediate help for my blatant obsession. All signs that I'm totally in love with bicycles.
And that's sort of the real reason I could never be a kept woman; in predictable cougar [cub] fashion, I've fallen desperately in love with two very young things. And for now, I'm the one doing the keeping.

Being poor and broke, you might wonder how I manage. It's been no joyride, but somehow I'm cutting enough corners to make ends meet. My loves might be demanding, but I know they're both worth it. Every single penny.
And they've cost me quite a few thousands of pennies, my bikes. From new freewheels to bottom brackets to bar tape to pedals, both the Dolan and Bianchi are bleeding me dry. I'm fully aware of this slow financial death, but instead of maybe streamlining my purchases to the one bike I'm riding on the street, I'm cutting fresh wounds into my bank account, almost relishing in the resulting pain [and hunger]. Because those purchases are making the bikes smoother, lighter, or just harder to pedal. And that makes me love them that much more.

But I'm fickle. So when Andy mentioned the possibility of purchasing an IF, I momentarily forgot about the two ponies already in my stable. I feigned hesitation while my mind raced, imagining paint schemes and matching bar tape and saddles. I attempted to laugh off the suggestion while imagining what tires I'd get. I actually considered it, before trying to forget about it, then thought about it again. It's true. I'd die for an IF.
I'm fully aware of that. But sliding through afternoon NYC streets, scooting around trucks and taxis, my chain rasped noisily and I kicked myself for forgetting to grab some chain lube at the shop. And pushing the pedals a tiny bit harder, I realized that I liked my new gearing a lot; which means that the Dolan needs another cog or two. Those thoughts expanded into lists of bike parts and tools, saddles, new bar tape, and winter tires, before I finally admitted it to myself. I can hardly keep up with the demands of two bikes...how could I even think of dealing with three?

Besides, the high cost of maintenance of both of my existing bikes is probably a mixed blessing. Obsessive enough to have meltdowns when even one of my bikes doesn't function properly, pampering three would probably result in institutionalization. Plus that all-too-familiar routine of starvation as I stretch out an already quickly-thinning budget. Something at which even bike friends have rolled their eyes or shaken their heads.
"Dude, make sure you eat," they say.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm just, you know," I usually respond, trying to dismiss the subject entirely with the most inarticulate, vague answer I can think of, too embarrassed to actually complete the sentence.
But I'm sure you'll understand: I'm just, you know, in love.

mani-pedi pro

When I first got Embrocation Cycling Journal volume 2, the first page I incidentally turned to was "The Art of the Bike Wash" by Radio Freddy. On the pages following the piece were pictures and two sentences:
"A clean machine is a PRO machine. Keep it PRO, keep it clean."
Sometimes I wish I'd never read that. Those words consistently come flooding back whenever I glance at my bike. But I'm really good at denial, so it wasn't until Jason pointed out that my rear tire was the "grayest white tire [he'd] ever seen," that I knew I had to do something.

But scrubbing my rims really did nothing but smear the brake dust everywhere, and while black tires would hide such nonsense, white [PRO] tires are much less forgiving. So when I made the ridiculously amateur move of rolling over gum, I also simultaenously found a way to whiten those strips of rubber.
I'm not going to go into detail here, but during one extremely embarrassing point in my life, I made out with a boy only to get his chewing gum all over my back. This taught me two things: 1. hook-ups are rarely worth the trouble, and 2. nail polish remover will always be my default go-to harsh chemical of choice.

So while Radio Freddy warns against using harsh chemicals, this is rubber we're talking about, not a Ti frame, so I went at the gum plastered on my tire with a cottonball soaked in nail polish remover. It did the trick, and then some. Because the tire ended up whiter.
And of course, more PRO. And with a trip to NYC planned, the sun finally shining, and a tire that looks more black than gray, I finally pulled on some gloves and gave my rear tire the same treatment [the gloves aren't really necessary unless you have nail polish on and you don't want to screw up your manicure]. I'm sure someone's going to tell me I just did the worst thing I could do to my tires, but clean tires are PRO tires. Even if that means I'm going to flat on the way downtown today.

Plus, unlike the worthless wtf-how-did-your-gum-get-all-over-my-fucking-back hook-up, at least this use of nail polish remover is going to end up in something positive. Well, for my bike. Unfortunately, I can't say I look nearly as PRO. Good thing there's a salon next to NYC Velo. Which means friends, espresso, a couch, bicycles, and a decent mani-pedi are within 20 ft of each other.
What more could a cyclist ask for?

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.]