It's hot out. And apparently this heat is making people do some crazy things.
Discuss.
ice ice baby
These past few days, I've been feeling consistently moist.
And yes, it feels as disgusting as that sentence sounds. Because it's been 95 degrees out lately. Yeah, that's right. 95 motherfuckin degrees.
Seriously, this weather is not joking around. I'm sweating just sitting in my apartment, motionless. Going outside means being instantly swaddled in a blanket of wet heat, and stepping off the sidewalk onto the burning asphalt is akin to what you'd expect of an outer ring of purgatory. It is fucking scorching out.
The irony being that it sort of feels like home. Tokyo, that is. Back when my sister and I were living in Tokyo, I would get dragged to kendo practice in the early morning hours of summer Sundays. My brain still completely asleep, we'd hop a train to Shibuya to swing around a bamboo sword in a dojo that lacked AC. I consistently passed out during practice from dehydration.
But while those few summer practice sessions were incredibly embarrassing, my sister taught me something that summer: never underestimate a lesbian on an athletic mission. Because while I had - and continue to be - "the prepared one," who carries around tissues, handkerchiefs, chapstick, hand cream, and gum, my sister was the one that produced an ice cold towel in a ziplock bag that summer.
It's a simple concept that actually screams "holy shit you are a godsend!!!" A small hand towel soaked in water, wrung out a little, slipped into a ziplock bag and thrown into the freezer overnight, it thaws just enough in a sports bag or jersey pocket [or you know, just leave it on the counter before you hit the gym]. Press it against your forehead or the back of your neck and it's just as good as jumping into a pool post-ride.
It also feels pretty awesome post-drenching-session-on-the-rollers. In fact, make sure you have one on hand when you climb onto those things. Because when your shorts get caught on your saddle and your whole bike rolls backwards just as you hop forward and the stem smashes into your public bone, you just might thank me.
I'm not even kidding. And, you're welcome.
undeniably superb
My love of bike shops is no secret; I'll stubbornly stand in cleats around bike stands, even with a knee that's throbbing and begging me to sit down, to kill time with the best mechanics around, whether in NYC or Boston.
I never thought, though, that I'd have the opportunity to watch a new bike shop develop from gutted out space to awesome concept shop. But every few weeks since early July, that's exactly what I've been doing at a particular spot on Beacon Street.
Yup, that's right. It's open. Superb, that is.
I've hinted at it. I've posted a few vague pictures. I even designed a t-shirt for the shop! But renovations were still going underway at that point, and despite my itchy fingers desperately seeking to post about the shop, I had to resist until it was officially open.
And yeah, it was totally worth the wait.
Back in March when Jason first told me about the new shop, I got excited. But it was that vague kind of excitement where you don't really know what you're getting excited about, just that the person talking to you has some awesome ideas and is actually going to follow through on them. I had no idea what to expect, really, except that the shop colors were going to be gray, teal, and purple.
That drastically changed in July when the real work started in the space formerly known as Boston Bicycle. And as damask was painted onto the walls, new cabinets build, chandeliers installed [possibly my favorite part of the shop], and a fainting chair assembled, my constant exclamations of "oh my God, this is AWESOME!" started sounding almost lame.
Because honestly, it's such an understatement. "Awesome" doesn't do justice to a shop that's clearly been well thought out, and executed with even more care. Stocked with cassette and Gage & Desoto t-shirts [I'm not biased, I promise], vintage jerseys, narifuri bags [possibly the only place you can get these babies in Boston], Phil Wood deliciousness, and Campy peanut butter wrenches, Superb is living up to its name. Add to that a bike inventory that is limited to steel frames [geared and otherwise] and you have a concept shop that has really good taste.
But that doesn't mean that it's inaccessible. Like its brainparent, Jason, Superb is - while almost intimidatingly hip - quietly confident, courteous, and perhaps most importantly [for a bike shop], non-judgmental. Everything from hybrids to track frames walk through the door; drawn to the velodrome display window or just to get a flat fix. And on one recent visit to Superb, a customer paused before heading out with a properly inflated tire:
"You guys did a little rearranging, huh?"
We all blinked. Yeah, you could say that.
stretch marks
You know those moments of slow realization combined with a sinking feeling of dread, like when you read Youtube video comments and realize that some people just shouldn't have Internet access? And that feeling sort of deepens even more when you masochistically keep reading said comments and someone [and it always has to be someone with a generically retarded handle] makes an even more idiotic comment in response to the first mindblowingly stupid comment? And then you're like wow, this world is fucked?
Okay, I won't go that far. But I've been feeling that these days. Because apparently, I really need to start stretching.
A pair of rollers will do that to you, I guess. Jumping onto them eagerly after almost a week away, with minimal stretching, my thighs were instantly twitching and burning, my forearms and hands shaking from gripping bare bars. Sprawled out on my floor, completely spent, I almost couldn't get up when my bike decided to crash to the floor.
But when I did, my calf seared. Being a champion of making really stupid decisions, I was like oh, that's interesting, then proceeded to ignore it for a day. In retaliation, my right calf wound itself up so tight my sciatic nerve felt stiff all the way up to my lower back. I couldn't even lie down without feeling like I needed to crack my back. Of course, when I tried to, I couldn't. Fuck me.
Fighting the urge to ride the rollers anyway, I took a full day off the bike; stretching, massaging, stretching, and massaging all day. It was feeling loose enough to get back to spinning the wheels in place the next day. I even managed to get outside, dicking around downtown just because. Then it was back to stretching, massaging, stretching, and more stretching.
Yeah, I know. This whole not-stretching-until-now makes me as moronic as the aforementioned Youtube commentators. It's no excuse, really, but having never been a proper athlete, the only thing I can think of when I'm done imposing physical pain on myself is a shower and some activity that involves being motionless for some [extended] period of time. Instead, my body decides to act like a melodramatic suicidal emo-goth by threatening to inflict pain on itself if I don't pamper it by stretching.
I've been calling its bluff until now; but apparently that shit is for real. Which is incredibly annoying in a sense, but I'd rather suck it up and stretch a bit than spend another weekend gimping around my apartment.
Sigh. Back to stretching, I guess.
scorching hot surprises
Endless summer.
It's already August but I'm trying to keep it endless. Grasping on to the last hot, sticky days of summer; simultaenously hating the humidly drenching heat but addicted to the feel of the sun pushing its rays onto my bare shoulders. And just when the clear days are no longer being so coy, slipping away into rainy weeks, it seems like the crush that is summer might just be disappearing.
Even if you know, deep down, that it's endless, that compensating something stirs, and you find yourself thinking about all the promises of fall: crisp apples and cooler rides, cyclocross and embrocation. And for me, a less sweaty season for a Rapha scarf.
My mistake. I should have said "Rapha scarves."
Back when the weather was still on a drier side of gooey, over breakfast, I heard a hint of a new Rapha scarf design. Accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a knowing smile that would have bothered me if it didn't have that effect of eliciting smiles in response, it pulled at my curiosity. No details were given, but it stuck in my mind, the Rapha fanboy in me waiting to pounce [or at least ogle] when it was revealed.
A week or so ago, it did. And then a few days ago, it arrived in a familiar slim package, a neat little surprise wrapped in pink tissue paper. Unexpected and out of the blue, it was the kind of surprise that elicits no screaming or squealing; the kind that, instead, has you both smiling and gaping, exhaling short bursts of breath in an attempt to form words. The really happy kind of surprise.
Because this scarf is absolutely delicious. As delicious as the original, its intricacy is more simple than busy. The chains, spokes, cranks, chainrings, and hubs melting into a delicate paisley that retains its elegance, despite its striking similarity to the ubiquitous black cotton bandanas that populate the fixster scene. Draping it around my neck in an apartment that felt more like a sauna than a habitable home, goofy smile plastered on my sweaty face, I couldn't wait for fall.
But please. Do you think I could wait even a few days to wear this? Forgive me, though, because it's scorching hot out. Which means I'm improvising just a tiny bit.
Touching the slinky silk with my fingers, I initially felt too guilty to wrap it around a salty neck. Instead I tossed it around a belt loop in my shorts, keeping my neck free to breathe but repping Rapha. The more sophisticated can tie it around the handle of a handbag - the royal Hermes-esque treatment bestowed on scarves that women cannot help showing off.
Never fear, though, I'm a traditionalist at heart. Unable to resist, even in the dense heat, I opted for something looser than the snug fit of a properly tied Rapha scarf. Deceptively bandana-like, it's more than a cut above. And let me tell you, even half-dressed, this scarf is hot.
The girl in me insisted on trying it at an angle, too, the corner pointing not down but a little to the side. Vanity insisted I include a face shot to show that sometimes, I don't look nearly as tired as I do on the Rapha blog. Or, at least I don't think I do when I have a certain silky black scarf around my neck.
So there you have it: the new Rapha scarf. And while this is a peek into [a Rapha] fall, there's still reason to cling to summer Rapha Scarf Fridays. Because it's endless; full of thick slices of juicy watermelon, bike rides, and favorite friends.
Endless, awesome, amazing summer.
[I've been told someone else might be joining me for this week's Rapha Scarf Friday, too. How awesome is that?]
swatch it
Any weekend will end right when it starts off with an invitation to a movie viewing on a Billyburg rooftop, with a smoldering grill to roast marshmallows and assemble s'mores.
Even better when that invitation is extended by bike friends, and the movie is "Tuff Turf," starring an insanely young James Spader and Robert Downing, Jr. Not to mention the insanely fabulous outfits.
Maybe that's because I absolutely love the 80s. The crimped hair, the scrunchies, the best friend necklace crazes...it brings back memories of growing up in New Jersey, where I first learned how to ride a bike, attempting, desperately, to keep up with my older sister. By then the differences between us were starkly evident. My parents, resolutely oblivious, still bought matching whatever for us to wear.
Back then, I resisted it. And even now, I balk at getting identical handbags, accessories, dresses, whatever with girl friends. I rationalize it by telling myself that my identity shouldn't have to be given material form or some indication that I belong to a certain group. It just feels sort of weird.
Then of course, I went and contradicted myself.
But it involved an 80s/early 90s icon: the Swatch. And bicycles! Because NYC Velo just decided to bring them back.
Heading back into the city from a training ride, Brett apparently needed a battery for his Swatch. That turned into the NYC Velo staff pulling out and dusting off their own respective Swatches, including Justin's limited edition Renzo Piano beauty.
So naturally, I was all too easily cajoled into purchasing one for myself, [especially because I've been lacking an everyday wrist watch for a small eternity]. Of course, I also felt a little special being the first non-official-employee sporting one into the shop.
Then, later, back in Boston, I felt a lot special when Mike, cassette, and I ended up on the Rapha blog [yup, even with the bags under my eyes in the posted picture]. But, as usual, more on that later. For now, go get yourself a new Swatch.