ten points
Even as a Cancer, my maternal instincts are limited to the point of being nonexistent. Sure, I'm about to reach that age where my biological clock starts going "ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!!!!!!1111" and I'll want to bone everything that moves, but the fact remains: children simply terrify me.
Add to that the fact that I am incredibly Dude, and it's a little alarming when male friends think that I'd actually make a good mother. Really? Me? Kids? Huh? ...No.
Because we're talking about a girl who just managed to lube her chain for the first time in about 4 weeks [4 weeks, people] a few days ago. A stunningly simple task, it was made infinitely more complicated by my sheer laziness. It involved things like turning over both my bikes, getting out some rags, shaking up the [dry] lube [because I kept forgetting to buy the wet stuff], and applying it to my chain. It was exhausting just thinking about it [seriously, how would I be able to take care of children?].
But mustering up the energy to finally bite the bullet, I carefully flipped over both bikes in my small apartment. And in doing so, I moved aside a book I had just finished the night before: "Ten Points," by [Bicycling Magazine editor] Bill Strickland.
You have to read it. A memoir of Strickland's promise to his daughter that he would score ten points in one season [despite his status as a "decidedly average bicyclist"], it's more than just a book about bicycles. Between the furious pedaling, Strickland - with the kind of stark, naked honesty that doesn't tuck away the blemishes and disappointments of reality - interweaves his inner fight with a demon born of child abuse and his struggles with parenting. A slim book of heartcrushing proportions, it had me pulling back tears after the first chapter [and for what it's worth, it wasn't that hormonal time of month].
It's the kind of book you immediately want to talk about. The kind that tends to turn me into a walking spoiler alert for the book, despite the fact that I want everyone I know to read it. And I mean that; because unlike most things I fanatically advocate, no obsessive love of bicycles is really required for this one. Just a heart. And maybe some tissues.
Back in my apartment, I managed to uncover the silver metal underneath the black much coating my chain. Tires got pumped and brake pads checked. A mental note made of new bar tape and the desire for another pair of clipless pedals before climbing back on a track bike perched precariously on a pair of rollers. When I get around to it, I might not be such a bad bike mom.
Which, along with "Ten Points," gives me a little hope. For, you know, when children stop terrifying me.
[And yup, it's Rapha Scarf Friday.]
locking it down
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.