beating bikes

School's officially starting on Monday
I use the term "starting" loosely, because I've been going to school almost every day this week. Mostly to hunch over a computer, hand poised over my mouse, cite-checking and making sure things are in correct Bluebook form. At least I'm not alone, though. A journal mate occupying the desk next to mine turned to look out the window, saying:
"Man, it's such a nice day out today too...Well, judging from the walk from my car to the school."
He turned to me when I laughed in response, adding,
"At least you bike here; you get to enjoy being outside a little."

True, but for how much longer? With the prospect of bike rides limited mostly to my pathetic commute to school, and concerns of what exactly I could write about every single day, by the end of the day, I was feeling as crumpled as the drain that I park in front of. And while the rollers are keeping my thighs on the firmer side of flabby, winter always seems to turn me into a mushy, stiff mess.

But climbing that hill on Comm Ave, and slowing to a crawl on my new-ish gearing, I almost laughed. A year and half ago, I was walking up this thing, with gearing that was significantly spinny-er. And I just rode down this same street no-handed. Something I couldn't do even two months ago.
Hopeful that the sun bathing the backs of my calves will somehow even out my ridiculous tan, I ran some errands around town in the last hours of daylight. And my bike luck turning, I ran into Boston's Cutest Messenger, riding, as usual, on the insane side of dangerous: clipless, brakeless, and helmetless.

Trying to keep my inner cougar from pouncing on him [he's 19. sigh. SIGH.], we rode for a few blocks together, me just a little ahead of him. And turning my head when he called out goodbye, I heard a bro-dude shout:
"You can beat him!"
Actually, I couldn't even if I tried. I was also furiously winded after trying to actually stay ahead of Boston's Cutest. The planned attack on the following hills were done with half-hearted enthusiasm between slightly uncomfortable gulps of air. Man, I'm slow and weak.
School's only going to make all this worse. But surprisingly, I think I'm okay with that. At least for [right] now.
I'm a busy girl. And perfection's tough, you know?
[And yes, it is Rapha Scarf Friday...]

keirin diet

The first time I saw a pair of rollers under someone, I was too interested in horses to remember much of it.
It was on a Japanese TV show featuring an array of late teens and twenty-somethings who were venturing out into interesting careers. A jockey and a keirin racer were featured together; and having dreamed of getting my own exercise jockey license for years, I mostly ignored the keirin racer. Even when he was perched on rollers, playing video games because the next four hours of boredom would kill him otherwise, I was way more interested in the small, slight man who couldn't eat and raced on horses.
Of course, I ended up on a bicycle, not a thoroughbred.

Still, being broke-ass poor means I'm eating more like a jockey. Okay, I'm not throwing up my food [too wasteful, sorry] or only eating 12 almonds for lunch [apparently that's what they do...go watch "Jockeys," it's amazing]. But even with the pounds I want to shed, the thought of surviving through winter on rice cakes is a little daunting. What the hell am I going to do when finals hits like a fucking hurricane and the only thing in my pantry is a can of beans? Don't even get me started on how I'm supposed to stay on the rollers on that kind of diet, either.
Enter my mother, who, after having disparaged me of being fat for the past 23 years, decided she'd rather have a zaftig daughter than an anorexic one. Okay, she cares and worries about me, too. And though we don't have that giggly girly mother-daughter relationship, we both think weird things are pretty awesome.

Case in point: [pre-packaged] Yokosuka Navy Curry. It says "Navy Blue," which is obvious. That also scares me...does "navy blue" refer to some sort of flavor? What exactly does "navy blue" taste like? Is the curry actually going to be navy blue?
I'm pretty sure my Mom sent this care package - stuffed with rice crackers, cookies, and about three pounds of soba noodles - mostly to show me this curry. And despite my hesitations, I'm glad she did. Because assuming this isn't navy blue in color, Japanese curry is straight up comfort food; caloric and absolutely delicious.
Keirin racer food, as opposed to the crumbs that make up a jockey's diet. Yeah, my Mom's fucking awesome.

rolling addiction

Despite a calf that's wound up so tight my heel actually hurts, I'm pushing, thrusting, alternatively gritting my teeth and biting my lower lip. Eyes closed, head tilted back, hissing in air and letting it out in trembling exhalations. Moving my hips just a little bit to the left, a little forward...right there. Right right there. Don't stop; keep still.
Ohhhh, yeah. That's the sweet spot.
Thighs burning, trying to savor that feeling of perfection...then my front wheel's veering left, my rear wheel almost skidding before I can straighten the bars. But holy shit, I had it. That narrow slice of motionless, rolling perfection.

It's an addiction. The one thing I hungered for on visits to NYC. The one thing that had me hopping on a bus back to Boston, to an apartment with no AC. The one thing that I know is going to keep me sane this fall.
Which is ironic, given how Sisyphean it is to actually ride rollers. Unlike trainers, these things require some semblance of balance, and assurances that "well, when you fall off, you kind of just stop and tip over" are actually more terrifying in real life than it sounds. Especially when that actually involves bashing into the doorway first. It doesn't not hurt.
Then again, it's sort of like law school. Studying endlessly, trying to stretch the days and hours that are never enough, just to stay right where I've always been on the sliding scale of competency [as always, measured by grades]. The only obviously tangible reward being the glimmer of a degree and the hope of a bar card.

But maybe it does all make sense. Because physical pain - from my heinous saddle or otherwise - is much easier to understand and work through than the kind that law school will hand you. That mental crushing and breaking that feels like a bomb went off in your head while your heart and brain free-fall into empty panic and you can't even feel your face. An inexplicable feeling of desperation that can only be described as "fuck my life," despite the fact that that might be the biggest understatement made.

So while unemployment stares me in the face, I'm staring down that spot on the wall right under my Embrocation Cycling Journal Volume 3 poster [go get yourself a copy of Volume 4, seriously], pedaling, sweating, and making things hurt while other things go numb. My priorities are clearly a mess.
But hey, at least constantly trying to balance on those rollers means I'm also doing some power kegels. That's productive...right?

summer lovin'

They say summers aren't complete without a kind of [briefly ridiculous] love. Preferably one with a partner that would otherwise be unattainable/unrealistic/undateable. Because for three hot months, you can just ignore the glaring signs that things will fizzle out come September. It's summer. Time to make some embarrassing forgettable choices!
To be honest, this whole notion of summer loving was sort of bothering me. Not in that gratingly irritating thorn-in-my-side kind of way, but in that I'm-totally-constipated-and-all-I-can-poop-out-are-rabbit-pellets-and-it-feels-like-there-are-ten-pounds-of-poop-in-my-intestines kind of way. You know what I mean.

In any case, maybe the fact that summer didn't have time to throw a silly fling my way was a good thing. Because I'm pretty sure it'll be hard to forget the awesome iced coffees at Think and Abraco, perfect sandwiches at Atlas, and parks that keep [lazy] training rides relatively flat and easy. At least not without some heartache.
Oh, NYC. I'm going to miss you.

Because how could I resist your twisted sense of elitist sarcasm as I rode into Manhattan over the Billyburg bridge for the first time earlier this summer, only to be spit out into congested three lane traffic as you sneered, "welcome to Manhattan, you fucking hipsters!"? And what about that perfect couch you sat me down on with the accompanying shot of delicious espresso...in a bike shop, nonetheless? And then what about that time you taught me how to man up and grow a pair and split lanes in some legit traffic?

All of which make me think that this isn't just a fling. And please, I'd like to think you're not unattainable, unrealistic, or undateable. School might be starting in less than a week, but I'm going to be optimistic about this one. Even if the possibility of spending weekends in the city [with the bike] in the next few months seems less plausible than me getting hitched to one of the Schlecks [...sigh]. Even if.
Naive? Probably. Silly? Totally.
But isn't this what's supposed to happen over the summer?

hot seat

It's Embrocation Cycling Journal Monday.

You know where to go.

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.]