appreciating filth

At lunch with my handful of law school friends, we ended up joking around about how we were convinced one of our professors ate crickets all day [yeah, don't ask]. A girl at the end of the table - one I had never spoken to before - shrugged, saying:
"Well, I bet there's a lot of protein in crickets."
"Yeah, but you can say the same thing about jizz too; doesn't mean both aren't completely disgusting to consume," I responded.

Her jaw dropped as I managed to finally snap mine shut. Oh shit, was I not in a bike shop?
Hang out at a bike shop for long enough and you end up in a blissful bubble of bicycles and jokes that go beyond "dirty" and enter into the realm of "completely socially unacceptable." Loiter constantly at one and you inevitable end up joining in on the crude jokes. Conversations concerning various bodily orifices and fluids become the norm. Nothing is off limits.
Which is a problem [apparently] when you have to go back to the professional graduate school environment of law school.

Not to mention that, on top of all trying to adjust to the school work, classes, and the concept of no free time, the last thing I needed to find out was that my sense of decency was as calloused as my hands. Sure, my go-to group of friends are all male; but that doesn't mean they aren't sometimes staring at me in disbelief. I hate to admit it, but even after a mere three months away, it takes a little time to adjust to social situations in which I'm actually the most obscene mouth around, not the least.
So, mindful of the company I'm in, I've been trying to keep things civil, muting my inner sailor while minimizing human contact. I feel like a fish out of water.

But just when I was trying to come up with a bike part or accessory that would lead me into the comfortable depths of a bike shop, and consequently the warm embrace of inappropriate jokes, an email popped into my inbox. Subject line: "quote of the day..."
"...from Brett..." it continued. Sent from inside a bike shop, I was immediately crinkling my nose is disgust. But smiling too. It's good to know [at least some] bike people share my disgustingly crude sense of humor.

giving chase

I hate the whole concept of playing hard to get, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate a good chase.
Because you want the potential significant other to match you in terms of wits, humor, and even style. And if you're as neurotic as I am and you go so far as to check out another person's gruppo, you want them to at least match - if not exceed - your power to weight ratio too.
So I've been doing a little chasing these past few days. You know, just for fun. Because, as they say, "the day you stop looking is the day you die."

Too bad there's another mantra that also says, "when you decide to start looking, there will be nothing to look at." I dusted everything in my path on the way to school and back. On one gear. They had quite a few.
Of course, I paid the price later, embarrassing rivers of sweat erupting all over my body as I bought my case books. The worst part being that it didn't even seem worth it; I wasn't hurting enough. My lungs didn't feel like they were going to collapse. My throat wasn't trying to vomit out my heart. I wasn't sucking in air so hard my eyeballs hurt. That spark just wasn't there.

Resigned at the outcome of my boring commute, I dragged my pedals to Kinko's after class. But as I unlocked my bike, I saw him. Mystery IBC kit guy. Very cute, very fit, and very very married. I knew I wasn't going to catch him, and that totally turned me on.

My womanly resolve of "I WILL NOT TAKE NO FOR AN ANSWER!!!!111!1" kicked in and I chased. And chased and chased and chased. He easily slid away, and caught at a red light I couldn't possibly run, I watched him disappear. Sigh.
If only I had gears. But then again, maybe I shouldn't be considering trying to wreck a happy home.

t time

You know when you end up walking behind a couple, and they're holding hands and cooing to each other and giggling and also blocking the entire sidewalk? And then you try to either walk past them or slow down so you're not overhearing them murmuring cutesy things to each other but it winds up just being more awkward because they don't notice you're trying to pass them so you end up literally two steps behind them for an embarrassing length of time? And when they finally notice all you can do is mutter some lame apology as they let you pass by?
I hate that. And that frustrating impatience you feel when you get stuck behind an oblivious couple on the sidewalk is the the reason why I cannot take the T. Anywhere.

Maybe it's because I'm used to the clean, almost sterile efficiency of the Japanese public transit system, but waiting for a train that's clearly on the schedule of "I'll show up whenever the fuck I decide to" is mind-boggling. Add to that the fact that I am, without a doubt, faster than the Green Line and I'll prefer to bike everywhere. Even the Red Line sort of repels me.
And recently, I'm really glad I don't take the T. Because as irresponsible as I am, I just couldn't tolerate dying via a train conductor who is too busy texting. Or something equally retarded.

No, I am not paranoid. Running errands around Coolidge Corner, I heard the wailing scream of a transit police car booking it down Beacon. I figured it couldn't be more exciting than a fender-bender in the bougie suburbs of Brookline. But passing Washington Square, I saw an inordinate number of po-po [remember, this is civilized Brookline, not Dorchester], an ambulance, and a train. It looked like someone got hit.
Granted with the speed of the Green Line, the victim probably got nudged a little. And because this is Beacon, not Comm, it's not like there was any risk of getting hit by a train and then flying into speeding traffic. Still, that shit is scary.

One more reason I'll be throwing a leg over a bicycle all winter. And besides, being crammed into a stuffy, airborne-germ-infested train car also means increased risk of exposure to those cuddling couples. Which would be enough to make me jump off the T, anyway.
I'll take my chances on the bike with the unpredictable drivers, traffic, ice, and snow, thanks.

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?