labored breathing

Freshman year of college, my neighbor used to get it on with his girlfriend at the weirdest time of day. In the early afternoon hours, my room mate would point to the wall and we would hear labored grunting. From him. His girlfriend remained ominously silent.
It was sort of creepy. Too bad I make those same grunting noises, peppered with gasping sighs, when climbing hills on my preferred ride route. That plus all the sweating and the whole one gear thing and it's easy to see why I opt to suffer alone.
But when a best friend is in town - the kind that will not bat an eye at the sight of me pushing the pedals on the rollers at 7am and instead offer to make coffee - well, I'll make exceptions.

So for the first time in forever, I actually didn't sit in front of a computer or a book on Labor Day. I planted my ass on my Brooks instead and pedaled a little over 40 miles [the first time I've done over 30 in about two months...the shame, I know] with the kind of company that won't drop me.
And, of course, the kind of company I'm totally comfortable grunting and gasping in front of. Out of the saddle on the climb that tends to kill me, I was inevitably making those kinds of noises that are completely acceptable when you're torturing yourself alone but are slightly inappropriate when you're with company. And just when I was in no shape to tell him to fuck off:
"Wow. You're either having a really good time or a really bad time," M1 commented.

My retort ended in a laugh/cough combo as he literally pushed me - sputtering and gasping for him to cut it out because that was cheating - the last five feet of the climb. A few more hills, a dead sprint at the slow-for-anyone-but-me speed of 22mph, and we were at Arlington in record time. I was ready to pass the fuck out.

Famished but reluctant to let the beautifully perfect weather slip away, we made a quick detour to a place that didn't look like anything Boston or New York City. And winding our way around part of the Minute Man National Historic Park, I also managed to forget how dead tired I was.
Hours later, slowly savoring espresso bean ice cream from 3 Scoops, I realized that I had forgotten all about the grunting, too. Which is not only testament to the strength of my short-term memory, but also how I couldn't care less. At least not with the company I was with.
Because when I quoted the last line of Casablanca to M1 way back in May, I really meant it.

snobby shorts

Being somewhat of a closet snob, I love the vague language of being in the know.
"Did you see--"
"Oh yeah."
"Unbelieveable, right?"
"But awesome."
"Exactly."
And, of course, I love it even more when this top secret, exclusive language is used in the context of bikes and blogs. I'm not talking about my own...No, no, leave it to someone far more meticulous and clever.

I'm talking about Velodramatic. His cycling photography is a-maz-ing, but what unfailingly becomes the topic of discussion amongst readers [i.e., those clearly in the know about good style, taste, and photography] is the discovery of his "tab." A list of every bike-related purchase investment he's made, complete with a grand tally, it displays what I normally would throw into the mental "ignore as much as possible" file cabinet. Obsessions can get out of control quite easily, and when paired with numbers and dollar signs, it's enough to make you consider trying to regain your sanity.
Of course, it doesn't work that way. Despite the shorter days [why is it getting dark at 7.30pm now?!] and the dwindling bank account, I made [what I believed would be] my final bike-related purchase for the next few months. And that was going to be it. I mean, other than a tube here and there and the odd bottle of lube, nothing substantial was going to be purchased. That was the promise.

But when I got my first ever pair of bike shorts a few days ago, it also opened a Pandora's box of "things I really need now that I have shorts." Because it feels like I'm finally making some leap; getting serious - for real this time - and committing to more hours and millions of miles on both of my bikes. No more of this "well, my saddle hurts" excuse. Pull on those black Lycra contraptions of diaper-esque proportions and get out and fucking ride.
And ride I did. This past weekend was bubbling over with bike rides - on the rollers and off. But that also had me discovering that those bike shorts weren't my final investment. Even with the shorts, the saddle on my Dolan still feels like a meat tenderizer, the cooler weather is oh-so-perfect for longer rides but also indicates a need for a new jersey, and eventually, arm warmers, leg warmers, gloves, and embrocation. And if I ever get to pushing hours on the rollers, another set of clipless pedals.

It adds up. Dizzyingly, in fact. And as the numbers creep skyrocket, I'm almost tempted to look around for a less expensive hobby [although, it's really debatable if those really exist]. But it seems I'm in it for the long haul - for life, even - so it's really not worth sweating all those minor details. At least that's what I've been telling myself lately, anyway.
Besides, deep, deep, deep down inside, maybe I subconsciously knew purchasing those shorts would mean entry into the snobbier sub-world of cycling where t-shirts absolutely cannot be paired with cycling shorts if you want to be taken seriously. Where black shoes are only for domestiques, and kits should perfectly match your team-issue bike. Which, admittedly, means many more purchases await me under a heavy cloud of potential debt.
Yeah, thank God for debit cards.

female competition

It's Embrocation Cycling Journal Monday yet again...

Go go go.

lazy friday

Apologies but it's been slightly busy around here. I promise to be back in full force next week. Until then, here's a Rapha Scarf Friday for you...

Happy Labor Day weekend!

twilight zone

I thought it was hilarious when Representative Barney Frank asked a woman, who compared planned health care reforms to Nazi policies, "on what planet do you spend most of your time?"
In a way, that's not such a rhetorical question when you're in Massachusetts.
I was hoping the crazy was limited to the rare isolated instance that I was just unlucky enough to observe. But unlocking my bike today, I realized how very, very wrong I was. Either that or I'm in some twilight zone or simply going insane. It's getting hard to tell.
Someone please confirm that it's actually 2009. Because when I saw this helmet, I sort of looked around feeling slightly displaced, then had to look at the date stamped onto it one more time. I mean, I know vintage is in, but...really?

I was sort of still trying to remember what I was doing back in '94 when I ended up stumbling upon the laziest lock-up job I've seen in the past week. It actually made me do a double-take as I initially thought that the cable lock on the left was only looped around the brake cable [it was looped around the handlebars]. Granted, neither bike looked like it was worth stealing, but come on! I feel like I'm taking crazy pills, or something [+100 points if you got that movie reference]!

And while I'm really loving that stem on the left, that doesn't mean I'm not a different planet. Because the other day, I also parked right next to what had to be E.T.'s new bike. With a seat that low, and upright positioning, the owner of this bike has the shortest legs and the longest torso currently known to man. I was tempted to wait around to see who owned it, but images of a glowing finger pointing at me were sufficient to scare me away [I never liked aliens, even friendly ones].

It could be the schoolwork, and the hours spent in front of a glowing laptop screen. It could also be the copious amounts of hot water flavored with essence of coffee that I've been voluntarily buying and consuming at school. But this strikes normal, non-Bostonians as slightly fucking insane, right? I'm not the only one who thinks this...right???
Someone please let me know if I'm in some "I am Legend"-esque situation here. And yes I'm dead serious.

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.