interbike buffet

Las Vegas is, as everyone knows, very full of sex, strippers, casinos, and buffets.
And for one week in late September, bicycles.
I want to analogize Interbike to sex or strippers, really, I do. But entering into the Sands Convention Center and finding yourself surrounded by fellow bike nerds in t-shirts, shorts, and Tevas is actually not that sexy. The harsh fluorescent light - unlike the dimly lit casinos that seem to whisper and hint at lucky fortunes to be made - kills any sense of mystique. Interbike is not really sexy or enigmatic.

But it is kind of like a Las Vegas buffet.
The spread of booths sprawled under glowing lights, offering a different little something to the people that pass by, is, at first, incredibly overwhelming. And like that initial pause when presented with a plate and 30 different kinds of food, I had no idea where to start. So for the first five minutes I was there, I did the equivalent of gripping my plate to my chest and standing there. And gaping.

Just holding the multi-page map booklet was a little much. I probably would have been paralyzed by confusion if not for the realization that I had to keep pace with Interbike-veteran friends or risk losing them for the rest of the day. It took about 10 minutes for me to dig out my camera and finally start taking pictures. I had no idea what I was doing there.
But I dove in anyway, sampling this and that, peeking and peering into booths and even going so far as to touch an unaffordable bicycle or two. Self-consciousness slowly slipped away and energy boosted by some Clif Shot Roks [the peanut butter ones are incredibly yummy], I was feeling shameless enough to squeal and coo excitedly over Phil Wood's display of cogs, hubs, and bottom brackets. Days later, I'm still trying to digest how incredibly cute their 12T cog is [half of me is attempting to convince the other half that a 46/12 gearing is perfectly reasonable].

And then there were the bicycles. Single-speed Pinarellos, jaw-dropping Pegorettis, latte-like Bianchis, and candy-apple red De Rosas. Colnagos of every shape and size. Monochromatic Kuotas [Floyd Landis included!]. And an eye-popping Geekhouse 'cross bike.

Mixed in between gluttonous inhalations of everything bike, friends were also sought out. Tracking down Jason at the Shimano booth, we managed to bump into James who emptied the contents of his pockets into my eager hands [more on that later] before winding our way to where Marty was hanging out. And as far as I could tell, we were all shamelessly indulging in everything Interbike had to offer.

But like the curse of buffets, Interbike can really only be fully appreciated in hindsight. Even with two full days in Vegas, I jetted away towards my colder city on Friday with lingering thoughts of "Man, I wish I had spent more time at..." and "Crap, I forgot to go to..."

Until next year, maybe. And while I'll miss it in the interim, I'm slightly grateful for the year-long wait. Because like the buffet I shamelessly ate on Wednesday night, it's going to take a little while to fully recover from Interbike.
[Pictures here...and more on Interbike later...]

viva las vegas

My addiction to CSI is only rivaled by my obsession with Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. I care deeply about the CSI team, even if Grissom drives me insane. I don't consider them real people like the SVU team, but it's getting there.
So I've been watching CSI while on the rollers, spinning pedals while the camera will circle around the Vegas skyline. The flashing lights and glow of the infamous strip, the scenes shot within casinos. It's the farthest thing from anything cycling related.
Or, so I thought.

This past summer, with the days getting noticeably shorter, my friends started to murmur and buzz about Interbike, the largest North American bicycle trade show. And what a coincidence; every year, this massive convention takes place in, of all places, Las Vegas.
As courier friends head off to Tokyo for CMWC, it seemed as if other bike friends were heading off to Interbike, and I'll be left to live vicariously through both groups of friends through tweets, blogs, and flickr accounts. But apparently I have a few good friends of my own, because one day I woke up, rubbed my eyes, and found a ticket to Vegas [and Interbike] in my inbox.

Panic actually ensued soon after. I insisted I couldn't go. Then when the whole thing started to dawn on me a few days ago, just looking at my bikes had me throwing open my closet and scouring the hangers for what I could possibly wear. And for someone who is extremely comfortable with high levels of frumpiness on my person, that is saying a lot.
I'm giddily nervous. Even if tons of friends will be there. Just thinking about it makes me fidget.
So at the asscrack of dawn tomorrow, I'm boarding a plane for Las Vegas. I don't expect to be able to blog within the whirlwind of Interbike, but I'll try to keep tweeting, and I'll definitely be reporting post-Vegas.
Even if, as they say, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

crushing cogs

Summer's over, cyclocross season is starting, and it's another Embrocation Cycling Journal Monday...

Enjoy!

attention please, part two

When a met a tall, lanky, long-haired boy with "Everybody Poops" tattooed on the inside of his wrist, I never thought that he would be my first ever customer. Back then, this blog was still mysteriously anonymous, and I only had two jobs - hat making and blogging - in addition to school instead of about five. So when Gregory emailed me about purchasing a hat I offered to the Internet, I surprised him outside of the Otherside Cafe and delivered the hat in person.
A year later, he offered to write a post about the hat. And when I read it for the first time after a long, shitty day at school, it made me feel all fuzzy and cuddly inside. So here it is:

I am a fan of birthdays and anniversaries. Not presents or cake or anything, but I think of them as benchmarks. They are a fantastic way to asses how far you have come in one year, and deciding on where you would like to put yourself a year from the day. One year ago today I purchased a hat, and unbeknownst to me at the time, it was the first one pedalstrike ever sold.
I want to write something to honor the passage of time while respecting the timeless nature of it all. I want to laudate the brain, fingers, and sewing machine behind it all. But mostly, I am here to appreciate the hat.

Trying to describe the hat: The ultimate in comfort cool style is what first popped into my head but then I realized what a painfully queer combination of words that is; so I think I will just whittle it down to cool. This hat is cool. From every angle and in every interpretation or disambiguation of the word- this hat is fucking cool; and I knew it right away.
Where did I get it? –people asked.. A friend made it, a friend hand-made it, it’s the only one like it and the only one the premiere the baby the guinea pig the only ever; there can only be one first and this is it.
Unlike other mass production hats- all of pedalstrikes hats have this amazing brim. Soft and malleable- they remind me of my childhood basketball hoop in NH. It has the perfect amount of give; and a year to the day this hat has never stopped giving. Those who own one know exactly what I mean.

When I lived in a camper in New Hampshire I wasn’t feeling very Rapha. Riding a conversion I never feel very Columbus speciale. I ride, now, with some sweptback Wald bars and I don’t feel Eddy Merckx in the least.
But when I was uncomfortably getting into wearing a helmet, my pedalstrike hat was there. When I gave my first bike hat to a girlfriend traveling halfway around the globe; at least I had my pedalstrike. It’s corny, I know, but I’m not that outgoing. I don’t carry an ID because I hate the bars. My friends have to literally drag me to parties and the likes.
But when someone realizes my hat was made by Kaiko and ask me about it- I get a surge of confidence, a spring in my step, daresay a little swagger. I say “Yeah, it’s the first one she ever sold.” It’s my one bike-geek way of saying “Attention, Please.”

Gregory, you're awesome. I'm glad you were my first. Customer, that is.
[Here's anotherRapha Scarf Friday.]

slippered feet

With bicycles, the more you know, the more you know how much you don't know when you know something's wrong.
At least as applied to me.
"I think it's my bottom bracket," I'll say.
"Um...no...that looks okay. It's your [chainring/freewheel/chain/any other part that is not my bottom bracket]," will be the reply from a trusted mechanic.

But I'm getting better! I'm attempting to make less clueless stabs at what might be wrong with my bike and trying to insert some logic into my thought processes. So when I realized that there was an incredible amount of play in my left cleat, I actually didn't immediately assume it was my bottom bracket or my headset. I didn't even think it was the chainring! Carefully balanced on a clipless pedal that, even when clipped in, felt like a slippery piece of ice, I reasoned that my cleats were just worn through.
This was cause for worry and concern. I had heard of friends' cleats clipping out mid-climb and with my tendency to really pull up on the pedals, any clipping out would inevitably result in a broken pubic bone or a shattered lady part. That didn't seem like fun. I kind of really wanted to avoid that.

But I had a fully stacked day ahead of me. Which meant that while I would normally love any excuse to run to a bike shop, it was actually sort of stressing me out. The thought of trying to race through work and get to a shop in time before closing...but if I didn't get new cleats, I was fucked. Crap, crap, crap!
Remember how I said I'm not that good with bikes?

I got to school and took off my shoe to find...a loose cleat. That was it. A few screws had come loose, enabling the cleat to rotate and feel incredibly unstable. Other than that, my cleats were fine. I mean, sure they're scuffed to pieces, but it didn't look like I would have to sprint to a shop that afternoon.
The screws got tightened down as much as possible with my small multi-tool, then finished off later at home. They're functional now, despite my 15 minute freak out session about how my cleats were worn out and that had to be the problem.
I was wrong, again. But at least I didn't think it was the bottom bracket.

dovering in

I hate to admit it but I've reached that all too familiar impasse with my usual ride to Arlington. Like that feeling of slight disappointment mixed with guilt you feel when you're hanging out with a really nice person and you try to make a sarcastic joke and they respond with a small frown and the statement, "aww, that's not nice." So to avoid sounding evil and mean you shut the hell up but end up bored out of your mind because walking on eggshells is as socially pleasant as choking on a fork. And eventually you end up avoiding the friend - or in this case, the ride - because they just make you feel bad about yourself and how "not nice" you are.
Truly nice people tend to be extremely boring, but that's not the point here.
The point is that I needed something different. Something interesting that would stroke my ego a bit. Kind of like the gay bitchy queen friend that every girl really should have. And I found it this past weekend. In, of all places, Dover, MA.

The route I took was given to me by a Rapha Conti rider months ago, but slightly intimidated by it all, I sat on it for a while. Back then, I was still hopeful that the ride to Arlington could keep me interested; people always say how nice it is to ride out there. There was no way - I thought - that this ride and I wouldn't get along.
But my interest started to fizzle and fade, and when M1 offered to recon a new ride with me last weekend, I dove in.
Being immediately suspicious of the hype that tends to surround extremely charismatic people, I braced myself for a bit of disappointment. Cyclists in Boston always talk about Dover and how awesome it is to ride out there. But like attractive people with little inner content, maybe, I thought, it was a boring ride with pretty scenery. Maybe it'll only keep my attention for a few weekends, and it'll be back to sweating over rollers because the whole outdoor cycling thing just wasn't doing it for me.

For once, though, I was elated to be wrong. The thing about Dover is that it's actually interesting. A good mix of flat terrain broken up with the occasional hill or two, and streets that are to Boston asphalt what Belvedere is to the stuff that comes exclusively in plastic handles. It's the boy you're staying up too late talking to about how awesome Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go is, not the one you just sort of like to look at but can't talk to because he just doesn't get your jokes.

Don't get me wrong. That doesn't mean that the ride isn't absolutely stunning. It's gorgeous, and then some. The narrow road is surrounded by incredible skies, fields, and farms [we passed Chickering Farm with a sign that stated it was established in 1690!]. A beekeeper was tending to his buzzing workers as we slid by, and horses looked at us curiously. It was amazing.
And because a ride is never complete without some kind of sugar-laden something, we stopped by Abbott's in Needham for frozen custard. Deliciously cold and gooey, it was like frozen yogurt and ice cream had a love child and offered it up to my growling stomach. It hit the spot, and was just sweet enough to power us through the brief rain shower on the way back home.

If my Dover ride was a real person, I'd be swooning over its sheer perfection. Just my luck that it isn't, because I really hate to share.