an outlier problem

You know you're at Interbike when the day starts with a stop by a suite at the Venetian, and the elevator next to you spits out a guy in a full kit on his bike, who clips in and rides his way to his hotel room.
But you know the day's going to be really good when it involves a cell phone sound system, Bouchon Bakery, and independent cycling apparel designers in the form of Outlier and Swrve.

A month and a little bit ago, M1 and I met Tyler and Abe of Outlier. Over lattes and iced coffees, we chatted about printing shirts, fondled their new Merino T-shirt [which feels like a soft black cloud of air], and when Interbike came up, they let us in on a plan for a trunk show. After saying our goodbyes, M1 and I babbled excitedly about it. And before we knew it, we were sitting in a suite at the Venetian with Tyler, Abe, Matt, and Miriam [of Swrve].

The trunk show - and all the running back and forth it involved - was possibly the most fun I had in Vegas. Because while both Outlier and Swrve obviously take their craft seriously, they not only deliver quality products, but are some of the friendliest people in the industry. Getting excited over how good ak-mak crackers are [they are addictive] wasn't stupid, but awesome. And feeling lazily comfortable after a morning and then some spent on my feet, I even managed to pop my cherry on one of the couches.

My Bouchon Bakery cherry, that is. We scarfed down sandwiches with a coffee so dark it tasted like an Americano [except...almost better, if that's even possible], and an Americano with crema so thick it almost looked like a latte. One bite of the huge oatmeal-raisin cookie and I fully, completely, and totally understood Abe's admission when he said had a "Bouchon problem."
Tummies full and re-energized, we headed down to the Momentum fashion show...And I ended up in an elevator with Jason and his Walmart Huffy [which he later did a barspin with]. It sat in the suite along with Affinity's new road frame [with complete Sram Red] as Outlier's Workwear pants and 4 Season OG pants flew into eager hands [they are hottt]. People marveled at their Merino T-shirt and the soft texture of their Merino hoodie as Tyler danced to the Major Lazer streaming out of his cell phone. M1 tried on a pair of the Workwear pants and had paid for them before I asked if he was getting them. I couldn't resist and bought a cap. Can I say I can't wait for their womens' pants?

It was over almost too quickly, although my legs felt dead. People drifted off to the Crit as we wrapped up our things and sat for a few minutes in the quiet aftermath of a good event. I left the next morning without seeing Outlier or Swrve but emailed thanks and mentioned indulging our respective "Bouchon problems" again.
"Bouchon, anytime..." came the reply. Yup, these are definitely my kind of people.

a celebration of taste

I'm actually not that much of a party girl.
Notwithstanding the complete lack of rack that is required to look good in backless club wear, a glass of beer can make the room spin for me. Chimay will absolutely floor me. Dancing in heels all night is a skill I never bothered to perfect. I'd just really rather stay in and lube my chains.
But when something's been talked about for weeks - yup, that's right, weeks - in advance, I'll promise myself that I won't "accidentally" fall asleep or "get sick" that night [okay, I did fall asleep after dinner but I was working on 4 hours of sleep!].

Of course, I'm talking about the "Celebration of Sport a.k.a. Tastemaker's Party." Sponsored by Rapha, Ridley, Fizik, Embrocation Cycling Journal, IF, and Knog, I had received an invite long enough ago that I couldn't remember if I'd actually been invited [M1 informed me that I had been]. Which is a good thing, because I had promised Jason [a.k.a. DJ Mayhem for the night] that I would be attending. And when Jason spins, well, it's a guaranteed fun time.
So I was looking forward to it as soon as I landed in Vegas, groggy and gimpy from a broken IT band. I then proceeded to promptly forget about any stabbing pain in my knee in the excitement of Interbike; and any complaints of being completely exhausted vanished when James produced, from his magical pocket full of goodies, yet another party invite in the form of a pin [plus an Embrocation Cycling Journal pin!].

When I was finally roused from my death-like post-dinner nap, we squeezed into a taxi and headed to the Artisan Hotel. Dimly lit, with faux masterpieces plastered on the walls and ceilings, the Artisan is to the rest of Vegas what a chilled-out jazz lounge is to a warehouse rave. And in the center of the bar, lit up by bright Knog lights, was the new IF grass track bike. You could almost imagine it cooing great jazz.
Until, of course, Jason took the wheels and turned up the happy notch, mixing 80s hits in a suit [with suspenders!]. People flowed in and out, casually chatting, somehow forgetting that the male:female ratio would have been considered downright pathetic in any regular bar.

Still, they were all tastemakers. Scanning the room, I saw a tall redhead and attempted to wave to get his attention, then squeezed past some people to say hi. It was Tyler, and next to him, Abe, of Outlier. As I excitedly said hi, picking up the conversation from the first time we met a month or so ago, a man turned to me:
"Excuse me, are you Kaiko?"
It was none other than Velodramatic! It was my first time speaking to him face-to-face, and he is as awesome as I imagined. With Velodramatic to my left, Outlier on my right, Jason DJing, Marty at the bar, M1 representing cassette and Gage & Desoto...all surrounded by Rapha...When you add up the names of everyone I knew there - a small minority - you get a sense of how many heavy-hitters were in attendance.

We escaped to the hotel lobby as the temperature in the bar started to noticeably rise, and after talking about the next day's planned events, the ridiculousness of Vegas, and whether we should go to a strip club, we found ourselves completely cracked. Saying our goodbyes, we left the quirky Artisan and headed back to the glitz of the Strip.
My legs weren't wobbly, but I felt as if I had spent the night dancing my feet off at overpriced clubs in downtown Tokyo. I passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow, dreaming of custom invites in the form of pins, an awesome 80s soundtrack, high-end cycling apparel, and, of course, bicycles.
[More tomorrow on some hot pants, new addictions, and cell phone sound systems...]

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.]