rock star lube

I am obsessed with trashy TV shows like "Intervention" [and yes, "Obsessed"].
I'm not ashamed to say that I'll watch episodes of "Intervention" on Hulu while I'm on my rollers, morbid fascination allowing me to momentarily forget how much my legs are hurting. Crack addicts, meth heads, anorexics, cutters...It's addictive. I can't stop.
One episode in particular has stuck out; maybe because a bicycle was involved. A loving mother of two who was now homeless, hooked on meth, and forbidden to see her children, she did lines off of the porcelain top of a toilet in her underwear. With close-cropped black hair, darkly-lined eyes, and a stick-thin figure, even on her bicycle, she looked like a total rock star.

I am slightly ashamed to say that I was disappointed and shocked when she cleaned up and transformed herself into a normal, slightly frumpy woman in her late 30s. But I think of her whenever I lube up my chain.
Because I've been using Rock 'n' Roll lube, and that stuff is slick.

After about two months of forgetting to buy lube [despite the inordinate amount of time I spend in bike shops], a friend finally brought me a bottle of this stuff because it was apparently flying off the shelves at NYC Velo. I had my doubts. It looked exactly like the dry stuff I was using earlier, which a seasoned mechanic told me was probably made by Satan. Also, it's lube. Other than the whole wet or dry thing, aren't they all just the same?
Apparently not. A single application later, my chain was as smooth as Mick Jagger. A length of metal links that had once groaned and squeaked with accumulated dirt was now as silent as rock shows are loud. Pedalstrokes were like cutting through warm butter - or, to keep the rock star analogy going, like doing lines of top, high-grade cocaine.

"I looooove riding my bicycle," that meth head had said with the delirium produced by non-medical use of hypodermic needles and snorted lines. I remember being slightly appalled as I watched her pedaling her cruiser along, and thinking that this woman was clearly living in some other reality.
But I started thinking, maybe that declaration wasn't so much a product of illegal substances, and just the result of proper application of Rock 'n' Roll lube. Or, at least I sort of hope so. Because otherwise, with the way this lube has me loving my bike rides, people are going to start thinking I'm a meth head, too.

'cross awesome

Another Embrocation Cycling Journal Monday...

Apologies for the lack of a drawing...next time, I promise!
Now go read my real post...

comm on

There are some people who - either due to complete drug burn-out or just plain genetic unluckiness - simply lack common sense. If said people are semi-attractive, it can almost be labeled "adorable." Like how they might think that a Band-Aid will be sufficient for a gaping wound. With the right bone structure, that's kind of cute.
But after any kind of prolonged exposure to those kind of people, it just gets sort of annoying. You can't blame them, but the truth of the matter is, when I accidentally stab myself, I'm not going to need a Band-Aid. I'm going to need some fucking stitches.
And sadly, that's exactly what Boston can be like.

Freezing New England winters mean asphalt that cracks and forms waves; and when I finally manage to muster up the energy to call the Department of Public Works on it, they usually just smack a patch on the offending hole. A month later, that hole will be back, and then it'll increasingly get bigger until someone else decides to call the city. And they'll just smack another Band-Aid on it.
It makes for interesting rides. But apparently enough [rich] people got together and decided that they probably didn't want to be held liable for running me over after my front wheel fell into some gaping crater. So they're repaving the entire length of the Comm Ave service lane from Boston College to Newton.

Which is sweet, really. But did they have to turn Comm Ave into some kind of urban 'cross course where "road rash" will take on a much bloodier meaning?
Granted, they didn't dig up the asphalt and then leave it that way for the next four months as might be expected. In fact, they're making good time, considering the constant traffic. That doesn't mean it's not killing my cleats, though [yes, I'm too much of a pussy to ride on that, even with a 'cross frame]. In road shoes, I'm jogging through grass and over pavement that resembles a cheese grater.

It's not that I'm scared of falling on my face [well, okay, I'd prefer to avoid it], but I haven't wiped out in a while, so I'm probably due for a epidermic disaster soon. And quite frankly, I don't want to risk losing half of my leg on Comm Ave and then having to gimp/pedal the rest of the way to school and then sit through class, bleeding, because I've done it before and it sucks. Seriously. I'm not even kidding.
So in an attempt to avoid said death traps, I'll be taking Beacon to school for the next few weeks. Of course, with my luck, I'll probably end up double-flatting, then skidding down that hill on Beacon on my face tomorrow.
Sigh. C'est la vie.
[Also, thank goodness it's Rapha Scarf Friday. Helloooooo weekend!]

project interbike

[The last in the series, I promise!]
I never really got into Sex and the City, but I did get into Project Runway.
Lack of TV meant that I would watch it whenever I could with my best friend; hanging out at her place always meant a PR DVD viewing. And for someone actually enjoys staying up until 3am battling drafting paper and French curves, it was awesomely fun.
But when the bike entered my life, fashion sort of fell away. Comfort and the ability to pedal efficiently became a priority. Jeans were traded for shorts or leggings, collared shirts for something I wouldn't mind destroying, and necklaces got neglected as I was sure they would get caught on my bag and break to pieces.

The irony being that even before I got to Interbike, I was obsessed with what the hell I was going to wear. Even if I was assured that it was a convention full of bike nerds in t-shirts.
But come on, this is Vegas! So my little fingers got to work, embellishing an otherwise ordinary white t-shirt into a sequined, Vegas-appropriate, Interbike-appropriate, champion-stripe adorned number. It took a few nights of painful stitching, but once it was done, I was so proud of myself. I was like this is going to be the best t-shirt ever and I totally cannot wait to show my NYC Velo crew!

Of course, when I finally met up with them, their sole excitement stemmed from the opportunity to stand a 5-foot-4-inch short me next to Tyson, a 6-foot-6-inch tall former employee of NYC Velo and current Portland-based Civilian Bikes framebuilder [have you noticed how NYC Velo seems to be the go-to place for talented bike people?]. But yes, the resulting picture [taken by M1] is hilarious [also, my shoes were killing me].

What's also funny is that while I had mentally scrunched my nose at wearing t-shirts throughout Interbike, I did exactly that, like every other bike nerd in attendance. But, unlike every other bike nerd, NYC Velo and M1 kept it very interesting.
First, there was the NYC Velo x Jeremy Fish shirt worn by Brett. Then there was the new stem-cap design shirt worn by none other than Mr. A. Crooks. And in a stroke of creative genius [paired with some late-night printing] was the Shimura shirt.

I'm actually not as flat as that picture makes me look. Really. But regardless, that shirt had people actually staring at my chest and doing double-takes. People came up to talk to me about it. I even felt like a mini celebrity when I showed the guys at Shimano, and about three people pulled out their phones to take a picture.
You know when people say dressing the part is half the battle? It totally is.
Because armed with the confidence this shirt was giving me, I managed to drop my dignity and say hello to Garrett Chow of Mash SF...who, despite the fact that we're Facebook friends, I had never met before. You don't need me to tell you this but he's super nice and was somehow not completely creeped out by my stalkerish behavior.

But dressing well and looking good can be exhausting. By the time I boarded my flight back to cold, chilly Boston, I felt just like Brett [and his PRO tanlines]. Still, I promised myself that if I make it out there next year, I'll be sure to try and channel a little more Gary Fisher into my wardrobe...

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...]