high and dry

I have the worst luck in the world. I will manage to leave just when it starts to pour and arrive at my destination as it starts to clear up, usually end up with the worst exam schedule on the face of the planet, and will consistently get thrown under the bus for things I have absolutely nothing to do with.
Yeah, it's totally awesome.
The most recent episode of incredibly shitty luck involved an incident which occurred on a weekend I was away. That's right; I was about 200 miles away from Boston and somehow the whole thing twisted around to bite me - a completely uninvolved, neutral party - in the ass. The pressure of throwing around the unpinned hand grenade that is my law journal only exacerbated things. And given the luxury of a warning this time around, I was bracing myself for the damn thing to explode in my face.

Surprisingly, it didn't. Which is a good thing, if only for the fact that I can continue to keep my bike in our law journal lounge.
But of course, the weather never wanted to stop screwing with me. Clad in underarmour, wool socks, and a raincoat, I left my apartment yesterday in legitimate rain. Water found its way between the vents of my helmet, soaked the Mengoni hat I'm ridiculously proud of, and dripped down the back of my neck. Drops of rain clung to my socks and seeped into my Sidis while gloves got soaked. And just when I rolled up to the front of the law school, the sun peeked out. The rain stopped. I was still drenched. Awesome.

I secretly hoped that it would rain more later in the afternoon, mostly because I brought my raincoat. I felt more and more cheated as the sun shone increasingly brightly outside, and save for a 5 minute downpour that I gleefully watched and took pictures of, the rain vanished.
The road was mostly dry by the time I got home.

Just my luck that, when sticky social situations seem to be easing up a bit, the weather manages to royally fuck me. Actually, it didn't fuck me, it essentially built up some hype and left me high and dry, so to speak. Which feels somehow worse.
And yes, those are going to be famous last words.

fueled by granola

Somehow, I manage to end up at academic institutions attended by failed presidential hopefuls and enough closet hippies to swing the political bent to the more extreme side of the left.
Despite my surroundings, I've always felt a little detached from it all. It's not that I'm not a political liberal [I am] but I'm too pessimistic to entertain the possibility of living peacefully with nature in communes, or decimating political structures and nurturing anarchy. The extreme idealism required to actually advocate such ideas becomes, for me, kind of like that socially awkward and annoying "friend" you have that you stopped extending your sympathies to and inviting out because you just find yourself consistently embarrassed at being associated with them. And it honestly doesn't help when said "friend" doesn't believe in using deodorant.
But that doesn't mean I don't love granola.

Slightly sweet, crunchy clumps of oats, nuts, seeds, and dried fruit are a favorite way to start a morning. Too bad the hippie in me refuses to actually purchase the stuff at the store. My budget can't justify spending $6 or more for a small bag of granola, and besides, I can make it in bulk for the same amount of money.
Which is almost a problem; how much granola can one girl eat, after all? But just when temperatures start to dip, and apple season has me looking around for an excuse to bake, a few willing guinea pigs friends on bicycles show up from NYC. And cobbling together inspiration and a previously-tested recipe, I'll turn on the oven and get to work, mixing and baking a batch of the good stuff.

Sprinkled over some greek-style yogurt or eaten right out of the tupperware container, it's an equally perfect breakfast or [pre-ride] snack. It'll make your entire apartment smell like apple pie but isn't as cloyingly sweet as the kind you might buy at the store. It's also one of the easiest things I've shoved into my oven.
The resulting mix of oaty deliciousness fueled one friend through a 'cross race, another through a mellow ride to Dover, and me through class, homework, and all the drama that comes with law school.
And if that's not enough for you, it's totally NYC Velo certified, too.

Cxraisin Granola [Like most homemade granola, this doesn't produce the incredibly crunchy kind of granola, nor is it very sweet by itself. The dried fruit provides most of the sweetness, but you can always just up the maple syrup or brown sugar factor. I'm also not a huge fan of sunflower seeds or shredded coconut so I kept the recipe fairly basic; but granola recipes are incredibly forgiving so feel free to add/replace your favorite seeds/nuts.]
Ingredients: 5 cups rolled oats 3 tablespoons ground flax seed 2 teaspoons cinnamon 2 tablespoons brown sugar 1 teaspoon salt 1/2 cup slivered almonds [I used raw but roasted is fine] 3/4 cup unsweetened applesauce 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons maple syrup 2 tablespoons vegetable oil 1 1/2 cups dried cranberries and raisins
Directions: 1. Preheat the oven to 350C and line two cookie sheets with aluminum foil or parchment paper. 2. Mix the oats, flax seed, cinnamon, brown sugar, salt, and almonds [and any other nuts/seeds] in a large bowl. 3. In another bowl, mix the applesauce, vanilla extract, maple syrup, and oil. 4. Mix the wet ingredients into the dry. 5. Spread the mixture out onto the cookie sheets. This is when clusters form so be careful not to break it up too much. 6. Bake, carefully stirring every 10 minutes, for 20-30min, or until it seems to have dried out. 7. Cool in the pans before adding in the dried fruit [alternatively, you can just throw in the dried fruit immediately before you devour the stuff].
[Store in an airtight container or in the refrigerator.]

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...