collaring perfection

It's only human nature to be sort of resentful of people that make everything look effortless. They accomplish things ordinary mortals somehow can't; they look good the second they wake up, they glow with the kind of charisma that's reserved for the truly cool, and everyone thinks that everything they do is either awesome or adorable or both.
They're so goddamn perfect, they make you puke a little in your mouth every time you think of them.
So forgive me if I sighed a little in exasperation when a familiar Fedex package greeted my return home a few days ago. I may have even rolled my eyes a bit. But between you and me, that's mostly because handling anything Rapha makes me feel [even now] sort of...frumpy.

Because Rapha is polished. Almost blindingly so. And what's worse is that polished perfection actually delivers.
Which explains even Competitive Cyclist's inability to fully criticize Rapha. Even with the excessively stylish way in which Rapha riders apparently change a flat, and the prevalence of the word "gentleman" in their events [but then again, the Rapha Ladies' Club would sound either like a geriatric brothel or a really skanky male strip club], somehow they're not completely out of touch with reality. That's not to say they're perfect - until they get a women's line in production, even I won't give them that - but given their fairly large range of products, there's almost a surprising amount of thought instilled in each piece.

But lack of a women's line isn't the reason for my frumpy feelings. It's like being lined up next to a supermodel; she can be the nicest thing in the world but she's still a goddamn supermodel. It's not her fault that her biological luck makes me feel depressingly self-conscious, but it still does. So when I opened my presents from Portland to find a Winter Collar and a sick bottle opener from Rapha's "Stars and Watercarriers" event, my first thought was:
"My giant Asian head is not going to fit through this [Winter Collar, not the long chain the bottle opener came with]."

It actually did, though. Quite easily, in fact. And Rapha apparently being scarily clairvoyant, yesterday morning was cold and rainy; the kind of weather where cotton bandannas or silk scarves simply do not cut it. Puddled around my neck, peeking out from the top of my jacket, the Winter Collar's silky wool is about 5 million times better than a heavy, slightly suffocating wool scarf and about 10 million times better than zipping my fleece jacket all the way up and then having the zipper jab that part where my head connects to my throat and consequently feeling like I'm a few sensations away from choking.
But the inadvertent discovery of the Winter Collar's best feature was all courtesy of the annoying rain pelting my face. Out of habit, I pulled up whatever was around my neck to cover the lower half of my face, and if it wasn't for the morning traffic, I would have stopped to gape and caress.

Because unlike the fleece balaclava that I formerly could not live without, the elastic of the Winter Collar doesn't crush my nose - an extremely important fact when you spent your childhood with a clothespin on it to make it as pointy as possible. That might have been enough to win me over completely, but there's more. The almost-sheer weight of the wool means that breathing though the fabric doesn't result in the lower half of your face becoming a suffocating sauna. And unlike that now-detestable balaclava, even pulled over half my face, the collar keeps neck and collarbone protected from the elements.

I almost didn't want to take it off when I got to school, despite the self-consciousness involved in wearing Rapha. But checking Twitter, I came across the latest tweet from shitmydadsays:
"That woman was sexy...Out of your league? Son. Let women figure out why they won't screw you, don't do it for them."
If Rapha wants to be involved with my neck, maybe I really shouldn't question it...

an empire state of mind

I never believed in taking "breaks" from a relationship. When friends would tell me that they were "going on a break" from their [once] significant others, it always just sounded like they were "going on a [really drawn out path towards] break[ing up]."
Of course, it takes falling in love really hard to finally see that periodic absences are sometimes a good thing, and that any intense kind of soul-wrenching love will, at a certain point, get slightly suffocating. Not that it's not hard; but a little time away can make the heart grow fonder...or at least fond enough where quirks are once again charming as opposed to annoying, and you can politely laugh at not-so-funny jokes, instead of rolling your eyes.

So when I arrived in NYC and had to climb five flights of stairs with an Ortlieb bag that weighed almost half my weight and the tractorino that is my bike, I almost gladly used it as an excuse to take some time off the bike. For a full weekend.
Incredible, right? Even I was amazed. But I somehow told myself that this foreign concept of walking more than 20 feet a day was going to be good for me. I'll be using muscles that I just don't use when I'm sitting on my bike or sitting in front of my computer or sitting around with friends. I'll see things that I'll zoom past on a bike. It'll be like riding my bike for the first time to school, I told myself, except slower, and I'll be working my pathetically weak core...!

I wasn't totally wrong. My legs were dead by the end of each day, and climbing those five flights of stairs multiple times a day worked my thighs and glutes harder than my rollers. I realized I could still walk several miles without my legs falling off, but also, how much easier/faster/more efficient/less painful it is to ride a bike.

But I also saw things that I wouldn't have seen on a bicycle. A peculiar man wrapped in some knit garment, hanging out on a crowded corner by Union Square, my legs fully covered in proper pants [not leggings], and despite the bike-friendly reputation of NYC [at least as compared to Boston], walking into Stumptown coffee was way easier sans bike.

Still, I missed the love of my lifey. Or at least riding her...which, given my sometimes-rocky-always-schizophrenic relationship with my bike, is enough to have me jumping back into the saddle. I love New York - and oh the pounds I'd shed if I lived and walked there! - but for today, I'm a little bit glad to be headed back to Boston, where an empty fridge means an excuse to spend that much more time with my two-wheeled wonder.
Sometimes, we all just need a little time away.

i'm sorry scarf friday

I know, I'm using this "busy" excuse again...

[And yes, those are two scarves. Just because.]

I'm sorry. Forgive me, please. I'll be blogging my little fingers off properly next week. I'll even post on Columbus Day.
Have a good weekend!

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.