miss manners

It's that time of month. Embrocation Cycling Journal Monday, that is.

Will you be so kind as to click here to read my post?

halloween realities

A tad chilly but sunny and bright, I made it my mission to properly slack off yesterday afternoon. The day was too perfect to spend inside; coffee and lazy reading at Cafe Fixe were in order.
Rolling home in the late afternoon, caffeinated and fully pleased with my slacking off, I passed a few carved pumpkins on doorsteps. Oh yeah, Saturday is Halloween. I totally forgot about that.

It's no surprise, really. I have ambivalent feelings about Halloween. Candy is great [even if I hardly eat it anymore], and little kids dressed up as superheros or princesses are downright adorable. It gives me an excuse to eat a few kernels of candy corn [come on, it's not that gross], munch on a few handfuls of pumpkin seeds, and contemplate trying to buy a pumpkin before deciding that there's no way I could get it home on my bike.
On the other hand, I can't bring myself to dress up. Or, more accurately, use Halloween as an excuse to take most of my clothes off and scamper around in public in less than what I sleep in. The obvious question of at what age Halloween becomes a fetishized sex fest aside, I don't particularly enjoy seeing classmates in overpriced porn star gear. It's not so much the less than perfect physiques of students who spend too much time poring over casebooks as much as the total lack of originality in sexy nurse outfits. Come on, guys. That shit is so played out.

And when your primary mode of transportation is a bicycle, that severely limits your dressing up/dressing off options, anyway. So while friends made plans to dress up and party downtown, the only thing I was looking forward to was how warm it's supposed to be on Saturday. And how that's perfect for bike rides.
Which is probably for the best as last year, someone dressed up as me in a totally non-ironic "look, I'm that crazy bike girl in knee highs" kind of way. But such social deterrents aside, I'd really just rather spend Halloween getting my legs wrecked on my track bike, or bonking on the Bianchi. That almost sounds like I think I have better things to do than be a normal, social person, doesn't it?

It's not that, really. Halloween's a great holiday; it lets you live a different reality for a night. It's just that, unlike the scantily clad one-night-stands that Halloween at my age should lead to, my different reality is one I'd like to live for longer than a single night.
So I'm not dressing up as a cyclist, as easy as that would be, for Halloween. I'm just going to be one.
[Happy Halloween! And here's a Rapha Scarf Friday for you, even.]

riding to be righteous

Yesterday was cold and wet. Not the sharp cold that makes your sinuses hurt and your eyes tear up within 3 pedalstrokes. This was more a lethargic humidity that makes you briefly consider ditching class, before you reprimand yourself for how incredibly lame that would be. There was a good showing of rain too - just enough to make you hope you can avoid it if you sprinted fast enough, but not enough to make you just give up and get drenched - which made sure I was properly miserable [not to mention sweaty].
And in the middle of the day, a fog so thick it looked like Halloween outside. I wondered if I'd be able to get home; if those Knog lights would even work, or if I'd get crushed under the BC shuttle bus instead [those drivers are not kidding around]. I decided I didn't really care, either way; my mind felt like a moldy piece of fruit, and anything more complicated than zoning out was proving to be a bit much.

Yeah, it was one of those days. You know, those "yeah, whatever" kind of days. Like "yeah, whatever, run my ass over, that's cool," or "yeah, whatever, pretend like you didn't see me, that's fine."
Which is a terrible mentality when you're on a bicycle. Halfway up Heartbreak Hill, it finally sort of registered and with bits of foliage blowing into my face, I managed to not fall into a pothole I knew was right there, or run into that pile of gravel that's been over there for the past month. Not that I was scared of the impact of falling per se; but it would just be embarrassing.

Because that's a total noob mistake. You know it, and I know it. Sure, shit happens, but biting it on a route I can navigate half-blind? Even that "well it was slippery and wet and my brakes weren't working and this is Boston so potholes appear out of nowhere" excuse doesn't cut it in that kind of situation. And with the NY Times article "Do More Bicyclists Lead to More Injuries?" fresh on my mind, I had no intention of making myself a neat little injury statistic to re-prove how Boston cannot give a flying fuck about cyclists.
By the time I got home, I sort of regretted reading that article; mostly because the grammatical errors and spelling mistakes in the comments had driven me absolutely insane. But even slightly drenched, with bits of New England stuck to my face and leggings, and every bit cranky, I realized it's been a while since I've even flipped the bird at a driver. At some point, you get used to unpredictability. You pick and choose your battles, and sometime earlier this year, I guess I simply decided that unless I got hit or swerved at, I wasn't going to waste my time being a patronizing [m]asshole to drivers.

Bikes are for riding, not for being annoyingly righteous, right?
[Yeah, watch me get hit by a car tomorrow. That would sort of funny...if my health insurance coverage wasn't the equivalent of a box of bandaids. So let's hope this doesn't happen.]

sequins and stress levels

What's a girl to do when a law journal implodes in her face, dragging friendships down the drain with it, and mashing on the rollers in frustration just isn't cutting it?
She gets out every sequined whatever out of her closet, tries them all on with every high-heeled shoe she owns, then sits on her bed, clothes strewn about, reading On Writing by Stephen King or re-reading bits and pieces of Ten Points [by Bill Strickland] or perusing through the November issue of Bicycling Magazine [again]. And when that doesn't do the trick, it's time for a makeover.
Not the kind involving a perm or manicured nails, but a bike-over. The bar tape has been slowly unraveling on my Bianchi, but in true scatter-brained fashion, I decided to concentrate my efforts on the kept woman that is the Dolan.

Because the Dolan might be flashy, but she prefers to stay indoors and fan herself in front of the TV [or, in my case, Hulu]. The deep track drops were sexy but inhibited outdoor ventures, and like most trophy wives/girlfriends scantily clad boobs bars can only get you so far. The white saddle was [literally] an intolerable pain in the ass. So I put my foot down.
I was going to fully wrap those bars and smack on some hood brakes and switch out that stupid saddle even if it ended up looking like me wearing mismatched sequined clothes and too much eyeliner after a stressful day. Because while it might not be kosher, if that was going to get me riding more, and longer, then I didn't care about breaking THE RULES. I'd rather get run over by another cyclist on the track, rather than get hit by a bus on the way to the track because I couldn't properly maneuver that skitterish Dolan with track drops on it. Besides, the track drops can be strapped to my back, and road drops would open up the possibility of riding the Dolan in places where this concept of "wind" was less forgiving than in my apartment.

The saddle went first, replaced by the [totally awesome] leopard-print, porn-star saddle that came stock on the Bianchi [as Kanye would say, "they don't make 'em like this anymore,"...jealous?]. The bars got pulled off, and with the aid of a bestie [a.k.a. M1], the road drops got the full bar wrap treatment.

I know, I know. You're all scrutinizing and judging just how those bars got wrapped. I actually debated writing about it because it's the one thing that can elicit volatile displays of emotion from the most stony-faced of mechanics. The thing is, while I do care about how my bars look and feel [and I think they turned out pretty slick], I realized that in the process, half of me really didn't. It wasn't sheer laziness [okay, there might have been some of that], but as long as it stayed on my bars until spring, and as long as I could ride the damn thing hard and long, and, okay, as long as it didn't look heinous, I didn't really care. I could try to find the perfect white women's saddle [why are those so hard to find?!], and I could wipe down my rims and buy whiter tires. I could even switch out those cheap black toe straps for white leather ones. Or, I could forget about how it should look and ride it.
Because like the sequined ensembles I throw together on a stressful whim, how good my bike looks [or not] won't do me an ounce of goddamn good if I can't pull my shit together. Which, as applied to the bike, means being able to pedal that thing fast and hard. So that's what I'm doing - riding - and, of course, hoping the slightly confused mishmash of parts, patterns, and colors will get my legs to Chris Hoy proportions by spring.

chicken fix

Despite the "fat" post last week that generated more comments than all of the previous month's comments combined [okay not really but it was a lot], I actually have an obsession with really disgusting food.
Olive Garden's Never-Ending Pasta Bowl, Domino's Pasta Bread Bowl, Reb Robin's Wise Guy Burger [yes, those are mozzarella sticks on top of a beef patty]...it seems like the grand old U. S. of A. has no shortage of revolting food. Even with an "obesity epidemic" well underway, there's apparently a mad rush to stuff as much fat, sugar, and lard down our throats as fast as we can. And as a dietary sado-maschoist, I can't help but look, feel horrified, then email the offending item's picture to friends. Mostly because I like the feeling of collectively puking a little in our mouths in disgust. And because I'm such a good friend.

Of course, just when I thought that fast food chains were done pumping out the culinary equivalent of condensed vomit, KFC proved me wrong with the Double Down Chicken Sandwich. Yes, that's two slices of bacon between slices of pepperjack and swiss cheese...all smooshed between two deep-fried chicken fillets. It's disgusting. It's absolutely, unbelievably, mind-blowingly dis-GUST-ing. I dry-heaved a little, then got to emailing.
"Dude. No. Stop," was the first response I got.
"Yo, let's go to KFC," was my reply.
Because even with my slightly vegetarian past, I do love my chicken. But because of that same slightly vegetarian past, I'm not the kind of person who believes meat is a necessity to complete a meal. Still, I'm only human; the mere thought of chicken dipped in hot oil had my stomach demanding bird meat.

I acquiesced by carnivorizing a formerly vegan chickpea salad recipe courtesy of Whole Foods. Chicken breasts were roasted in the oven while I did intervals on the rollers, then got chopped and tossed with a mix of olive oil, vinegar, curry powder, and ground cumin. Raisins, chickpeas, bell peppers, and cilantro add a yummy sweetness that borders on the addictive. And served over kale salad [a current staple in the pedalstrike household...and by "staple" I mean I've been eating it for lunch and dinner every day for the past week], it won't be the kind of addiction you'll have to hide.
It's no Double Down Chicken Sandwich, but when you need something less lethal to hit the spot, this might be a pretty good contender.
Curried Chickenpea Salad Adapted from this recipe.
Ingredients:
For the chicken:
3 boneless, skinless chicken breasts salt and pepper olive oil [This will make a lot more than needed; I slice the rest to throw into a salad.]
For the rest of the salad:
2 teaspoons apple cider vinegar 2 tablespoons lemon juice [or juice of 1/2 a lemon] 3 tablespoons olive oil 2 teaspoons curry powder 1 teaspoon ground cumin 2 teaspoons maple syrup 1/2 teaspoon salt 1/2 cup raisins 1 [15 ounce] can chickpeas 2 cups cooked chicken, chopped [see above] 1 bell pepper, seeded and chopped [I only had 1/2 on hand and it was fine] 1/2 cup cilantro, chopped
Directions: 1. Prepare the chicken: (a) Preheat the oven to 350F. [About 15 minutes, or a quick warm up on the rollers.] (b) Poke holes through the thickest part of the chicken with a fork. Season the chicken breasts with salt and pepper, drizzle with olive oil. (c) Place in a casserole dish lined with aluminum foil. Cover with aluminum foil and bake for 15 minutes. [Do intervals.] (d) Uncover, and continue baking for 10-15 more minutes; 30-40min total or until juices run clear. [Cool down or continue intervals.] 2. Cool the chicken, then chop into chickpea-size pieces. You'll only need about 2 cups. 3. In a large bowl, mix the vinegar, lemon juice, olive oil, curry powder, ground cumin, maple syrup, and salt. 4. Add the raisins, chickpeas, bell pepper, chicken, and cilantro. Toss to combine. 5. Serve over salad greens or kale salad. Devour.

a superb elite [party]

It's Friday night, and there's a hand sneaking in between my legs. Fingers brush my inner thigh as I squeal and giggle.
I wasn't tipsy at all. Just a little drunk off adrenaline from the Superb Grand Opening party.
I had cleared my schedule weeks in advance for this party [and not only because cassette was a sponsor]. With a Fuji Feather being given away, who wouldn't? But there was also the promise of "fraternaliz[ing] with Boston's cycling elite." And knowing Superb was going to fully deliver on that promise, it's a party I wasn't going to miss.

Arriving close to an hour after the doors opened, the place was already packed. Bikes lined both sides of the new shop, and people had spilled out onto the sidewalk. Squeezing our bikes into a narrow open space and locking them up, M1 and I ran into none other than Mr. Igleheart, the awesomely friendly framebuilder behind those delicious bikes that "ride like butter" [I wasn't kidding when I told him that I was saving up for one of his frames]. And as I turned around, ready to elbow my way into the shop, I waved hello to Marty of Geekhouse. This was going to be a really good party.
Inside, people swirled around the central display of bikes underneath the chandelier. There was a wave and thumbs up exchange between myself and Tyler of IF, an introduction to James of Revolution Bicycle Repair [he and M1 worked downtown together back in the day], and quick hellos to Croth and Kip. Lucas Brunelle was sighted, as was Joe of Sugar Coat and Geekhouse, and of course, all the hot Asian girls of Cambridge Bikes. Jason, the mastermind behind Superb, clearly delivered on his promise, and more.

Good beats streamed from the speakers as people moved around the room. Stepping outside to check on our bikes and cool off, another Boston cycling persona, Natasha of Pedal Power Photography, rolled up. In great company, we checked out the array of bicycles entered into the "Hot Bike Contest." The contestants varied from a slick Specialized to a swoon-worthy vintage Pinarello pursuit frame with a tri-color, glittery paint job. While I regretted not riding the Dolan in, even with its new fall/winter 2009 look [coming soon!], a part of me knew that it probably wouldn't have stood a chance with this kind of competition.
But I did take part in another kind of contest: $3 got Team Cassette 5 tickets into the raffle. With fingers crossed that we'd win something a Fuji Feather, we checked out the rest of the prizes and ate up some of Jason's time before we reluctantly headed out the door for a friend's birthday party. It was early, the party was still in full swing, but I didn't feel lame leaving. Superb tends to have that effect; there's no insecure pre-judgment of those who walk in the door, but you better be prepared to walk out feeling not only cooler but also like you've just managed to infiltrate Boston's decidedly unpretentious cycling elite.

Which would explain the big smile on my face as I rolled away from 842 Beacon Street, despite my early departure. Thighs even pumped harder as we sped around taxis in Friday night traffic, spinning wheels and pedals to the next scheduled event of the night. And on the way, that hand. My palms seared with cold nervous sweat in response.
"Got it," M1 said as he drew up next to me.
I relaxed as we surged up a hill - no longer needing to hold a motionless line - mashing en danseuse on the pedals, secure in the knowledge that the Knog Beetle on my seatpost was now diligently blinking red.
[More pictures of the event here.]