superstitious americanos

Like most girls, I secretly love checking my horoscope. I am inclined to believe in compatibility between certain astrological signs but will freely disregard the day's predicted fortunes if it is clearly not in my favor. The next day, I'll get just a tiny bit excited if "flirtatious encounters" are included in the day's fate.
Granted, horoscopes tend to be as hit or miss as my blind stabs at concepts of Corporate Taxation, but that doesn't mean that superstition has no value. Because when things consistently line up and bring good things with it, that's enough to have me convinced that luck might just exist [and doesn't hate me].

You're dying to know this lucky correlation, aren't you? It's actually fairly old news, but one that, I believe, somehow creates this awesome situation where great minds come together to form and execute some fairly incredible ideas. Take one serious cyclist, mix with one part Asian-sensation-cyclist-blogger, brew with two good Americanos, and you have a winning combination. Great ideas will flow. I promise.
It's consistently yielded results; t-shirts, designs, a crew of friends in NYC, and more written words than I can remember typing. How else can you explain the moka pot logo of Embrocation Cycling Journal, their uber secret Mad Alchemy coffee embrocation, the Giro d'Italia espresso machine at NYC Velo, and the beginnings of Outlier [they met at a coffee shop]? It's like a ritual that has to be done between pedalstrokes for amazing to result. Offer me an Americano, while I'm still slightly sweaty from a ride and there's a good chance something awesome will happen [and I'm talking platonically, people].

So it's a little hard for me to turn down an offer to bike over to a reputable cafe that can pull good shots of rich, dark brown inspiration. Cafe Fixe serves up Americanos that, with one sip, will nearly blow your face off, but when M1 comes up to Boston to use my apartment as a base camp for rides to Dover visit and offers to meet up after class, something out west was a little more appropriate. Good thing the Boston Globe did an article on good coffee shops a few weeks ago and mentioned Taste Coffee House in Newtonville.
A plan was formed and duly executed. And while I hesitated over a latte or a regular coffee or the go-to Americano, the last won out as usual. Sipping the dark liquid in shorts due to the incredible weather, the stage was set for some prime scheming. Caffeine making my brain buzz, we chattered and came up with new designs, ideas, and between sentences, commented on the perfectly balanced Americanos.

That cup fueled me through a ride amped up by the persistent buzzing of M1's freewheel behind me. I was breathless when I got home [I had casebooks on my back!], but still humming off the adrenaline and caffeine, even took the Dolan for a quick spin.
I have more plans later this week for coffee. Regardless of my daily horoscope, though, I know this one's going to be equally awesome. Call me superstitious, but I plan to get an Americano. That means good things are gonna happen. Trust.

wild thing

Going to the dentist freaks me out. Like most people, I don't particularly enjoy getting the insides of my mouth poked and prodded with sharp, cold, metal instruments. I might not even mind that discomfort, actually, if it wasn't for the lies.
Why is that? Like every "don't worry, this won't hurt" is dentist code for "grab the sides of this chair because I'm about to blast air onto your raw nerve! Woo!". And then there's the "relax, I'm just going to take a look [and pull out this wisdom tooth once you allow me access to the back of your mouth!!! AAAHAHAHAHAH SUCKAAAAA!!!!]." One can only take so much of that, and once I give up, lying in that dentist's chair placidly, my dentist will always tap my shoulder, saying "don't tense your shoulders up so much, relax," and if it weren't for the 4 different metal objects in my mouth, I'd tell him that I'm not tensing up, I just have broad shoulders, but thanks for reminding me of my manly attributes.

Even after surviving traumatic wisdom tooth extractions [it involved a hammer and chisel, and yes, I was conscious], I still cringe and whine before a dentist appointment. The association is too strong to have those harmless tooth cleaning sessions absolve the dental profession in my mind. And it's that same unforgiving ball of anxiety that greeted me as I threw my leg over the Dolan last night.

Because for once, it was out in the wild. More familiar [and lighter!] road drops having replaced the anvil that was my steel track drops, I had hoods to grab onto for dear life but I wasn't sure how that would actually translate. I remembered balancing precariously on those white-tired, pink-rimmed wheels and wobbling dangerously as I attempted to keep the track drops straight. I remembered almost biting it a block from my apartment. I remembered how it felt to tear open a few knees on asphalt. I remembered being on a bicycle and feeling slightly afraid.
So I cringed a bit, and felt a little uneasy sticking a foot into the toe clipped pedal. But with a deep breath, I pushed off and it felt easy. Maybe all that time on the rollers paid off. Maybe I just got better at cycling. Maybe riding the Dolan wasn't so terrifying as it was incredibly fun.

The Dolan's light aluminum frame slicing through the last rays of sunlight in the quickly darkening afternoon, I was almost tempted to ride it on the street more. Good thing my gearing borders on the impractically ridiculous if inclines are involved. Because otherwise, as stiff pain reminded me this morning, I may not have much knee left...

centerfold champions

When significant others fail become less significant, I do what [I'd like to think] most others do: stuff all objects/memories/gifts/pictures associated with said person into some kind of receptacle [not the trash, though, apparently newly broken hearts like to cling not purge] and place it somewhere it can be easily forgotten.
Months later, I'll come upon it [I'm really good at forgetting where I put things], and heart fully healed and going strong, that receptacle of stuff is consistently greeted with a feeling of mild annoyance. What the hell am I supposed to do with this now?
That's the feeling that greeted me this past weekend. Fresh out of the MPRE [and somewhat grateful that I didn't go on the IF ride that was done at the "leisurely" pace of 29mph] and finally managing to do my laundry, the state of my dresser drawers was shameful to say the least. What am I doing with all these t-shirts? Where did they come from? When did this drawer become overstuffed with so much stuff?

So it was time for the annual spring/summer to fall/winter switch. More New England-appropriate clothing was pulled out and [folded neatly, I might add] replaced the gazillion t-shirts I own. But I'm a sucker for soft, short-sleeved things so while winter is right around the corner, I have to admit, a few key shirts will linger in my dresser until next spring. Right next to the Underarmour that I've been wearing religiously.
Of course, much like that feeling of "oh shit, did I throw away that awesome mix CD that hottie-cyclist gave me in that ex-boyfriend-schwag-bag by mistake?!" I started having doubts about so many long-sleeved items taking up valuable dresser drawer real estate. Because upon opening the December issue of Bicycling Magazine, even if snow wouldn't be out of the question in a few weeks, t-shirts are still very, very in.

Okay, fine, I admit, I'm completely biased. BECAUSE CASSETTE IS IN BICYCLING MAGAZINE!!!!!!!!!!1111111111!!!1111!111!!! Featured prominently in teal is none other than our "I heart Cassette" shirt. The first cassette shirt I claimed as soon as printing was complete, the original drawing of the derailleur [and the Campy-esque Cassette logo] is tacked up on my wall [along with the original drawing for the "Breakfast of Champions" shirt]. It was actually the first ever cassette design as well; and one that turned out to be an unexpected favorite. I initially feared that its simplicity would work against it; then it showed up...in print.
Ahem. I mean, not just any print publication, but BICYCLING MAGAZINE. One word of advice, though: don't be fooled by the model's rendition of "Blue Steel." This t-shirt is not only made for the super-hip, beautiful people in cycling. I mean, the people wearing cassette shirts right now are super-hip and beautiful, but it's not an exclusive group. Well, you know, as long as you can ride a bicycle.

The December issue of Bicycling isn't just worth checking out BECAUSE CASSETTE IS IN IT. The "I heart Cassette" shirt is paired with none other than Outlier's Climber pants [and that's a huge compliment in itself]. There's the NYC Velo espresso machine shirt on the facing page [you can go see that beauty in person at the shop], and a few pages later, on the page facing the male model with more eyeliner than all the band members of My Chemical Romance combined, is the infamous Greg Lemond shirt by Gage & Desoto. There's even a multi-page ad by Rapha - beautifully done with that distinctive finesse as per the usual - and a mention by Editor-in-Chief Loren Mooney about "bike lusting at NYC Velo."
I'm excited. Stoked, actually. I might even be proud of myself. And while the weather here in Boston gets increasingly suckier, I mentally patted myself on the back for keeping my cassette shirts in my dresser. Because unlike memories contained in ex-boyfriend-schwag bags, this summer and all the things that came with it, are worth remembering - and keeping - for a lifetime.

speaking in letters

Every year, a typed sheet of paper will arrive in a tri-colored air mail envelope, my address inscribed with my father's well-handled Mont Blanc pen. A jumble of Japanese mixed in with the occasional English word, he’ll even sometimes provide the odd phonetic pronunciation of a simple Japanese character while somehow leaving the harder ones for me to stare at.
I always seem to allot half an hour to reading those usually one-page letters.
They’re simple, for the most part. Kind of a Dad-created beginning-of-the-school-year ritual where easily comprehensible words disprove my theory that my father is a voluntary space cadet and blissfully oblivious to my largely self-centered confusion at what in the world I’m doing in life, much less law school. They’re written with the kind of honesty that would end up sounding slightly awkward and embarrassing when said in person, and more comfortable with stoic, unemotional reactions from both my parents, the kind of honesty I wouldn’t know what to do with.

After all, having Asian parents meant that affection came in the form of demanding better results. It’s not that they were constantly disappointed with me (well, maybe they were, but I did okay for a kid with epilepsy), they merely believed that my sister and I could do better. Making our parents happy quickly translated into getting excellent grades. When the pressure increased, my sister retaliated by sneaking off school grounds to smoke; I responded by hitting the books. When my SAT score came back with a 99 percentile verbal score, my father gave me his first unqualified "I'm proud of you." I was too shocked to cry.
He said it again to me when I graduated college. He’ll probably say the same after I throw my cap along with the rest of my law school class in May 2010.
All I have to show for it, though, are two single-speed bicycles, a blog, and the ability to fix a flat and tension a chain.

The embarrassment and shame at being the indecisive, less talented daughter is all mine, and a familiar one. Guilt at being unable to fulfill an unspoken, assumed promise is a newer one, and one that I personally abhor. So when I told my father several months ago in halting Japanese that maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a lawyer, I braced myself for the fall out. Merely thinking about it would paralyze my tongue as empty panic dropped heavily on my shoulders, resulting in the inability to even tell my closest friends about what was really going on. Instead, I lost sleep and rode my bike a lot.
My father responded via a letter - two pages this time - and didn't disinherit me as I had feared. The economy sucks, but just keep looking, the letter said, a legal education doesn't mean you have to practice law. In the meantime, don't forget that friends are your life treasures, and it's better to be happy, than to be right.
And finally, "apologies for causing you worry; I'm not that sick, I'm getting better."

That letter still makes me cry. It uncovers all the feelings of the guilt of trudging through classes, taking too much time to contemplate the jump away from a legal career, mixed with the futile desire to be smarter and better at everything I do. And in its stead, I'm choosing to bike indoors and out, not quite sure if I'm pedaling in place or gaining ground or just plain staying with the pack.
I feel like I should be leading the breakaway, or at least staying with it, but the uncertainty of whether my legs are up for it is stretching the hesitation. It doesn't help that my vision is blurred by the shameful tears that it would take an ailing father's letter [but one that, even verging on 70, can still outrun me] to make me realize the intensity of parental love.
I'm not sure I'll be much of a lawyer. I'm not sure I'll ever be much of a cyclist, really. But Dad, I can't wait to show you what I can do on a bike.
[I even managed a Rapha Scarf Friday this week. Now wish me luck on the MPRE. Because I'm going to need it.]

sniff, roll, cough

These days, a cough, sneeze, or sniffle is enough is send me running. Preferably outdoors.
Like trains, buses, and crowded public areas, classrooms are cesspools of bacteria and germs. I made a vow this year not to get H1N1. Not so much because I heard that it sucks more than having your impacted wisdom teeth torn out of your mouth without anaesthetic, but because I simply can't afford it. November means my sights are set on the goal of finals. I don't have time to have sickness derail me.

Of course, even with all the time I spend indoors, away from people, apparently the internet can carry diseases too. Because when Competitive Cyclist reported on his "lung-clotting cold" and mentioned me in the same breath, I somehow started to sniffle. And sneeze.
Okay, that girl in my class who was hospitalized with H1N1 and double pneumonia might have had something to do with it. As well as the guy who sits next to me in tax class and probably doesn't shower on a regular basis. The end result is, however, the same: I am sniffling my way through intervals on the rollers. Total suck.

And because these things are quite contagious, the Bianchi hasn't been feeling much better. Crusty brake pads, rims coated in a layer of grime, and a chain that's as stretched thin as my sanity these days. Being a negligent bike mom, I hadn't addressed my ailing two-wheeled wonder until last night. Rims finally got wiped down, the underside of the downtube de-crusted, chain lubed, and the saddle even got some Proofide treatment.
It was like dirty therapy. Hands oily and black, I couldn't be happier. Or feel more productive.
Apparently a clean bike didn't do much for my cold, though. I'm back to clutching my cup of tea as if that's going to make this runny nose go away. But hey, I'll at least look good biking to the ER if I do end up with H1N1...

resting day

I am no stranger to working hard to be lazy.
I will stay ahead in my class readings so I won't have to work that hard over the weekend, cram my Ortlieb bag full of food so I'll only have to go on one grocery run a week, and run up five flights of stairs with a bike slung over my shoulder so I can savor an extra 3 minutes doing absolutely nothing before class.
Some might argue this takes the joy out of being lazy; that the sheer organization skills involved and constant planning makes life more hectic than languid. But I'm a creature of [rushed, busy] habit, and besides, that whole "everything should be done in moderation" argument falls apart faster than a Walmart bike when it comes from people who enjoy biking more than 200 miles a week.

But when you're an aspiring Cat 100 track racer with a couple finnicky IT bands, taking a day off the rollers [not the foam ones] is sometimes a good thing. And while I felt guilty enough to contemplate a sweat session after dinner, like my end-of-the-day reward of taking the elevator instead of portaging the bike down those stairs, I have to admit I sort of enjoyed it.
Hey, I said "sort of," for all of you bike jocks who are shaking your heads in disgust while averaging 100000000 watts on your warm ups. Keep in mind that I'm not even at junior varsity level yet...I'm the equivalent of an intramural club hopeful. And though I live, breathe, and write about bicycles every day, a small part of me is ever-so-slightly scared that this obsession can pour over into an overdose. Like the kind that requires hospitalization and detox.

So like the tiny bites I'll take of my Walnut and Date Kind Bar [they are so good] to make them last that much longer, I'm trying to nibble and savor every sweetly satisfying bite of my bicycles. And when it seems like my enthusiasm is waning to the point where it could become slightly nonexistent for several days, it's time to take a temporary leave of absence and allow myself just a small morsel of laziness.
And you know what? I woke up today and couldn't wait to get back on those damn rollers.