drowsy downtown

When I first arrived in Boston, with no friends or knowledge of the city, my best friend directed me to Newbury Street. It's no New York, she cautioned, but it would at least be something to do/see.
She was right. On both points. The long stretch of Newbury Street made for good people watching and a lazy afternoon spent outside. It was distracting enough, but given the long stretch of storefronts, there wasn't much to discover. Side streets didn't lead to the kind of stores you only tell your closest girl friends about. They mostly just led to shittier streets.

It wasn't until I got on a bike and rode down Newbury for the first time that I realized exactly how distracting it is. Because when you're searching for a store [on the lower level of a building, nonetheless], it makes it that much difficult to dodge doors, avoid pedestrians, and impatient wealthy people who would rather run you over and settle the subsequent wrongful death suit than actually slow down. Given that other than strolls around the Public Garden or the Boston Common, I don't find hanging out or cycling in the city very exciting or entertaining, I actually try to avoid the city. Besides, it's flat. Just thinking about it makes me yawn.
But lest readers think that all I do is push the pedals indoors, I ventured outside yesterday. And taking the familiar yet still foreign path downtown and onto Newbury Street, I was slightly optimistic. Cities are supposed to be fun! Shopping is fun [even if it doesn't involve bicycles]! Boston can be fun!

I kept chanting that to myself as I passed unremarkable scenery, boring buildings, and didn't even get to experience the excitement of trying not to get run over. If it wasn't for the wind, it almost felt like my morning roller session where my legs are on autopilot after 15minutes and my mind is off in other universe.
Newbury delivered, however, in the form of double-parked cars, unpredictable drivers, and doors popping open left and right. But too used to the usual suspects, it still wasn't very exciting. Nearly asleep at the handlebars, I suppressed a yawn as I pedaled away from the city towards a place that, while more familiar than downtown Boston, was guaranteed to be a lot more interesting.

It involves bicycles, but you knew that already. But Superb is worth ogling at every opportunity; especially when they're carrying some delicious-looking Igleheart track frames. Emblazoned with both the Igleheart logo on the fork and the Superb logo on the frame, it's a good thing that the smallest size available - which comes in a beautiful purple that I'm pretty sure will complement my existing stable of single-speed ponies - is a 48 [and therefore too big for Asian Short Legs over here].

But it's not just the bicycles. Catching up with Wei Wei is always entertaining to say the least, and I even got to see the new shop clock, made by Tom himself [yes, that is a Campy chainring]. Apparently he plans to make another one to hang from his neck. I think that's a brilliant idea.
Boston can be boring and predictable. But it's the things like Superb that make me glad I started cycling in this city.
[Special edition Rapha Scarf Friday with the man who started it himself!]

roller girl

If you've ever seen even one scene from The Paper Chase, you have a vague sense of what it's like to be called on in a law school class. Even as a third year, the Socratic method of drilling questions eludes me. It's like being asked to perform a waltz with cinder blocks for shoes. You know it's not going to happen but somehow you have to brace yourself and hope to God it's a short dance.
Yesterday morning, I felt like that. All before class even started.
It wasn't tax for once [I've actually become comfortable with the uncomfortable feeling of being the proverbial bull in a china shop in that class], but my face was red and there was that sinking sense of dread. The slightly flustered, panicked thoughts which too soon melt away into resignation at your fate. And counting the minutes while simultaneously trying to forget about the ticking clock.

Because it really sucks when you climb onto your rollers at 6.30 in the morning without coffee and 5 minutes into it, realize that you forgot to turn the fan on.
It only occurred to me once my shoulders started sweating and rivets of sweat formed along my hairline, dripping uncomfortably down my jawline towards my chin. Chalk it up to laziness but it wasn't worth it to stop, turn on the fan, then get back onto the rollers. That felt like too much effort. Instead, keeping a wary eye on the timer, I finished my warm up with my head tilted up and cocked to the left, desperately trying to keep sweat from dripping onto my frame.

In hindsight, whatever I was doing sounds fairly retarded. Or just vain for my frame.
I used the end of my warm-up as an excuse to finally turn on the fan. By then, my chest and shoulders were wet, my face looked like I had just run 50 feet, and my gloves were damp. I looked like absolute shit, but somehow, I didn't feel that way. I was drenched in salty water, but my legs felt stronger. Allowing myself some time to dick around, I even rode no-handed for a grand total of 0.03 seconds.
And between you and me, it was much more graceful than dancing with cinder blocks.

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.]