covert ops

Despite the hundreds of words I can write, the numerous sites I can read about bicycles, and the fact that my words stumble over themselves when I try to talk about bikes, I find it hard to explain my weekends to friends who don't ride. There's no drama in doing power intervals on my new gearing. No gossip involved in getting my hands greasy tensioning my chain or washing my shorts in my bathtub. So when the polite inquiry into what exactly I did this weekend comes up, I take the easier path. I lie.
It's not a ploy to sound coy or mysterious. I've just sat through enough conversations debating the intricacies of certain sports and the background stats of so-and-so athletes to understand that gushing about gear ratios can border on the annoyingly boring. So I just say, well, I hung out a bit, studied a bit, the usual, nothing special. Unless, of course, they ride a bicycle.

Then, like it or not, I just may babble on for hours. And that's exactly what I did when one of my favorites blew through town from Portland, on a mysterious mission that even I didn't quite fully understand.
I'm talking about the man behind not only Embrocation Cycling Journal, but also Rapha Scarf Fridays [among other ideas cooking in that brain of his]: Mr. Jeremy Dunn. He hooked me into Embrocation over Americanos last spring and while his current residence in Portland makes meeting up slightly difficult, we've managed to stay in touch and even hang out in Vegas. And because of Rapha Scarf Fridays, we had to meet up on Friday morning [at Cafe Fixe!] with a promise to bring our respective scarves.

And over Americanos, I gushed, questioned, laughed, and was completely at ease. Because while I feel cozy around people who ride bikes, I respect, admire, and look up to people who write about bikes. Sometimes they get excited about what I write too [although even I'll admit that it's not very pro], and that passion is infectious enough to have me submitting things for publication in print and chattering about ideas and all those slightly insecure dreams that I still have difficulty articulating.
It was over almost too soon and we headed our separate ways; me to NYC, Jeremy to execute some covert ops. But with identical caps! From his Rapha Fixed Backpack, Jeremy had pulled out a Rapha Oregon Manifest cap, which fits like no other cap I've owned [even mine]. It was met with jealous cries in NYC to which I responded with mock smugness and victorious laughter.

And just when I'm wondering when we'll get to hang out next, I found a package from the UK sitting in my mailbox. Ripping it open, completely confused, I found the newest Rapha catalog and a slim booklet filled with the kind of Rapha bike ride porn [photographed by Ben Ingham] that makes you think that bike rides are never painful and always stylish. Which, I suppose if you're geared up head to toe in Rapha, is probably not inaccurate.
Until we meet again, Mr. Dunn. And maybe, just maybe, I'll even have a road bike by then...
[And speaking of totally awesome bike writers, check out this video of Bill Strickland on FSX.]

purty pictures

Because pictures [of pretty bicycles] are worth ten million words. And because I'm up to my eyeballs in work these days.

The Dolan is officially NYC Velo's Bike of the Week [a.k.a. BOTW]. Check out the rest of their flickr sets for bikes that are [arguably] way prettier than mine.

a finer posterior

Looks like someone has a case of the [Embrocation Cycling Journal] Mondays...

Sorry that was sort of lame, as is the lack of a drawing this time around. But this isn't.

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.