butch abs

Catching me headed out into rainy weather on my bike a few weeks ago, my openly gay law review faculty manager observed:
"You're so butch."
I thanked him sarcastically in response. Although he was joking, I've actually become accustomed to that perception. As a college freshman, punked out with pink hair, people had thought/hoped I was gay [sorry, ladies]. I've gotten free hot chocolate from Starbucks for my "friend" who was actually my [more obviously gay] sister [we don't look alike enough, apparently]. If I informed my friends at law school that I preferred the girls, I'm not sure that many would be surprised.

Of course, from my sister and her girlfriend's point of view, despite the fact that my thighs are about the size of my sister's nonexistent waist, I'm "so girly." A description which I oddly find insulting. "Girly" seems to imply a weak, fragile, dumbass-in-distress sort of image. And when both my sister and her girlfriend will shriek and run away from bugs while shouting at me to kill it, I'm not sure that description is really accurate.
Caught in the middle, not quite sure where I belong, I try on the dresses in my closet [yes, I own a few], but leave the house in nothing less than Underarmour layered under jeans. And with the sheer amount of sweat exiting my pores on a daily basis, "girly" has no place on the rollers.
Soooooo, I kept this a secret. But then someone else blogged about it, and I felt that maybe this wouldn't make me sound so lame or worse, so "girly." Ready? Here goes: I've been doing Pilates lately.

I know the images that conjures up. The professional late twenties/early thirties career woman with a yoga mat under her arm who has a solid group of girlfriends, makes a fabulous date but hasn't quite found the right man, and gets her nails done on a regular basis. She's considered running a half-marathon but wouldn't go so far as to attempt a triathlon because that would take too much time away from wine bar gossip dates with her future bridesmaids. Think Sex and the City with some physical exercise thrown in. Think everything that does not describe me.
So I've been hesitant to admit that I've been working on my core these past few weeks...from a book. Pilates can cost a pretty penny, and with the rave reviews on Amazon, I figured Brooke Siler's The Pilates Body would be a much cheaper alternative. Guess what? Priced at about $13, it's one of the best investments I've made this fall.

Less than a month ago, I could hardly do the Single Straight Leg Stretch, much less the Roll-Up without lifting my outstretched legs from the mat. But yesterday, I realized that with a little more work, touching my nose to my knees might not be far off. And for what it's worth, I can't even do 1/3 of the whole program yet.
I understand that you don't really need ripped abs to ride or race a bicycle. But since I started subjecting my abs to some daily torture, I've found that it takes more than painful interval sessions on the rollers to get my sciatic nerve to act up. I can carry half my weight in my Ortlieb bag without my spine feeling like it's going to implode. And if that's not enough for you, at the very least, it'll have you standing straight[er] for once.
The chiseled body is still a ways off...but that might be a good thing. Because if I start getting really shredded, it might perpetuate that whole butch thing. And then I might just have to admit that I do that girly thing called Pilates.

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.