sooo sicxxx!

I didn't go to Cornell [for college] but I found the best room mate there.
We found each other in a slightly musty dorm room on the first day of summer school. Hailing from Staten Island, Mell was lightly freckled and Irish to the core. She was confident without being arrogant and charismatic without being annoying. We listened to early 90s punk and squealed over boys but gave each other enough space to avoid nasty cat fights. She pulled off the sexy tomboy thing with ease and had a drama-free relationship with a pretty gorgeous, tall blonde. She was basically awesome without being overbearing, and we got along magnificently.
I've never quite found another roomie like her. I've lived with both genders but the amicable yet trustworthy relationship I had with Mell is, I've found, quite elusive. Because you can love your friends, but living with them is always another animal.

I made a lot of long-lasting friendships that summer, but Mell still sticks out in my mind. Whenever I hear of Staten Island, I wonder what she - currently a chocolatier - is up to, and how I really should drop her a line. And if I had plans to be down in NYC this coming Sunday, I'd make sure to drag her out to an awesome event on her own home turf: SICX.
Conceived by CJ and Jed - NYC resident representatives for all things 'cross - it makes a small part of me wish that I wasn't going to gorge myself on turkey and pumpkin pie up in Massachusetts, but that my sister had invited me to whatever she and her small, Asian, lesbian friends were doing for Thanksgiving in NYC. The line-up of sponsors is enough to have me drooling and I'll even consider dropping the whole "no eating four-legged animals" thing for the fifty - yes, FIFTY - pounds of bacon from Wellshire Farms that CJ has [supposedly] stashed in his 'fridge for this event [if that bacon goes missing, you know who the culprit is].

But wafels, bacon, and croque monsieurs isn't the only reason you should make your way out there. Because if you live in NYC and enjoy riding your bicycle in mud, this is an absolute godsend. Any other weekend, you'll have to travel by car to get to any decent 'cross race. SICX is placing a legit event in your lap, accessible by public transport. If you're in the city, have a cross bike, and aren't going to this, CJ and Jed are right - you do hate to have fun.
Or you're just a fatass. Post-Thanksgiving, there's probably no better way to burn off those two pieces of pecan pie you'll down on Thursday, and the massive turkey sandwich you'll have on Friday for lunch, and that apple pie you know you'll indulge in on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. If you're blessed with a body fat percentage of 2%, and you can use all the calories you can humanly consume, then, well, Thanksgiving is going to be the perfect carb-fest for SICX.

Unfortunately, I'm going to have to learn how to run before I race SICX, and the promise of starchy, meaty, sugary deliciousness a mere 30 miles from my house is going to keep me in MA. But for all those NYC residents, I expect a full disclosure of the awesomeness that will be SICX.
[And if you are in Boston, come out to the Middlesex tonight to support the Geekhouse CX Team. Come on, admit it, you can't resist those kits and bikes!]

pump it up

Can you believe it's November?
I understand that happened almost three weeks ago, but it's finally sinking in. It's almost Thanksgiving. That means it's almost December. When did that happen?
I blame the deceptively warm weather that has me thinking it's still early October. My long-sleeve Underarmour gear has remained untouched in my closet for the past several weeks; if I recall correctly, I was living in that stuff this time last year. And though the fact that the sun seems to set at 3pm has my body begging me to go into hibernation, I'm mentally waiting for the cold to hit Boston. Against all hope, the weather's held its surprisingly warm embrace.

I'm grateful for that; I really am. It means more time outside, and more time outside on the track bike. At the same time, it feels like that frustrating [and ultimately embarrassing] dance you do when you try to walk around someone coming from the opposite direction; you both just end up shuffling laterally in the same direction, bobbing your heads like pigeons as you try to navigate where the other stranger is trying to go. I feel like I've been doing that for weeks now, and cold or no cold, I'm itching to feel that sense of relief when you finally manage to break free from that awkward side shuffling and go your separate ways.
Because this weather is holding everything up. It's placed me in that in-between phase of late fall/early winter where nothing in your closet is really appropriate. That seems to apply to my bike as well. Once temperatures started to dip into the low 30s, I had promised myself that I'd change out my Vittoria Randonneurs for knobbier 'cross tires. I promised myself I'll sit down, pick the glass and other crap out of my winter tires and strip my rims of those white-ish gray rounds of rubber. I even switched out the clipless pedals for toe clips well in advance of any chance of snow. I had it all planned out; by December, I was going to be well bundled up and hauling around the commuter-converted-into-snow-bike. It was going to suck, but I was prepared to be prepared.

Instead, my grand plans of blasting Elvis Costello's "Pump It Up" while making the tire switch has apparently been put on the back burner. It's like when your date leans in for that first kiss and you're waiting and getting slightly nervous because you hope it's going to be a good one and then you wait...and wait...and wait...until you start wondering what the hell is going on??? Just get it over with, already! Stop making me WAIT!
Okay maybe it's not really like that, but you know what I mean. I'm thankful for the fact that I can entertain the possibility of going on a ride during turkey break, but a part of me wishes I wasn't just lip syncing in the mirror along with Elvis. True, that might be because my building has turned on the heat and my apartment currently feels like an oven [with windows open and everything]. Sometimes, though, I suspect I might like to bike in the snow [at least for a week or two]. On the other hand, I could just be a selfish bitch who wants the entire road to herself.
Personally, I like to think that it's really because freezing temperatures would give me the perfect excuse to polish my Costello Pump It Up Dance. Admit it, you've totally tried it, too.
[Friday! Rapha Scarf Friday!]

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.