burrito brifters

It takes some practice, and you'll never get it right the first time.
But no one does; you just don't know it until afterwards. Which saves you some embarrassment...but not while you're doing it, of course. And while it can become like second nature after you've done it a couple of times [or as close to second nature as you're going to get given the fact that you really shouldn't be engaging in such activity on a daily basis], it's still confusing and a little complicated at first. It's like you don't know what you're doing with your hands or your mouth and everything's kind of messy but you still want it to be good because everyone's been talking about it. And since no one's there to really tell you what to do [at least in my case], you're half wondering like is this okay? Am I allowed to be doing this? What is this stuff all over my face?
That was me and my first burrito. And minus the mouth/face part [okay there was some panting involved], that was me and my first real ride on a geared bike.

With midget legs, I secretly despised friends who would go on vacation and come back with stories of rides on borrowed bikes, concluding with statements like, "man, it's nice to have friends in different cities." I would go home to look at my bicycles and the reflection of my legs in the mirror, standing on tip toes and imagining being able to ride something standard like a 50cm frame. Then I would force myself to imagine what landing on a top tube would feel like to erase the envious feelings. Goddamn tall[er] people.
But sometimes luck can throw me a bone, and this time it came in the form of a friend who will gladly ride slow and happens to own an extra geared bike with relaxed geometry that's just a touch too small for him. I jokingly swung a leg over it once and found that I wasn't simultaneously sitting on the top tube and standing on my tip toes. At that point a plan was established to which no amount of "I don't want to experience the buttery deliciousness of Campy Record until I can start dreaming about affording it because that's like looking for a husband when all you really want is Brad Pitt" could derail. I was stuck. With gears.

So last Friday found me on a Cyfac, chasing a De Rosa from the Lower East Side to New Jersey. Clipped in and lycra-ed out, I mostly had no idea what I was doing and kept glancing between my legs while trying to avoid hitting pedestrians, cabs, and other obstacles. Stopping wasn't as much of an issue as I had feared [no top tube + body part collisions], but too used to a heavy steel 'cross frame, I kept pulling up the front wheel when pushing off. The whole thing was light, and loose, and wobbly; the figure skater to my track bike speed skater. It could do multiple things like climb hills and go 24 mph without killing my knees. I was completely weirded out.
To be honest, it was slightly frustrating in how foreign it felt. It's like getting on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland and being like whatever that was so tame, let's get on Splash Mountain, only to end the ride gripping the safety bar and trying not to shit yourself. Okay, it wasn't that bad, but you get the point.
Retreating to the familiar, I ended up keeping it in one gear for most of the ride. But like eating a burrito with a knife and fork, I understand that it doesn't prepare you for the real experience of shifting gears. Only practice can do that. So despite the discomfort and potential for embarrassment, I'm going to dig in and hope for the best.
Hey, it worked for the burritos...

attractive presents

Back in my fag hag days, a fabulously gay friend once informed me:
"I only like to be friends with attractive people."
I laughed in response, at least half in disbelief. The statement sounds ludicrous but I was also struck by its stark naked honesty. We all want to be friends with attractive, fashionable, interesting people, we just never say it out loud. Instead, we say things like "never judge a book by its cover blahblahblah" and make conscious efforts to be friendly to boring, unfashionable people. They deserve a chance, too, right? Besides, there aren't enough attractive, fashionable, interesting people to go around, anyway [even if I'm using "attractive" here to include more than just physical beauty].
The problem when you do manage to be friends with someone who is attractive, fashionable, and interesting is that the stakes of the friendship are naturally raised. They're interesting people, people! That means they give perfect gifts, say witty things, and have the kind of charisma that looks good in a burlap sack. By nature of being friends with these kinds of people, they [mistakenly?] believe that you're effortlessly capable of the same.

Which is not true, in my case. That's right; I've somehow managed to finagle my way into a best-friendship with a girl who is attractive, incredibly fashionable, and interesting. She gives the perfect gifts while saying witty things about current fashion trends. Meanwhile, I give my Mom a call one, sometimes two, times a year: "Mom, Lauren's birthday is coming up. Can you get her something interesting from Tokyo?"
But despite my terrible gift-giving skills [or lack thereof], sometimes I see something that has both the lightbulb and the alarm going off over my head. It's usually accompanied by this sweet, bubbly feeling that I'm going to bring back something perfect, myself.
This time it wasn't for Lauren [sorry, Lauren], but a random stop by the bookstore resulted in a few awesome finds this past winter break. And when I saw the "Bicycle Custom" magazine, my brain screamed as I clenched the pages. The light bulb went on, the alarm was ringing full blast. Hello, Jason a.k.a. Superb Bicycle Mastermind a.k.a. D.J. Mayhem a.k.a. Most Hip Cyclist in Boston, I have the perfect gift for you from Tokyo.

The magazine is full of bike reviews, bike-related clothing, and street shots of people in Japan with their various bikes. Pictures of men and women with anything from a tricked-out fixed gear to a downhill mountain bike grace the pages. Plus, there was a full page on nari/furi, a Japanese clothing and bag company of which Superb is the only distributor in the area. Excited and giddy, I purchased it, already on that "perfect gift obtained" high. Yesterday afternoon I finally delivered it.
We ended up poring over it [the pages going left to right] before it got added to Superb's fairly impressive collection of bike-related books on their coffee table. If you know your bikes, it's a weird treasure trove [think vintage Kleins and some crazy mountain bikes]. And because Jason's an awesome guy he even tweeted that anyone who stops by can take a peek.

Oh, and while you're there, make sure to check out the array of Outlier pants, nari/furi bags, and the Swrve jackets that apparently every cyclist in the city is snatching up. Jason gave the Swrve Winter Softshell Trousers two thumbs up and for what it's worth, they look really good, too [if only they made a women's version!].
I ended up biking back home just as it started to snow, in my ratty, torn up jeans and coat that was decidedly not made for cycling. More homework awaited, but instead I ended up scouring Swrve's site for a lot longer than was really necessary. I'm starting to really want that jacket. Thanks, Jason...like most all of my attractive, fashionable, interesting friends, you can be quite persuasive.

the guilties

I have a bad case of the "guilties." If I'm on the rollers, I'm feeling guilty that I'm not doing my reading [even if I have the whole night to do it]. If I'm cooking dinner, I'm feeling guilty that I'm not out on a ride [even if it's sub-zero temperatures out]. That familiar sinking feeling has me constantly busy, and it's probably what has me springing out of bed at 6am and making coffee with one hand while compiling a to do list with the other.
This also makes me a fairly impatient person. Even when I was burning up with a fever last week, all I wanted to do was get over it so I could go on a ride or do some work for cassette or edit that pesky note. Upon expressing my displeasure guilt at being unable to get some quality time in with my bike before school started, Mike pointed out:
"Nothing's going on right now. Everyone's waiting for it to get warmer. Don't sweat it too much."

Yeah, everyone's waiting all right. We're all perched on our saddles, waiting for calls from team mates or friends to drag our asses out in this cold. The more fortunate are waiting for new bikes for the coming season, the less fortunate are waiting for a new trainer or a few new parts. Me? I'm waiting for my face to thaw out. It's freezing outside, son.
But like the deceptively casual invite that turns into a full production that you're pretty sure you never signed up for, all this waiting has a tendency to just sneak up on you. You know how it goes. A friend will invite you out for a drink ["just one"] and all of a sudden, you're stuck in said friend's living room, waiting for her to finish doing her hair and/or going through all her outfits while she calls a small army to the casual one drink you guys were supposed to grab to decompress. Then when you finally get to the bar, you get roped into either karaoke or doing shots [or both.] And just when you're about to put your foot down and escape back to the comforting quiet of your empty apartment, another friend inevitably drops the "I just got dumped by my boyfriend" bomb. So because you can't just abandon this friend, "just one" drink turns into one of those long nights consoling a friend in the corner of a bar until either way too late or until your first friend decides to go to yet another bar, finally giving you the excuse to shove the dumped friend in a cab and call it quits yourself. That's kind of what happened when I tried to get on the rollers last night.

Okay, it wasn't nearly as embarrassing as drunken karaoke or watching me pass out at a bar after one measly shot. But the production that went into some casual spinning was fairly impressive. To be fair, I could have just pumped my completely flat tires. But it's the first time I've climbed onto those things since I left Boston for Tokyo last month and I had a sweet saddle awaiting installation. So the leopard print Bianchi saddle came off and got replaced with the white and pink Fizik saddle that looks disturbingly like I designed my track bike around it. Of course I installed it too far back the first time, so after installing it, pumping my tires, feeling guilty [again!] about not lubing my chain, and starting to pedal, I had to get off, re-adjust, make sure it was straight and level, then get back on. Doesn't sound like much, right? Except I had only planned a quick, easy spin. Considering I spent at least 10 minutes fiddling with my bike and another 5 getting changed/picking what I was going to watch on Hulu, it felt like it was almost too much effort.
But hey, it got done, and without any embarrassment [read: crashes] on my part. And at least this kind of waiting-turned-into-something-dramatic-that-involves-too-much-energy doesn't come with a hangover or a hysterically depressed friend. On the other hand, no one ever said this waiting was over. At least not for me.
For others, it's a different story. Like those who are fortunate enough to live in SoCal. Or, for those who, like Laura Van Gilder, are fortunate enough to make it to the Cyclocross World Championships in Tabor, Czech Republic. She needs funds to go, though, and as a poor graduate student/aspiring athlete, I can more than relate. Which is why, during all this waiting, I've dropped in a donation to her donation fund. You should, too, if you haven't already. And if the existence of a woman who made it to the worlds in her second season of racing 'cross isn't enough for you, well, maybe this might do the trick.
Besides, what else are you going to do with all your recent free time?

track record

My break is officially over, and I'm trying to start the year out right. That means returning to posting [more] regularly via Embrocation Cycling Journal Monday...

Enjoy!

bike 'stache

There's nothing like being in one of the world's largest cities, back near friends and the only family that lives stateside...and being confined to a bed because you're burning up with a fever.
Exciting, right?
Actually, even for a domestic homebody like myself, it really wasn't. Multitasking was out of the question; as was getting out of bed. But, it gave me the perfect excuse to clean up some unfinished business. And I don't just mean watching Half-Ton Dad, Half-Ton Teen, and Half-Ton Teen, Part 2: Survival of the Half-Ton Teen.
I mean the unfinished business that had me leaving the bike at home, and toting a suitcase down to NYC instead. The unfinished business that I finally got around to after my fever subsided [after I got that whole "sleep" thing out of the way] yesterday, stuffed in a bag, and delivered to some awesome friends. Late handmade Christmas presents crafted from my little fingers and transported across the globe from Tokyo to NYC.

The popularity of collars and merino items might have had something to do with my choice of what knitted gift to give to my cyclist friends this season, as well as the popularity of facial hair this time of year. Inspired by the Incognito pattern available on Knitty, I chose merino wool yarn instead of alpaca [I couldn't get the yarn listed on the pattern in Tokyo], and changed the gauge accordingly [for the knitters, the more complicated "tangy" version of this pattern is well worth the extra little effort]. The mustaches also got modified [how could I not design a crazy long, curly 'stache for Brett?], and Andy's got the royal "NYC Velo" customization.

Too bad when I managed to make it outside and to the shop yesterday, bag full of cookies, rice crackers, and mustached collars, half the recipients of the collars were already wearing their own homegrown 'staches. It was still cold enough to have them excited about the gifts, though, and tomorrow looks freezing enough to force them to wear it [muahahahaha!].
Unfortunately, I'll be leaving this fair city tomorrow, and with two days eaten away by a fever, I feel a little cheated. Still, I have a full 24 hours left here with my favorite people. And that's a good thing, too, because...well...I haven't quite finished all my unfinished business. There's a collar still on deck [needles?] for Mike, and with a promise of a picture of Andy, Brett, Justin, and Mike with their fake 'staches, there's motivation to get that thing done by the time I board a bus tomorrow afternoon.

Besides, with no bike around, recorded episodes of Law & Order, Intervention, and Hoarders, plus expectations of snow later today, what else I should be doing than sitting on a couch sipping coffee, and looping that yarn around two needles?

back for a bit

"Remind me to invent time travel," was the first thought that popped into my head when I finally landed in Newark last night. It consequently got tweeted a few hours later when I got back to Boston, greasy, hungry, exhausted, and reeking of airplane.
I'm a fairly seasoned traveler, but suffice it to say that flying over 12 hours in one sitting will always pretty much suck. Some things I've learned, though: don't fly out of Logan, Houston has a nice airport, be prepared to get your bag searched twice and patted down before you board, and getting to the airport over two hours before my flight will still have me nearly running to the gate, shoes untied, laptop in one hand, coat, bag, and passport in the other.
All things that help ensure that I am perfectly willing to beat the living shit out of any wannabe terrorist.

But back to bikes. And Boston.
Anyone who has crossed the international date line a few times can tell you that it’s more than a little surreal to find yourself in another country after 12 or so hours of being crammed in a seat that was made to accommodate children or those without hips. When foreign languages are also involved, things get a little more awkward. Sleep-derived, with patches of dry skin all over my face courtesy of the complete lack of humidity in any airplane cabin, arrival also means stuttering my way into the appropriate language. The total lack of interest in any productive sort of communication means that I have learned how to smile and giggle my way through both immigration and customs. The shame. But hey, it works.
The irony being that that’s one thing I consciously missed while in Tokyo: the ability to verbally masturbate over everything related to bicycles. Mention of Lance Armstrong resulted in blank looks from my parents [“...Lance...who?”], and attempted conversation usually ended in “just be careful on your bicycle.” And who can blame them? My mother - suspicious of my virtual harem of male friends and the possibility that I may be dating one of them - believes “poor” and “cyclist” are synonyms. I imagine that this must terrify her; that believing me to be generally useless, her youngest daughter probably shouldn’t be considering marrying poor. My father has more pressing things to worry about, like the economy. Neither know about cassette, much less this blog.

So after two weeks in Tokyo that first felt like an eternity, then turned into a whirlwind that ended too soon, I poked my head into my dark apartment last night to catch a glimpse of a gray-black tire that used to be white. I left my suitcase in my alcove and turned on the light to check on the track bike. Things were just as I left them, just as they should be.
I wasn’t talking to anyone yet, and I’m not crazy enough to consider my bikes to have human characteristics. It was comforting, though, to be back. Even if it’s freezing out. Even if I sort of wish I was still back in Tokyo.
Jetlagged but stateside, I’ve unpacked and have a full day ahead of me. Presents to be delivered, a note to be edited, books to be bought [already! ugh!]. As for that verbal masturbation, I’m headed down to yet another city, loaded with goodies for a few friends I haven’t seen in too long. NYC Velo, get excited!