frozen slow

There are usually two choices when you're stuck out in the frigid cold on a bicycle in too little gear: 1. go as fast as you can while hoping that the resulting body heat you create will somehow overcome the wind that you've also created, or 2. reduce your speed under the theory that less wind means less cold.
I've tried both, and neither work. The results seem to be about the same: blood refuses to circulate to my feet, fingers, or face. To add to the general discomfort, snot will start pouring out my nose; and to add to my general embarrassment, I can't feel most of it dribbling down until almost too late. At that point, there's nowhere to look but up. At least you're on two wheels and you'll get home. At least you're not walking.
But yesterday, I was walking. And it was about 1F.

All the pretty snow earlier in the day turned to the kind of weather that has your ears stinging and your face hurting as soon as you get outside. That balmy weather that made rides outside slightly tolerable? That was the equivalent of God releasing a teaser for a movie that won't come out for another 5 months. Thanks for letting us know what we're missing, big G.
So even though I wouldn't have ridden outside this weekend anyway - given my wind allergy, I think it's safe to say that I tend to prefer riding indoors - I still felt indignant about the weather. Temperatures were low enough that I was looking at a weekend of sitting around my apartment, simultaneously feeling lazy and stressed. The kind of weekend where, unless my pantry and fridge were completely bare, and there was nothing left to eat except wood and toilet paper, I wasn't stepping foot outside.

But then friends down south in the Big Apple decided to put together a party to watch the Cyclocross World Championships taking place in Tabor, Czech Republic, and it would be early enough on Sunday to allow my attendance and still ship back to Boston at a decent hour. I did what any reasonable person would do: I packed a bag, left my helmet at home, and hopped on a bus.
Which resulted in me half jogging down Chrystie Street in inhumane temperatures when I finally got to NYC. To be honest, when I felt the cold air slap my face, I didn't really want to get off the bus. I thought about the rollers in my apartment, felt the guilt of abandoning my bikes there for the weekend. But when friends are involved, there's no shame in slowing down a bit.
And besides, it's way colder up in Boston.
[If you're in the NYC area, come out to the World's party at NYC Velo this Sunday. It'll be fun, I promise!]

travelocity

I don’t like to say that I hate to travel. The statement seems to immediately make you a smaller, closed-minded person who is only capable of being comfortable in familiar surroundings. It seems to kill off any ideas that you might have a sense of curiosity or adventure, or that you are in any way cultured. And that kind of sucks.
So I say, yeah, I love to travel. Gimme Europe, I’ve never been, and southeast Asia too. Dying to go to India, even if the water might kill me, and Machu Picchu is definitely on the list.
If only all that traveling wasn’t involved...!

I’ll be honest. I’ve traveled enough times that the process just isn’t that exciting to me anymore. Unlike those who get excited at simply being inside an airport, the fluorescent lights and dry air characteristic of airplane terminals give me an instant exhaustion headache. I get cranky, thirsty, and bloated. Despite the countless times I’ve flown from Tokyo to New York or Philadelphia or Boston, I still haven’t shaken that feeling of wanting to just lie horizontally for at least 8 hours after a 12 hour flight. But of course there’s customs, immigration, baggage claim. And that headache.
So even if I tell myself that I have more friends in the city than in Boston, that it’s warmer down there, and that there are more vegan-friendly cafes in the Lower East Side alone than in all of Boston including Metro West, it’s strange that I’m making the trek out to NYC yet again. I got that headache [it’s not exclusive to airports], and I was also cranky, thirsty, and bloated, but this time it wasn’t family, home cooked meals, or the desire to simply get away that had me making the trip. It was a bicycle.

It’s not new - pictures of it abound on this blog - and it’s not even mine. But the aluminum Cyfac that I can somehow manage to stand over presents the perfect solution to my current lack of gears, exasperation at the cold weather in Boston, and desire to spend time with good friends. It has me spending more time sleeping in a weirdly vertical position than I really should be, typing out posts furiously to match the speed at which the bus tumbles down the Connecticut highway, all so I can clip in today and try my hand[s] at the whole gears thing yet again. True, the whole ordeal was slightly terrifying when I first tried it, but just like a girl’s persistent pursuit of a man can break his stubborn desire to stay an eternal bachelor, perseverance can pay off. And when we’re talking bicycles, not boys, it doesn’t really matter that you’ll probably embarrass yourself repeatedly in the process.
So I’m off - ready to suffer, fall, and/or bonk! If you’re in the NYC area and see a girl on a blue and silver Cyfac with a NYC Velo cap, give a holler [or even a wave!]. If I happen to be plastered on the street, feel free to pick me up and dust me off. Oh, but make sure to save the bike, first. That thing has C-Record on it.
[And the first Rapha Scarf Friday of the year...!]

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?

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!

tokyo time out

I am slightly embarrassed to say, that three years in, I have yet to find the perfect cure to a semester plus of law school. A day, a week, a few months, I can do. Any time on the rollers - from fifteen minutes to forever - can usually keep the insanity at bay. But a semester plus two years? It takes a lot of cycling to erase that kind of pain.
Take bikes away from the equation and I’m not sure what the normal law student is left with in terms of options as to how to resocialize. I have a feeling that it might involve a lot of sex. Or whatever the gastronomic equivalent is. On the other hand, that might just be my way of explaining the unnervingly large number of fat creepers which populate your typical law school. I like to think that it’s the inevitable result of too many hours scouring too many cases. You eventually end up fat and desperate.
In any case, left without my bicycles for the duration of 13 days, in another country no less, I’ve been at a complete loss. Roller-less, recovery is slow, and unsurprisingly involves staying far away from anything with a keyboard and a screen. And yes, that involves the internet.

I understand how that might sound. Like I’ve too easily turned my back on a best friend. Taken the proverbial shit on the guy who has always been there by my side. Kicked a fiance to the curb right as the limo to the wedding pulled up, so to speak. And the worst part? I’m sort of getting used to this.
Despite my mother’s fussing, I can get used to rolling out of bed and not really having much to do. Nothing about not putting on a bra until 3pm bothers me. It’s okay that the farthest I might travel in a day might be the distance from the kitchen to the bathroom, because it’s twice as far as the bathroom is from my desk back in Boston. And the fact that I’m riding shotgun in my mom’s car? Please. Since when was I an eco-freak that rode my bike around for environmental reasons?

So other than the invisible, ever-changing itinerary of “preparing for stuff we’re going to do just because tradition dictates that we should do it” which I’m told about approximately 5 minutes before we’re all supposed to leave the house, I’m flexing my lazy like The Situation tightens his abs in a club full of guidette hoochies. But like how nights at the same clubs [even on the Jersey Shore] can get old, I would be lying if I said that a part of me wasn’t itching to get back to my bicycles. Stuffing myself full of decidedly non-vegan goodies is pretty awesome, but I miss the messy, sweaty sessions on the track bike, or the freezing cold commutes on the Bianchi.

I’ve been missing the empty staring at blank Word documents as well. Who knew that laziness could be so...boring. But without bicycles, it seems a little silly to write about my life sans velos. Even if - and I’m being honest when I say this - the guilt of my silence is hovering over my shoulder like the stranger drafting behind you that you just can’t seem to shake off.
But just like that drafting stranger, there’s a new year [too] quickly approaching, and I’ll be back to bikes, Boston, blogs, and my boys before I know it. So let me savor this “doing nothing” thing for just a little bit longer. Because, come on, you know you’re doing the exact same thing, too.
Happy New Year, guys!