a vicious cycle

Everyone know the one dude in college [hopefully only in college] who took pride in being the laziest fucker around. Usually he was perpetually enveloped in a cloud of pot smoke, had some sort of reclining chair in his dorm room, and while he’ll travel any distance to score an 1/8th, he couldn’t be bothered to get up early enough to go to his 1pm class. He considered sleeping and smoking his primary jobs. If he bothered to do anything else, he felt entitled to some sort of extra credit from God.
Those types of dudes always fascinate me. And secretly, sometimes, I wish I could be like that. I wish I could kick back and forget about responsibilities and obligations and everything on the ever-growing “to do” list. I like to tell myself that I could get good at the whole slacking off thing. I could roll out of bed past noon, smoke a joint, and then piss away the rest of the day doing pretty much nothing. And I’d enjoy it.

Unfortunately, I have the unusual ability to place myself in exactly the sort of situations that I’m trying to blow off. Officially on spring break [perhaps my very, very last...of my life...eeppp!], I planned to spend most of the week on a particular couch, in front of a particular TV, forsaking a particular laptop and without a particular bike. I had extensive plans to be completely lazy.
Because while I usually revel in any opportunity to put in quality time on my bike, the past few weeks have delivered enough unnecessary school drama, last-minute meetings, and buttloads of work to transform otherwise relaxing bike time into yet another tedious activity that just had to get done. I managed to avoid the rollers in retaliation, but the guilt of doing so stressed me out even more. It was a vicious cycle [pun intended].

So when spring break rolled around last Friday, I had high hopes to be like That Lazy Dude in College. Those plans - predictably - went the way of Lazy Dude Resolutions To Go To Class. The hope was there, but the execution was slightly totally lacking. My plans essentially died yesterday when I ended up at a small table at The Smile, surrounded by a bunch of bicycle people who were talking, thinking, and writing about bicycles.
Last week, even the idea of sitting around discussing bicycles for about an hour would have had me screaming out of frantic stress and running away while ripping my hair out. Yesterday, though, I avoided the embarrassment and permanent label of “absolutely, completely, without a doubt, batshit crazy” [for the most part] by staying seated and civil. Maybe it was just the incredibly yummy granola with yogurt, or the densely dark Americano, but being enclosed in a small space with bicycle people engaged in bicycle talk wasn’t as terrifyingly stressful as I initially feared. In fact, it was almost kind of normal in a fun kind of way.
I’m far from finding that perfect balance [both literally and figuratively], but I have this hopeful feeling I might not spend the season swinging between two extremes when it comes to bikes. Now I just have to work on pedaling faster than 8mph...

a mixed bag

Other than the whole addiction to work thing, my mom and I are not that similar. She’ll mention that we are when both of us are somehow awake at 3am, pursuing our passions, but at first glance, I’m much more my father’s daughter. On the other hand, people don’t have a hard time recognizing my sister as one of my mother’s daughters. Me, they express slight surprise and search my face for similar features. And meanwhile I’m like well, I don’t think I’m adopted...?
But if you judged only by my and my mother’s addiction to shoes and handbags, we are clearly of the same genetic material.
My closets at home are bursting with bags of all shapes, sizes, colors, and textures. My mother and I vie for space to cram our plethora of shoes. It’s a friendly obsession that we share...until, of course, space gets tight. Then we point out the unused parts of our respective collections while we simultaneously try to hoard as many bags or shoes as possible. My mom once advised me to pick one to focus on: shoes or bags. I asked her why she got to do both. [She claimed that she chose shoes, but I’m not buying it.]

I still have a huge box full of bags here in my small apartment, but these days, the choices are slim. And when the weather forecast tells me that it’s going to rain/snow all week, the choices dwindle even further.
I have, as you may have noticed, two main ones: the giant Ortlieb and the small Baileyworks. Both have protected my life laptop from the harsh elements thrown at me by cars full of teenage boys and the wheels of huge trucks blowing through slush or giant pools of water. I love both, too, and if you have stronger arms and shoulders [thank you military presses, push-ups, and planks], neither is an issue even on a bike with more aggressive geometry. But when you know the sky is going to dump large amounts of water on you all week, and that therefore you’ll be carrying not only your essentials [laptop, books, lunch, tools], but also your entire wardrobe on your back, you really sort of start wanting at least a rear rack. And then you start to wish you had panniers, which is kind of a bad thing, because that is a slippery slope, people.

I know, I know, it’s not a bad thing, per se. The thing is, if I’m going to be in the dorkiest attire in the entire world [read: rainpants] this week, arriving at school with eyeliner down to my chin, the last thing I’m going to be seen with are a pair of saddlebags draped across my rear wheel [I have enough of those on my hips? HA HA...okay I set myself up for that one]. I have enough trouble as it is sneaking into a bathroom - one of those with only one stall so you can completely lock people out - unseen, trying to creep there unnoticed while those damn rainpants swiiisshhh, swiiishhh like some extreme dork alert. At that point, panniers would not only slow me down, but spell instant death to any presumption that cycling can actually be cool.
Not that my classmates would know or care if I was seen with panniers. They’ll probably just say, “oh, is that a new bag?” and be on their way. But it’s the principle of the thing. Just like I wouldn’t ask you to wear a helmet or a jersey that doesn’t match your bike [the horror...the horror...say it like Brando]. Yeah, I might be obsessed/addicted/whatever, but who said that precluded looking good...or at least less dorky?

in limbo

To be honest, it was sort of hard to even look at my track bike the past few days.
It’s more than a little embarrassing to admit, but this time last year, I hardly knew what a derailleur looked like. I naively thought that only things with cogs and lockrings mattered. Sure, I had friends with road bikes, but those never seemed to get ridden. It was fixed or nothing.
Ironically, it was when I decided I wanted to put some decent miles on my legs that I suddenly found myself in an uncomfortable limbo. I was hanging out with roadies, but given their inability to go less than 30mph on “easy” rides, even if they were female, I’d never be able to keep up. Solo rides on a single speed were [and continue to be] my destiny. Sure that meant I got to go at my own pace, at whatever time I wanted, without worrying about being categorized as “deadweight,” but that’s not to say that I didn’t get more than a little discouraged or lonely last summer.

For the record, people did offer to ride with me. But I didn’t want to be a pity case; I never want to be a pity case. So I politely declined and went it alone, but tried to absorb as much from competitive cyclists as I could. And between the talk that didn’t involve bikes, but pieces of our lives, it almost seemed like it didn’t matter how much I couldn’t ride. They asked about my bikes and answered my never-ending train of questions; I asked about their girlfriends/wives/fiancees and was even seen in their presence with no eyeliner on. But then, in a response to an honest email I sent which was really only meant to inform about my own current cycling-related battles, came what felt like an electronic bitch slap:
“If you spent 15-25 hours a week training and racing and immersed in the side of cycling that I'm in I could see why you'd [think that]...”

To be fair, the email did tell me to just be myself, but it stung more than the last time I had to spray Bactine onto a knee that was clearly missing flesh. In hindsight, I should have just told the respondent that I never got the memo on how to be his friend, and left it at that. In reality, after a further snarky exchange, I managed to [electronically] spit back that if 15-25 hours of training was required to win his [or anyone else’s] respect, that I didn’t want it. And if he chose his friends based on their training programs, I honestly didn’t care if I didn’t make the cut.
I know, aren’t I immature?
To his defense, I still think he’s a nice guy. But it was a harsh reminder of my perpetual status in limbo [or lack thereof?]. There’s nothing I’d love to do more than ride on a banked ‘drome and try to get dizzy in the corners, but simple enthusiasm doesn’t really get you anything. And when the only sport I’ve competed in involves wrapping my legs around a one ton animal and trying to hang on, maybe he was right when he said that I’ll “have to work hard to dig [myself] out of that hole.”

That email scrolled through my head again a few days ago, as my attempt to crest a hill with gusto tapered off into out of the saddle climbing, face screwed up in an effort to complete the pedalstrokes. It was snowing, and as usual, I was ill-prepared for the weather. A man drew up beside me: a super commuter, the kind with more than one shade of neon on his back, lights on both his helmet and bike [front and back, mind you], and a bundle securely fastened to his rear rack. He told me he was headed to Natick, “from here, only about 11 miles,” and shamelessly drafting off of him, I went down that hill faster than I would have ever tried it alone in those conditions, and pedaled faster through snow than I probably should have.
It wasn't an ad hoc race, or a competition of any kind. He knew I was behind him, but made no effort to drop me or prove what I already knew: that despite his pretty dorky attire, he was a better cyclist. None of that mattered, because we were both precariously balanced on two wheels in weather that most people try to avoid walking in. Yeah, we weren't about to win any UCI points, but that was okay. We were having fun. And in the end, that's what it really should be about, anyway.

pink baby doll

Apparently, no matter how hard I try, it’s not going to go away. And everyone’s buzzing about it anyway. So, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right?
Yeah, that’s right Valentine’s Day; you’re getting an undeserved shout-out. Happy now you fucked up, poor excuse for a holiday?
Now, now, don’t say I’m bitter, BECAUSE I’M NOT. No, really, I’m not. But judging by the sheer number of newspaper articles [whether this is really newsworthy is a completely different question, of course] advising the masochistic boyfriend on how to appease the Valentine-zilla that girlfriends tend to morph into come February 14th, the “holiday” consistently degenerates into the absurd well in advance of its celebration. Attached girls scramble to buy lace contraptions that will simultaenously push up and together while their single counterparts buy gallons of ice cream and too many cheesy movies on-demand. Meanwhile boyfriends try to devise ways not to get the life squeezed out of their balls, knowing full well that most things they do won’t cut it.

Why can’t this weekend be like any other? More importantly, why in God’s name did I have to choose this cursed holiday as the day I put down payment on my track bike frame almost a year ago?
And then I had to go with the pink cranks and rims. As if I needed another reminder of that one Valentine’s Day when - armed with courage that can only be derived from a persuasive best friend - I somehow ended up in a Victoria’s Secret dressing room in a pink, lacy babydoll. Patches of reason and logic did seep through from time to time [“what in the world am I doing?”], but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Yeah, I know. How many bad frat boy stories have you heard that started with that line?

I suppose it applies quite well to my track bike, too. It seemed a good idea at the time to choose one gear over 21. It seemed a good idea at the time to spend too much on pink anchors for rims and a powdercoated front brake that’s just going to come off when the bike hits the track. It all seemed like a good idea at the time. Which is just another way of saying now that I think about it, what kind of drugs was I on?
Maybe a little bit of stupid, and a little bit of crazy. Or a lot of both, given the fact that I’m probably looking at a good year - two, if I stick to what I want - until I can afford to buy a solid road bike. But it was Valentine’s Day, and while I might think it’s ridiculous, no one said I was immune.
Besides, unlike that pink babydoll, I'm going to keep squeezing every drop of my investment out of that track bike. At least until knee failure.

perpetual bonk

On the verge of an academic bonk, I was guzzling an Americano at 5pm while he was sticking to tea at our weekly meeting, when he said,
“Keep to what you can manage, you know? Otherwise, you just end up looking like an idiot.”
We weren’t talking about me, or even him, really, but the gears in my brain finally started turning. Shit, I thought, maybe I’ve been doing this completely wrong. Maybe spending huge chunks of time wishing my stem was a pillow was actually not normal. Maybe being exhausted was something that should be happening after I get off the bike, not before. Huh.

I understand this is old news, but I’m going to point to childhood trauma on this one. My Asian parents beat into me the philosophy that if you suck at something - other than math, that didn’t get through to me - you just have to try harder. Put in twice the effort as normal people. Never mind that I probably have a VO2max of 2; push the pedals hard enough and maybe I’ll be able to go faster than 20mph one day. Maybe even sprint for more than 30 seconds. And if that effort wasn’t enough, try three times as hard.
Yeah, I really shouldn’t have applied a philosophy that my parents only intended to apply to academia to bicycles, but I never said they taught me common sense [the fact that I don’t have one is a total genetic fluke, not due to a failing of theirs, though]. So instead of taking off days, alternating between cycling and running/strength training, I was trying to do it all. At once. And while I am somewhat multi-talented - as in I can wash the dishes and talk on the phone at the same time - I am not quite that adept.

That didn’t keep me from trying, of course, but it only resulted in me bonking in pretty much every area of life. I was tired all the time. I wasn’t eating enough and sometimes I hated more than just the first five minutes on the rollers. I barely had time to write, much less design. I was starting to get apathetic about class. Things were either not getting done or else going into the shitter. Awesome.
Small wonder, then, that when my trusted confidante snorted and made that statement, the lightbulb in my head sputtered and blinked and I thought, “I am such an idiot.” In my eagerness to be somewhat competent on a bicycle come spring, I was essentially demolishing myself. Worse, immersed in my newbie status, I forgot to look to the pros for guidance. Because even Victoria Pendleton has a rest day. In fact, her training regimen consists of lifting, riding on the track, avoiding hilly routes on outdoor rides, never running, and minimizing even standing on her off days. And while I’ll never be a world champ, that sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than what I’ve been doing for the past few weeks.

So yesterday, I resisted. Even as my bike seemed to stare back at me in hopeful anticipation of being ridden, I kept my butt planted on my chair. And while the complete lack of physical activity involving massive amounts of sweat was foreign enough to induce a slight level of paranoia, when my sister asked how “Perez,” my “flaming, gay, pink bike,” was, it didn’t seem like so much of a lie when I said, “oh, good,” in response.
I may not have ridden “Perez” yesterday but I’m pretty sure we’re both the better for it. And of course, there’s always today.

existential exit

Denial can only last so long, and when your rear brakes start to sound like metal grating on sand, it’s time to install new pads.
Or at least to install new pads within the next two months. On auditory notice that my brake pads were nonexistent, I still managed to forget about buying new ones for about a month. Visual notice that my brake pads actually were no longer there, combined with the increased inability to stop had me nervously watching Andy while he dug through a box of pads. Luck smiling down on me for once in my life, I was able to claim the last ‘cross set in his inventory.
Because stopping’s important, you know?

I’m not talking about the ability to slow down or stop in the middle of the West Side Highway, River Road, or Central Park, with one foot clipped out to wait patiently, because quite frankly I’m the one that can hardly keep up. My rear wheel isn’t ever going too fast; at best it feels sturdy and reliable, at worst like an anchor with a dead body wrapped around it. Ascents are painfully slow. Descents are faster but still akin to a walrus lumbering lazily towards water. But it’s comfortable despite its inhibiting weight, and kept me fairly grounded.
The first time I rode Mike’s Cyfac to New Jersey, though, the only thing I felt was pressure on my feet and exhaustion tugging at my thighs. It was like riding on air, like flying. The kind where even your brain stops screaming and all you can do is blink.
And even though it was heavier than that Cyfac, potential memories flashed like strobe lights through my brain as I took my sister’s new Bianchi Via Nirone on an unauthorized spin down 2nd Avenue last weekend [HAHA I RODE IT BEFORE YOU, oops, i mean, sorry Kak!]. Built up and exactly my size, it was sitting pretty in NYC Velo and I couldn’t resist jumping on to shift the gears and coast down the street. The brifters bent inwards under my curious fingers, the derailleur clicked, and the cassette spun. I was jealous and a small part of me - okay, more like at least half of me - was tempted to pick up the damn thing and throw it into oncoming traffic. It just didn’t seem fair. I’ve wanted a road bike for so long now that it almost seems like I’ve been biking forever.
But that’s not true [clearly]; I’m just spinning out of control.

It’s almost too easy to do, too, which makes those jumbled up feelings of envy and bitterness simultaneously more tolerable and more frustrating. There is a lot of teaching of need, of powerful learned wanting that manifests itself into an exchange of things, stuff, whatever, for the motion of sliding plastic and a signature. It’s everywhere, even in an industry fueled by human muscle and grace. And when people told me that this was cool, this was pro, and that this would buy me membership into the exclusively cool, I - an ignorant newbie who is about a billion miles from even trying to emulate Cat 4s - bought into it.
Unknown at the time, and realized only a few days ago, the foolish purchase of that mentality also bought me quite the existential crisis. Deadset on chasing a false sun, I had turned into the modern day - albeit cliched - Icarus, vanity and the desire to fit in shadowing the blatant signs that my wings [or wheels, as the case might be] were melting. Right before I fell, I asked myself why I started all of this - the bikes, the blog, the obsession - in the first place, and unable to come up with a clear answer, I fucking crashed.

But it stopped me, too. Maybe with a few more psychological bruises and a lot more self-disgust than I had anticipated, granted, but no one ever said this sport was easy. It was never supposed to be; at least not as easy as cutting a check or typing in your credit card number. And I forgot that, even in the company of legit racers who didn’t give a shit what they were riding as long as it worked [and, okay, wasn’t steel], friends who didn’t need to spend money to look like they could lead a breakaway because they could actually do it, and win. Meanwhile, I was trying to hide the weakness of my legs by covering them in money; and in that game, there’s never any winning.
I crashed again yesterday, for [sort of] real this time, first bouncing into the right side of the doorway before smashing into the left side before I did the tumble-slide-fall onto the rollers, my feet still trapped in the clips. My shoulder - skinned and turning an angry red - burned, and I remembered that was where Jared, a Cat 1 track and road racer who will entertain my stupid questions about optimal gearing for the track, punched me last weekend. We were with Andy who once [snobbily] told me that I had to work on my bike snobbery, Chris who does triathlons without training for them, Justin, whose quiet acceptance of everyone as they are is as comforting as his nickname of “Hot Chocolate,” and of course, Mike, the expert of tough love who, unmoved by my emotional meltdown, dared me to give it all up. And I remembered, I really love those guys.
I got up, checked the bike, and climbed back on. And I remembered, I really love this, too.