Yesterday, I learned that riding on "grooved pavement" for more than 10 seconds feels like straddling a giant vibrator. Not in a good way.
I can't imagine what riding real pave feels like. Avoid Comm Ave for a while if you don't enjoy the sensation of clutching a dryer while someone violently shakes you.
We’re sitting, as usual, side by side, at mostly the same place where we’ve sat for the past four days or so, although I guess we were a few seats down this time. There was a half-finished, forgotten murky cup of milky sweetness that smelled like a chai latte, the cold cup making the milk form patterns in the brown liquid. I pushed it away, trying to touch as little of the cup as possible, and set down my laptop.
“Do you mind?”
Matt feigned offense as I spread my papers out, taking up more space than was really necessary. His laptop hovered in the air, book bag on his lap, and I spread my arm across the table in front of him, pretending to nap.
“And you wonder why people think you’re such a bitch.”
I laughed, popped the plastic top off of my cup and blew on my scorching Americano. We made faces at each other, until, the teasing ritual done, we both seemed to sink into our chairs to work - for real, this time - on papers that spelled the end of our careers as law students. I should probably be enjoying it more than I am, but fully burnt out on academia, what sets my fingers typing is the desire to just be done. Put a fork in it. Call it a day. Bring on the next thing that’ll have me terrified and probably miserable. At least it won’t be boring.
We’re tapping away, and I’m staring at the article in my lap. We’re here to work, after all. But then little holes are being torn in my thin paper screen of concentration as a girl hisses at her boyfriend.
“You’re going home? Why are you going home? Why do you have to do that...go home when I’m struggling with something and not having a good day and you can’t understand that.”
I’m staring at Matt’s knee and leg, trying to calculate if she’ll notice if I kick him ever so slightly. I’ll probably have to shift my weight and that’ll be obvious. I stare harder, then sneak a glance at his face. He’s looking at me and biting his lower lip like he’s chewing on it but that really just means he thinks the girl’s nuts. I bite my lip too, scrunching up my chin to hold back the giggling and end up smirking instead. It’s over, whatever.
“I love how we find ourselves in close proximity to really volatile situations,” I whisper.
And I know she noticed, but I know I don’t care. I’m actually a little embarrassed for her, and a lot embarrassed for her boyfriend. She shoots us a death glare that I pointedly ignore.
And I wonder why people think I’m such a bitch.
We giggle a little before putting serious faces on and getting back to our work. I swing my legs and shuffle my feet because I can. Because I’m still in the Underarmour leggings and knee highs I was riding around in earlier today, and that’s kind of weird because it was a rest day. But it’s comfortable, and I’m lazy, and Matt couldn’t care less. Besides, that guy at the table we sat at a few days ago is looking at me and he’s kind of cute. Maybe a touch too young for me to sink my vampire cougar teeth into, though.
I work until my computer battery dies, and then I scribble ideas down in my notebook while I stare out at Beacon Street, my concentration on other things broken up by the bicycles going up and down, up and down. And I can’t resist checking them out but it’s still kind of annoying because I feel guilty for not riding and guiltier for not being able to come up with much to write except for, “well, yesterday was a rest day.” Part of me is wondering why I spend so much time doing this, too.
“What am I good at? Seriously. I suck at cycling...and law school. I’m not really good at anything.”
“You’re good at writing,” Mike will say, and of course I don’t believe him because no one else has ever said that except for maybe my sister but that was when I was bawling uncontrollably.
“That doesn’t count,” I’ll say.
“Then why would Embrocation ask you to write for them?”
“Because I’m the only girl they knew who rode bikes and had a blog.” So the argument goes.
But I still do it. Even if I can be a bitch about it. And even if there’s the guilt because people at school actually think I’m some hardcore cyclist when I’m the farthest thing from.
The cute guy gets up to leave and looks right at me before pushing open the door with the back of his shoulder. I feel a little guilty, again, even if it’s just harmless checking out, not like full blown eye sex. And an hour later, I do the same; I walk home, sit down in front of my recharged computer, and write.
Oh, rest days.
Matt was telling me about the cigar bar he was going to later that night:
“Yeah, it’s really cool; the only people there are basically guys...and the waitresses are all women, you know. It feels like what life was probably like in the 50s. But I think it’s important, you know, to have a social space that’s reserved for men.”
I could see it. Dark, polished wood and leather armchairs that were just comfortable enough. Waitresses in black dresses and that richly sweet smell of cigars mingled with testosterone and tasteful cologne.
“Total boy’s club,” I said, rolling my eyes a bit.
And while we laughed at the semi-ridiculousness of it, I wondered again where the girls were. My aching calves and twitching thighs told me that it wouldn’t really matter where they were because I’d never be able to keep up, but I still wondered. And wracking my brain for a social space that might only belong to the women [other than the kitchen], I couldn’t come up with anything.
“I don’t think we have that,” I said, “I don’t think women have a space that’s just for them.”
And in a way, why should they? It isn’t the 50s anymore; there’s really no need for groups of women to gather together to commiserate over cheating husbands. Nowadays, you just kick that asshole to the curb and file for divorce. I mean, sure, we couldn’t get our shit together to get the ERA passed, but that doesn’t mean that women aren’t climbing social, political, and economic ladders. We’re on bicycles, too. Racing them, even.
So yes, in a way, it’s ludicrous to think that women would need to huddle together when they voluntarily signed themselves up for this sport in the first place. In fact, it borders on the insulting to think that women would. I’ve met enough women in cycling to know that they are - for lack of a better word - tough. And why wouldn’t they be? Unlike running, where you probably can’t go 10 feet without meeting some fun, completely you-compatible potential best friend material who will accept you for who you are, slow pace and all, cycling is one of the more isolating sports I’ve participated in. I could ride miles and miles, day after day, without spotting even one woman on a bike in my age group. Which, given my consistently pained expression, gasping breaths, and twitching leg muscles, is probably a blessing in disguise...I’m pretty sure I’d scare off more potential friends than draw them in with the ridiculousness of my current set-up. But the men? Yeah, they’re out there in droves. They’re fricking everywhere, in fact.
Which explains all the penis jokes, plus my complete lack of female friends, but not really where all the girls are at. I’m not talking so much about the hardcore ones...I can easily hit up Cambridge and Natasha for some introductions of that variety if I ever get anything with gears. But you know, something more middle of the road. Do they congregate anywhere? Or are we all just in limbo until we either get way better or decide to just stick to skirts on step-throughs?
On the other hand, maybe it’s all a bit contrived, anyway. Maybe the mutual interest in that generally vague category of “bicycles” would be the only common denominator. Maybe wanting a social space reserved for girls just because the boys have one is sort of silly. And maybe it’s not really worth worrying about, anyway. Because those boys really keep me riding.
Matt and I parted ways later that afternoon. And I knew deep down that if I asked to come with, he wouldn’t mind the female company, even if it was to a pretty much all male cigar bar. I didn’t though, because cigars aren’t really my thing. Who knows if competitive cycling ever will be? Maybe in a few years, maybe never. I think, though, I might prefer riding alone.
At least for now, anyway.
“I think my hamstring’s done for the season,” I said.
“The season hasn’t even started,” Mike responded.
“Exactly.”
Yeah, I’ve complained about it a lot. It’s still weirdly tight and uncomfortable, one main reason I try to walk around everywhere after I get off the bike for the day. I’ve stretched it in all different directions with no relief, so now, I just deal with it. Worst case scenario, it’ll heal up in July when I’m losing my shit over taking the bar.
But sometimes an optimist, I figured I’ll look into a little more. Good thing I love the internet, Google, and unreliable sources of information. A search for “cycling behind knee calf pain” [I’m fluent in Google Search Specific Broken English] came up with some archived Bike Forums posts, most of which advised sliding back the cleat to avoid loading too much on the affected calf.
I’ll try anything. And holy shit, it mostly worked...!
My first ride on the Bianchi after about 5 days away and it was almost easy...mainly because my calf wasn’t getting that weirdly bothersome twingey feeling. The outside of my calves weren’t sore within the first 10 miles, and while it wasn’t a cure-all by any means, it was way more comfortable. Who knew? [Everyone, right?]
Okay, yeah, getting gears would probably help immensely, but let’s put that aside for now while I try to figure out a way to finagle my way into getting one with all the money I don’t have. I’ve come up with a few ideas, though. First, wear and advertise Gage & Desoto stuff in an attempt to bolster Mike’s income to the point where he’ll be like “wow, you did all this free marketing and advertising for me...here’s $3k to blow on a bike!”
The next prong of attack is cassette, which I’ve been slacking on. At this point, we might be looking at new stuff for the fall [hey, I don’t get to have fun in June and July, okay? I get to stress out/cry/hyperventilate over two bar exams], but it’s going to be pretty sick when I’m done with this. Some familiar themes and designs will be present [obviously], but it’ll be different. And that’s all I’m going to say for now [muahahaha!].
And now it’s back to work...but oh, a bike ride first, of course. Have a great weekend, guys!
It was almost picnic weather yesterday...so in the spirit of spring [and the new logo courtesy of Gage & Desoto], here is a long overdue Velo Bento:
A Whole Foods whole wheat pita stuffed with spinach, oven-roasted turkey, and a dollop of cranberry sauce. Orange and some organic string cheese on the side. All in an OXO TOP container.
I first saw the new TOP containers on the OXO site on my hunt for something leakproof. As a big fan of OXO, I couldn't wait to get my hands on a few. Good thing my sister works there, which means none of that ordering through Amazon, paying for shipping, or trying to hunt them down in person. Just an email, some cash, and a good excuse to hang out the next time I went down to NYC for a visit.
I haven’t tested their full capacity yet, but I love how substantial these feel in comparison to my other tupperware containers. They’re BPA free, too, so I don’t have to worry about not being able to have babies because too much plastic is leaching into my food. Plus they’re freezer, microwave, and dishwasher safe. I swear, OXO thinks of everything.
Okay, I admit, I wrapped up those pita ‘wiches in some saran wrap before I tossed the entire thing in my bag because overflow-age seemed inevitable. I can’t wait to try these containers out for real though.
These will def be making more of a regular appearance...much like [bike] picnics should.
So you know how sometimes you’re sitting around with a bunch of your best friends and just because you’re all totally comfortable with each other you start playing “Never Have I Ever...” [or whatever the male equivalent is] and then you find out that you’re the only one that hasn’t done this one thing? And then all your friends are like you gotta try it, it’s going to change your life? And then you do and you’re like eh...meh...not life changing so then you’re totally not into it after that first experience? And then someone persuades you to try it again and you figure out that you were doing it all wrong the first time and it’s actually sort of life changing?
Yeah, that’s me and gears, lately.
Having felt like I’ve hit a wall with the single speed rides, and tired of the sheer exhaustion at the end of each ride, I spent most of the weekend away from my bikes. The weather providing a good enough excuse, both the Dolan and the Bianchi stayed parked in their respective spots in my apartment as I headed to NYC on Sunday morning. I was ready to spend most of my extended weekend [Marathon Monday + a cancelled class on Tuesday] bike-free.
It didn’t work...and why would it when you bring your shoes and helmet “just in case”? I looked at the sunny weather and weighed it against my discomfort riding anything with gears, especially a bike that’s a bit too big for me. Then I thought about how it wasn’t going to change my life and that I really should have brought my own bike and dealt with my inability to climb anything more than a 2% grade. Then I figured, I gotta start somewhere, and got dressed.
And surprise, surprise...it did sort of change my life. This time around, instead of riding Mike’s Cyfac like a single speed [keeping it in the big ring and mashing], I did as I was told and started out in the small ring. I spun.
Up the West Side Highway, back into the city and around the Cloisters, it was a short 25 miler with some fun sprints and big ring action on the way back. Less miles than I usually do, but it was so easy I knew I’d have a hard time getting back on my own bike[s]. I could climb hills - real ones - at a decent clip without that inevitable slowing down. My legs never hurt like they do when I drag myself through Dover. And strangely enough, I didn’t feel like I wanted to crumple up into a ball of sleep within 2 hours of getting home.
A part of me missed that fall over feeling of exhaustion, but a lot of me really loved that unpainful rides really do exist. And if 25 miles felt that easy, with the right bike, I’m pretty sure 50 wouldn’t be a problem. And if 50 isn’t a problem...well...100 doesn’t seem like such a pipe dream.
Okay so everyone was right that a road bike would solve more of my problems than add to them. Yeah, yeah, go ahead and say "I told you so"...BECAUSE THAT'S NOT GOING TO HELP ME LATER TODAY WHEN I HAVE TO DO THAT DOVER RIDE ON ONE GEAR AGAIN. I'm working on that geared thing though. For real this time. Trust.