pedal strike, esq.

It was Saturday, and tummy full of breakfast eaten with the family, we were killing time before the planned IKEA run.
“You have another thing in common with Pantani,” I was informed, “you both love karaoke.” Then, “...Oh my God.”
From Mike’s new iPad came the streaming sounds of an Italian song. He had found a gem of a Youtube video, from 1996, when Pantani, injured from a tangle with a car and told he might never walk - much less ride - again, sung the Giro theme.
We played it at least three times in a row while Pantani transported us to whole other world of awesome. And between the first and second time, I commented that that video made my weekend, that it was even better than my graduation.

Because on Friday, I officially became an Esquire. Or at least an almost-Esquire [I think I’m allowed to at least put the J.D. after my name]. I had rolled out of bed, put on mascara, squeezed into a dress, ran to a bus in heels, and wore a polyester gown for two hours in the heat to pick up an impressive[ly big] piece of paper. And to be honest, it was sort of anticlimactic. We lined up alphabetically, walked, listened to speeches, and, well, graduated. And like that weirdly surreal feeling of stagnancy I felt after I finished all my exams, I didn’t quite believe it had happened.
Instead, I’ve felt a lingering disappointment. Like Pavlov's dog, I’d waited too long for this day for it possibly measure up to my expectations of freedom, universal love, and world peace. After three years, I'd even managed to get tired of salivating.
Maybe it’s the impending bar exam and the fact that I have about 10 weeks to memorize 20+ subjects condensed into three consecutive 8 hour days of testing, and the knowledge that I’ll be missing most of this summer. The Tour, my bikes, even my sanity are preparing to hide away, replaced by sheer terror and parental expectations to pass what a friend endearingly called “the most important test of our lives.” I am fucking terrified.

But my panicked moments of nausea-inducing fits of bar-related anxiety aside, my graduation was less than exciting. Not that I expected it to be; I had grumbled that I didn’t even want to go, that if my family hadn’t insisted on flying in, I wouldn’t go. Memories of the past three years are, at least as they relate to law school, marked by mental breakdowns, therapy, and acne.
All of which led me to believe - in part because it was easier that way - that none of it really mattered. I had clung to that belief because otherwise it felt like I had failed at something significant enough to measure my worth. And crazy as I am, even I didn’t want to believe that. So in the middle of winter I had purchased a bicycle. I stayed in school, made some new friends who preferred to live on two wheels, and found a man who, when I told him that I wanted the past three years of my life back, told me he could give me back one. I was skeptical, but I think he just may have.

After the ceremony on Friday, still in my unflattering gown, I had squeezed past classmates scouring the audience for their families, past proud parents taking pictures, to touch Matt on the arm. In our silly caps, we gave each other big smiles, and hugged tight. Because I had found him, too.
And unlike grades, transcripts, and classes, that mattered. That was really, really worth it.

sweating changes

I am a creature of habit. Or at least, I strive to be. I like to unconsciously stumble to the bathroom and reach for my toothbrush with most of my brain still asleep. Have my feet lead me to my computer to turn it on while I boil water for coffee. Grab a mug from the cupboard on the right side of the sink, my hand knowing exactly how high to reach without a visual guide, much less conscious thought.
All of which meant that I was slightly afraid to wake up this morning. Because after three years, I’ve moved.

Not to a different, exciting city, not even to a different zip code. I schlepped my stuff [with the help of a few movers] a staggering ten blocks, two bikes in tow and more clothes than one girl should ever really own. After unpacking 80% of my things, pacing in an unfamiliar room, it finally hit me that things are changing - like really fast - and the anxiety crept up like that super commuter that hangs onto your wheel in all of his glorious neon. The one you can’t really seem to shake, making you be all like shit, is this really happening?
Unfortunately, [for me,] it is. My bar review course has started [before graduation!] which means 8-10 hours of studying a day, six days a week. Which wouldn’t be such a huge deal if I wasn’t so used to being so goddamn lazy, rolling out on 2 hour rides whenever I wasn’t expected to be in class. And trying to figure out how I was going to get those precious minutes and miles in, between studying and unpacking, I’ve been staring at my rollers with a mixture of relief and exasperation. Thank God I have those things so whenever I have time, I can jump on the bike and really savor indoor riding in the summertime!
It doesn’t help that I’m on a fourth floor apartment now, currently with no AC. Because it is fucking hot outside, people. A few days ago, I did a sweaty 2 hours in the saddle, inhaled lunch, went to meet my law school bestie for coffee, got nearly knocked out by an iced Americano [my first this year], and then almost passed out later. As in like fainted, not like spontaneously fell asleep as I'm prone to do. I forgot how much I suck at dealing with heat, even if I spent at least half my life in swelteringly humid Tokyo summers.

All of which led me to purchase a neon colored drink yesterday in an attempt to restore the electrolytes I was losing. Wait, don’t [mis]judge. I am not one of those people who insist on keeping protein powder in their library carrel because studying really flexes that big muscle in your head and obviously you need 100 grams of protein every other hour to keep that engine running. I just sweat. Like a lot. More than can be deemed normal or sexy; once temps hit 23C/73F+, I start not only feeling, but actively looking like turkey jerky.
So electrolyte supplements are sort of making a delayed entrance into my life. Mike’s a big fan of Nuun, and I love how you can carry it with you and only use it when you need it. I have two packs of Japan’s infamous Pocari Sweat and curiosity finally getting the better of me, I bought a sample pack of Vega Sport. But after my recent discovery that anything sugary quickly translates into acne [gross, I know], I’m a little hesitant to rely on any powders or shakes or what have you. Yeah, yeah, I know you can mix up a little ghetto fabulous electrolyte drink by mixing salt in a glass of water but I’m just not that into drinking straight up salt water on my rides [yet].

It did occur to me that the Master Cleanse formula of lemon juice, water, maple syrup, and cayenne pepper might do the trick as well. Might even make my rides a little more caliente. And then I realized I would probably end up on my hands and knees on the side of the road, gripping the grass or gravel with my hands while I tried to hack ground pepper out of the back of my throat. That is not caliente, even if I was in full Capo.
But like my incompetent fumbling with the hot water in the shower yesterday, which I’m confident will soon turn into an unconscious flick of the knob to get it just the way I like it, I’m sure I’ll figure it out. Hopefully harden up in the process, too. Because I have a date in a few weekends that’s going to involve a few good hours sweating. And passing out is probably the last thing I want to do.

drawing new [tan] lines

“Nice size 36 shorts,” Mike said as he tugged on the back of my jeans shorts. The waist gaped open.
With a little wiggling, I probably could have slipped out of them without undoing the fly, but convinced that a wash would cure it all [I’m pretty sure it didn’t], I insisted that they were just a little stretched out. Besides, being a little too big for me also meant that the legs were a little longer. Almost long enough to cover my tan line.

“Is that your tan line?”
“...Yeahhh...Wow. Damn. Yours are so nice.” Jared had pulled up his shorts and pressed his thigh next to mine.
“Well, someone’s gotta be!” He laughed as I protested that my shorts were not optimal for clean-tan-line-creating. Andy just shook his head and told me that I had to ride more.
Which is true. But, in a way, I’m still sort of convinced that my Pearl Izumi Sugar Shorts aren’t going to give me the kind of tan line that makes your thigh look like it was taped off, then spray painted with tanning lotion. Being a touch too big, the padding would sometimes catch on my seat, making me stumble awkwardly. Despite the gripper elastic, the legs would creep up during my ride, too, blurring that melatonin tattoo attesting to solid time in the saddle. Never mind my jeans shorts, I needed new cycling shorts stat.

Enter Capo to the rescue. After seeing the review of the Cortina jersey, the super nice guys at Capo offered to send me a matching pair of shorts. I wanted to virtually hug them.
Let me back up. Having worn the jersey on more than a handful of occasions, even without extensive jersey experience, I can say that it is definitely super comfortable. The pockets are made of full Lycra, and while there are only two, they’re deceptively deep. Extremely soft and form fitting, there’s no flap-age, reducing the jersey to something you just don’t have to think about while you’re riding. It even passed Coach DS’s zipper test [if you can unzip it with one hand easily - no biting the collar allowed!], and the guys appreciated the attention to detail, like how the label isn’t just screened onto the Lycra. Even my fairly critical, style-conscious sister commented on how nice it looked.

All this meant that I had high expectations for the shorts. I mean, I know they’re going to look good; but Capo’s set the bar high in terms of functionality as well. When I received them, I jumped out of my jeans and immediately tried them on. The first thing I noticed was the segmented padding [ignore how phallic it looks, please], which meant the Diaper Effect was significantly reduced. The padding is comparable in thickness to my Pearl Izumis but it felt sleeker and more efficient. No more feeling like I was sitting on a Maxipad - we’re in tampon territory with these babies.

Not to mention the crossover waistband that is a godsend to those with Lycra muffin tops. It’s so thin, too, that there’s virtually no visible line under the jersey...and that jersey doesn’t hide much. My only initial doubts stemmed from the elastic around the legs; instead of gripper elastic, the shorts use a thin, slightly stretch-resistant compression elastic. The shorts clutched onto my keirin thighs and I wasn’t sure if I was going to lose circulation in my toes as a result.
But like the jersey it matches, the shorts look really good. It's dark enough that you don't have to worry about looking chubbier than you are [and what woman wants that when she's in full Lycra?], and in a weird way it almost deludes you into believing - truly believing - that you're bringing sexy back [to the bike]. Maybe I was just in a good mood, though.

But potential sexiness aside, I was concerned about how it would stand up to a decent ride. So I suited up and clipped in to drag the Cross Monster out on an easy 30 miler.
When I sat down on the saddle, my first thought was, weirdly enough, that it was slippery. The next thought was that I could definitely feel the saddle underneath me, a lot more than when I’m wearing my other shorts. Not in a bad way; I was just more conscious of it. There was no need to rock back and forth trying to figure out where my sit bones went. For once, I knew exactly where they were and I had them right where I wanted them.
To be honest, after those first two revelations, I hardly noticed what I was wearing for most of the ride and had to force myself to concentrate on whatever signals my butt was sending to my brain. The one thing that really stood out, though, is that these shorts will not budge. The compression elastic around the legs that I wasn’t so sure about wasn’t uncomfortable or distracting while riding; in fact, they held everything down and refused to creep up. There was no adjusting or pulling down because white skin was emerging from the bottom of my shorts. Unless I forcibly pulled them up or down, those things weren’t moving. At all.

Which meant that when I came home tired and happy, and peeled off my gear, the longer Capo shorts had already left a sharp, clear tan line. Like the kind that looks comically fake but has turned into a point of pride for those of us who are obsessed with bicycles. Never mind the fact that my thighs now legitimately look like candy corn, and that mini skirts might be out of the question for the rest of the summer. Those shorts are going to make me look pro, even without clothes on.
And really, what more can a girl [on a bike] ask for?

leaving cuddles

I'm off to no-TV-land-which-means-no-ridiculous-cheering-on-of-professional-cyclists-in-the-Giro-and-ToC with a dress in my suitcase [finally!] and an email to read.

I'll be back on Monday in full force. In the meantime, cheer on Cuddles for me? I got a soft spot for my fellow Aussies.

brooklyn bike jumble-ing

I was born in the year of the pig [or, as I like to call it, the year of the boar]. I don’t say this to justify my adoration of food, but because, by sheer luck [or misfortune], the year in which I was born blessed me with a streak of stubbornness and, worse, a one-track mind. And when I say “one-track mind,” I mean the kind where, if I lose one train of thought, it’s probably not coming back. Ever.
Sometimes I like to think that I’m getting better at pretending to be as ADD as everyone else around me. But unlike the rest of the world, when my brain goes racing off on a tangent, I'm pretty much never coming back to my original train of thought. I can apparently only focus on one thing at a time.
“Hey, so, I wanted to ask,” I started, yesterday, dutifully filling in for Mike by parking my butt on the NYC Velo couch. I trailed off.

“.....Ohhhh, who’s Serotta??? So niiiice. Hey, whose is this? Man. Wow.”
“So what were you trying to ask?”
“Huh?”
“You were trying to ask something. Before you got distracted,” Andy informed me.
Even now I can’t remember what in the world I was trying to ask. I think I did remember, though, after about 3 solid minutes of deep thought. But back to the Serotta - a black one. It was Andy’s, and when I pointed out the flat pedals, he pointed to his waterproof shoes [it was pouring out] and mentioned that he had gotten the pedals at the Brooklyn Bike Jumble. I hadn’t realized he had even purchased anything.

Given that I was there, it was probably my one-track mind at work again. After Cafe Grumpy, the three of us headed to the Brooklyn Bike Jumble to check out bikes, parts, and clothes in our Lycra and cleats. There were vintage frames, a BMX bike with an amazing “Predator” decal on it, and a good showing of bike friends. We made it about ¼ of the way around the outside of the jumble before bumping into Abe and Tyler of Outlier, both of whom I haven’t seen since...oh...INTERBIKE LAST YEAR.

We caught up a little, and I got to see their new merino T shirts in person. They’re making polo shirts out of the same soft fabric now, and when I saw a guy try it on, I started running down the list of upcoming holidays to find an excuse to grab one for Mike. No holiday is necessary to stop by their new space on Saturdays to try on their women’s pants, though. I promised I would [and oh, I will].
Mike and I picked our way through the booths and tables with our bikes, squeezing past various frames and laid out bike parts. I got to meet John Prolly, got some hugz from Ethan Laekhouse [hands down one of the most hilarious people to sit on a bicycle], and met Harry, who recently organized the Coney Island Velodrome exhibit at the Old Stone House [is that enough name-dropping for you?]. All of whom were super down-to-earth and reminded my stubborn brain that I should be doing that whole socializing thing a lot more.

Our stomachs growling and my phone blowing up [for once] with my sister on the other end, we left soon after for lunch at Tom’s Restaurant. An hour or so after nomming on baked goods, we were stuffing our faces full of eggs and toast and good ol’ diner coffee.
Because even with easily distracted one-track mind, I always seem to remember the importance of coffee.

under the knife ride

A few years ago, my father came gimping back from chasing my dog around outside in his sandals. He had slipped, broken his fall, and ripped off most of his big toenail in the process. It was still attached to his toe when he showed me, his foot propped up over the sink. He pushed the nail, making the blood caught between toe and nail pulse a little.
“See, I ripped it off.”
I mentally shrieked. My entire body was covered in goosebumps. I almost felt like puking and pooping my pants at the same time. Yet another reason I could never go into medicine.
I felt the same way - and possibly queasier - last night when I helped Mike change the blood-soaked gauze that was patched around his sutures. And by “helped,” I mean “watched in morbid curiosity.” Because I obviously don’t deal well with blood.

Not that I didn’t expect at least some of this. Mike had surgery scheduled to patch up his hernia for a few weeks now, and with little time and sunshine left before he went under the knife, Andy suggested we do a few laps in Prospect Park on Sunday morning. A 44cm Bianchi Valle was offered on loan but it came with flat bars, so I stuck with the Cyfac, but managed to nab a used Specialized BG Toupe saddle. I was told that it would be better than the leopard print stripe number I was currently using but I had my doubts.

Yeah, I was wrong. Again. The Toupe is flat, hard, and feels like you’re sitting on the hood of a giant Cadillac. No shifting around or constantly getting out of the saddle. Extremely comfy, it helped me concentrate on not being able to really breathe while trying to hang on with guys who were dumbing it down for me but keeping it at a steady 19-20mph. The flats weren’t so bad; but you guys know me: anything with over a 2% grade is a pretty big challenge. Gears make it hurt less, but also just remind me of how much aerobic strength I don’t have.
After a few laps, with me trying to hold the yogurt I had for breakfast down, Andy was craving coffee so we made our way to Cafe Grumpy. A few minutes after pulling up, I was sipping a delicious Americano and got nibbles of chocolate chip banana bread, a pumpkin apple spice muffin, and a zucchini muffin. All of which hit the spot after trying to keep up with two steel frames that went way faster than the aluminum one I was riding. Coach DS was definitely right about how it doesn’t matter what your bike’s made of.

Fifteen minutes later, we were back on our bikes, headed to do more bike-related things. No more puking sensations this time, or goosebumps caused by bloody bandages, just good times. And enough fun for Mike to hopefully alleviate the pain of not being able to ride for the next few weeks.
Lucky for him, the rain’s been helping out. Hopefully my domestic skills are, too.