getting back on

“Are you coming on the ride tomorrow?”
“Um...no...?” was the most I could manage.
“You should come,” Brett continued, “I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”
Though the invitation was appreciated, I couldn’t imagine going up to Piermont on my track bike, especially given the nearly two months that I’ve been off the bike. Flat road, I’ve discovered, is hard enough with my total lack of stamina. Riding at the “easy” pace of 20mph with a few roadies and a particular cyclist who likes to slam the hammer down and keep it that way on the Wednesday Rapha Ride is the last thing I am currently capable of. I mean, it would be awesome if I could do it...but if yesterday’s quick spin was any indication, I have absolutely nada in my legs.

But like because we’re talking about riding a bicycle, the feelings were familiar. The sticky, oily feeling on my face, arms, and legs. The bits of dirt and sand stuck to any uncovered inch of epidermis. That wrung-out feeling in my legs, and the hunger that wasn’t there until it was, in full force, and I would have stuffed anything I could get my hands on into my mouth. But like getting on a bike after too much time away, it was also kind of weird and slightly uncomfortable. I had envisioned that my first post-bar ride would be relaxingly long. Slow, but cathartic. The mental image of turning the pedals was part of my August fantasy of awesome things I was going to do after the bar.
And in this personal fantasy, sweat and exhaustion were involved, but not the pain or the huffing or puffing. With a gusty tailwind up the West Side Highway, the fantasy seemed to be playing out as it had for the past two months in my head. Mike kept it slow and easy on his silver, red, and blue Cyfac, dressed in Rapha black, white, and pink and matching my bike more than his own; but still, reality set in a bit as I hauled ass to keep it at a measly 16mph. Which is something I should have expected, but you know how fantasies go: weakness and lack of fitness never quite make their way into them.

Reality really hit me in the face when I turned around at the GWB. The wind was definitely not feeling me. It wasn’t even like the whole “sorry I’m not feeling you right now, peace out,” but more like “I’m not feeling you right now AND I’M GOING TO SABOTAGE YOUR EVERY EFFORTS.” My legs felt heavy and fairly useless. All of a sudden I was parched and nauseously hungry - that one banana before my ride apparently wasn’t a sufficient breakfast. The humidity that hadn’t been a problem, suddenly was. My fantasy went the way of Andy Schleck’s rear derailleur.
But maybe that’s the way fantasies should go, anyway. The hard at times, assisted by a tailwind at others, facing a decent headwind and consciously struggling some of the time ride felt like it should. And though physically straining, it felt good to be back on the bike, the discomfort slightly reassuring in its familiarity.
Even if I felt like a marshmallow on a tricycle.

lowering the bar

It’s August, unbelievably, and somehow I’ve emerged from the past three weeks conscious, with some of my sanity intact, and done.
200 multiple choice questions, 5 typed New York state law essays, 10 handwritten Massachusetts law essays, 1 Multistate Practice Test, 3 Guayaki Organic Energy Shots, 1 5-hour Energy Shot, 4 days of living off almond-butter-pita sandwiches, and a trip to the extremely shady town of Schenectady, New York, all within three days totaling approximately 21 hours of testing later, I am officially finished with all that stuff that you get to do only after you graduate from law school. No more goddamn bubbles to fill out, no more depressing realizations mid-question that I was well on my way to what can only be described as “active failing,” no more being confined to a chair for at least 14 hours a day, day after day. The nightmares still, pathetically, pop up, but there’s the hope that they’ll eventually go away.

And what did I learn? That I’m capable of not riding my bike for over 2 weeks, that the Massachusetts bar probably wouldn’t have been so bad had I had more than 3 hours to study for it, that 5-hour Energy tastes like Robitussin mixed with Sweet N Low, and that post-bar, I am far from capable of interacting in any socially acceptable manner with anyone, much less go on a bike ride. That law school will never prepare you for this ordeal, and that at the end of it, you’ll end up feeling like shit, both physically and psychologically.
Oh, yeah, and as Ben was kind enough to inform me via Twitter, I even learned that I had missed the entire Tour. WHO KNEW?

And now there are bikes and friends and alcoholic beverages but I’m mostly just exhausted. I feel soft and gross and unhealthy. Riding a bike seems slightly foreign and the quick trip down to South Station from my apartment left my IT band aching again. It’s back to square 1, because, let’s face it, the stuff I’d been frantically cramming into my brain all summer had nothing to do with bicycles. Nor did it have anything to do with stringing words together to make somewhat coherent sentences and then publishing said sentences on the Internet. In short, my brain pretty much has that vacantly drained post-coital feeling if you took out all the good buzzy feelings and replaced it with someone repeatedly punching you in the balls [or, face, if you lack a scrotum].
So, yeah, I didn’t do much this past weekend. I packed my bags, got on my bike, hoped I wouldn’t kill myself on the way downtown, hopped a bus, and was at the Rapha Cycle Club in record time. It was Step1 in my efforts at resocialization, and though Ben questioned my choice of locale, it was comforting to know that everything was still basically the same. Nothing had drastically changed; the regulars were in attendance and the pastries and coffee were equally delicious. Conversations may have referenced the Tour, but they didn’t start with “Hal and Wanda got married in 1995. In 1998, they got divorced and Hal left a will that is going to fuck with your head for the next half hour.” And consistency [or lack of change], when it makes bar exams seem like bad dreams, is a very good thing.

So despite my own hopes of regaining my fitness or doing 5000 miles on my bike this week, I’m not quite sure either of those things are going to happen. But, you know, like passing the bar, there’s still a hope that they might.
And hey, at least I didn’t miss Shark Week.

rapha cycle club redux

Three more weeks and that feeling that I’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell when it comes to passing the bar is becoming more and more of an actual reality. And with this heat, “walking through Hell” isn’t so much of a simile anymore.
“Don’t lose your marbles,” Mike joked a few weeks back when I called him, sobbing and mostly hysterical.
“Marbles? I’ve only got one left,” I miserably told him.
I’ve been clutching onto that one last one; alternatively gripping onto it and misplacing it. And with the oppressive heat, it’s starting to feel less like a marble and more like the proverbial snowball, melting and dripping through my fingers. On a sauna-like, cramped bus headed back to Boston yesterday, I mentally cupped that snowball in my hands and wished it was back somewhere cooler and infinitely more comforting, where I could glue back the pieces of my sanity and iron out the wrinkles etching themselves between my brows.
Somewhere like the Rapha Cycle Club.

I know the last time I posted, it was about the same pop-up shop, and that double-dipping isn’t socially acceptable, even on the Internet [although, let’s face it, we all do it when no one’s looking]. But this time it was done and officially open on Saturday as the first stage of the Tour took off. And given that this past weekend was the last time I was permitted to laugh or otherwise crack a smile until after the bar, I took full advantage and headed down to NYC, Rapha, and a boyfriend.
And you know what? It was worth it. It really was. To be honest, I had my initial doubts and slight trepidations. Boyfriend managing the store aside, I’ve gotten shit for the Rapha-related things I’ve done; the smirks and comments on whether I really paid $70 for a silk scarf with cogs on it, the accusation that just liking expensive stuff meant that I didn't like to ride so much as look like I did, or that Rapha Scarf Friday prevented people from actually taking me seriously. The affiliation with Rapha suddenly became a lot more frustrating than I had ever expected, and came with baggage that, when I started this whole cycling thing, I never knew existed. Confused and embarrassed, in a way I blamed Rapha for leading me into this mess in the first place.

But haters are everywhere, and walking into the completed space, the Rapha Cycle Club is a lot more inviting than I expected, and completely devoid of the pretentiousness that people love to assume and hate in Rapha. There’s a long 30ft long wooden table flanked by jerseys and huge flat screen TVs on one side and a coffee bar run by Third Rail Coffee [serving Stumptown coffee in customized Rapha espresso cups and Blue Sky pasteries] on the other. Men’s jerseys and the women’s line flank the giant broom wagon sitting in the back of the space which doubles as a fitting room, but is also just fun to climb inside. A rotating gallery space is off to the left of the broom wagon and the limited edition t-shirts hang right next to the women’s jerseys and shorts.

Books, magazines, and newspapers are free to peruse and wi-fi means that laptops are in attendance. The floor to ceiling front windows provide ample opportunity to soak up your RDA of Vitamin D as well. A chalkboard up front has the Tour schedule as well as a race report written up by Mike of the previous stage [well worth the read and what will become, I’m sure, my primary source of info for what’s going on in this year’s Tour], and appropriately printed up on yellow paper. And because this is a shop for cyclists, there’s some awesome bike parking as well.
Surrounded by cool gear, and unable to resist, despite knowing full well I couldn't possibly afford it, I tried on the red Stowaway jacket in a size 10...and found that I somehow fit into a size 8 [the XXS]...!!! Other than fueling my vanity and making my weekend, it was awesome to know that even the smallest size allowed for slightly bigger hips. The jacket didn't clutch and cling to my hips like others do, silently implying that my butt is a lot bigger than it should be given my waist size. Admiring how it looked in the mirror, I mentally thanked Rapha for not judging.

But this is Rapha, a company from which we expect all the great little, meticulous details that other companies get points for. The space was going to look great; I knew that without even seeing the floor plan. I was hoping, though, perhaps selfishly given my own experience, that the Cycle Club wouldn’t be another reason why I should be that much more self-conscious about having done the things I have with a few scarves and a neck warmer [it was all G-rated, I swear]. And simply put, it was. For the first time since I started making friends who thrive on competition, I felt excited about being into bicycles, even if I still can’t do jack shit on one. I didn’t feel so out of place as I thought I would, and I even went back to hang out for longer than I really should have, every day I was in NYC.

I left there yesterday morning with a bidon, a bonk bag, one of the white limited edition scarves [thanks, Slate!], and even some new friends, sad to leave but the terror of the bar dragging my feet back to Boston.
“I’ll be back in August,” I promised.
“August?! Come back next week!” Cassidy said.
“I wish I could,” I said. And I really, really meant it.
[More pictures here...and make sure to follow them on twitter!]

missing july...and the rapha cycle club

People were out in lawn chairs, grills and coolers set out along with friends and lovers as the bus lurched and chugged past Pelham Bay Park; and as I looked out the window, I thought it almost odd that, for possibly the first time in my life, I am looking forward to the end of summer.
Odd because for any cyclist, the summer is definitive of, well, cycling. The more competitive time it just right, to peak at whatever optimal time they’ve chosen, the more laid-back take advantage of the long daylight hours to ride until 9pm, and everyone spends July - my birth month, coincidentally - talking, watching, and obsessing over the Tour. Everything buzzes during the summer - on and off the bike - and doped up on Vitamin D, able to ride without multiple layers and/or beards, everyone seems that much happier.
But I’m still looking forward to the end of it all. Because I’m going to miss it.

Yeah, I know, there will be other Tours. There will be other summers spent watching recorded stages on various couches, shrieking at the screen or asking incessant questions about the racers. There will be summers where I can build up miles and hours spent in the saddle and go on lazy, random, evening rides. Yeah, summer’s still going to come around once this one’s done, I know. But there is something I’m going to miss, and even the fear fueled by a test meant to kick my ass and put my brain through a blender for three days isn’t doing anything for the disappointment I’ve been feeling about this one.
I’m referring, of course, to the NYC Rapha Cycle Club.
A pop-up shop meant to open [officially] on July 3rd, with an invite-only party on the 1st, it’s been talked about since what feels like forever ago. And with the official press release email going out last Wednesday, I felt justified in visiting the new space on Bowery this past weekend on a long overdue trip to NYC.
Not that I asked Rapha if I could visit the space, or go inside, or talk to the [super nice] guys that are working on getting it ready. Neither did I really have authorization to do any of the above from Portland. But maybe implied permission isn’t so much of a stretch when your boyfriend happens to be the newly hired Manager of the Rapha Cycle Club.

I remember this time last summer, talking about bikes and design and everything else in a small apartment on the Lower East Side. Mike jokingly said that we should ask Jeremy how to land his job, “but in New York.” I think I said that I’d fight him for it. Fast forward a year, and Mike seems to have managed - albeit temporarily - just that. Since the beginning of the month, he’s been telling me about the new space, what it’s going to look like, and even the potential list of scheduled events. And in between Contracts and Criminal Law, I wished I could be there.

Not that I’m going to miss it all [the pop-up shop is open through September]. But the party I somehow managed to officially get invited to, and the month of July is time that I’ve resigned myself to miss. Given that books have mostly replaced bikes by this point [other than my commute, I’ve gone on one measly hour-long ride in the past three weeks], I’m almost too busy to be disappointed. Or at least that’s what Mike’s been telling me, in a sweetly considerate attempt to divert my focus from all the awesome stuff he’s currently putting together with the rest of the Rapha crew. But that doesn’t mean all this stuff isn’t going to happen. It is. But hey, what can I do, right?
Which is one reason why, if you live in the city or make weekend trips down there, you should check it out. With a coffee bar, TVs, and a giant table to just hang out around, it’s slated to be more than just a retail shop peddling its wares for a few months. Rapha Continental riders will be there, I’m sure, as well as limited edition somethings, and if that’s not enough for you, I’ll be there in August, too.
But really, that should be more than enough. So unless you’ve got a bar exam or two to take, do me a favor [pretty, pretty please], and don’t miss July at the Rapha Cycle Club.

a superb visit

Bar exam study has been keeping me away from bikes, but on the verge of going insane, I escaped to Superb yesterday afternoon for a well-deserved break.

Ahhh bike porn. The day got even better when Jason showed me his new Land Shark road bike. With vintage Time pedals...!

Of course, the sick Geekhouse with powdercoated rims to match was his, as well.

And perhaps my favorite thing I saw there...

A few hours later, I headed home to try and apply the above attitude ["even faster, even faster!"] to studying. That didn't work out so well. Still, it's good to know where to go whenever I need a break that involves cool bikes, awesome stuff, and stellar people.
Superb, I'll be back.

turn left at kissena

“You’re Japanese, you have to do it.”
It was the default nationality reasoning, which, when you happen to be Japanese, gets applied too often to activities that normal people just wouldn’t choose to engage in. Raving? Cosplay? Zentai? Yup, yup, and yup [and no, I did not do all of the above].
But this time, it actually sort of made sense. For once, it wasn’t linked to sexual perversions, a big step in and of itself when you’re talking about being Japanese. It was something that, while there might be quite a bit over overlap between the fans/spectators of uniquely Japanese fetishes and this activity, I found kind of cool. Something that would probably still elicit surprise in Japan if I ever admitted being into it, but vanilla enough to enable one to talk about it openly [loudly, even] in public.

I am, of course, talking of keirin, or track racing.
A sport that, in my home country, is more famous for its status as a betting sport and doesn’t allow women to race, I never thought that I’d end up on a track on a random Sunday in June. I saw it coming, unconsciously, maybe, acquiring a taste for bicycles, dropping bank on a track bike that consequently terrified me, and choosing to spend a winter developing some semblance of balance on the rollers. But “working towards getting to a track” and “getting on a track” are two different animals. I could waste endless hours on the rollers and never touch a banked velodrome.
But cursed with the kind of friends who think that I could “do well” in certain activities that involve physical exertion and a bicycle [never mind if their logic is rooted in my unchosen ethnicity], “riding my track bike around” just wasn’t cutting it. Mike insisted I get on a track. Jared kept asking me when I was going to show up to Kissena. DS was included in plans to accompany me to Kissena one day in sunglasses, mustaches, and matching tracksuits with “SHIMURA” emblazoned on the back, a rising sun beneath it.

With two single-speeds - one a legit track bike - absurd costumes aside, it seemed like a good plan. So when Jared told me about Kissena’s Women’s Track Clincs, I poked around their website, and just in time, signed up for the last 3 hour clinic last Sunday. I BikeReg’d for my first ever event, felt sort of cool because of it, and then proceeded to spend most of Sunday morning repeatedly telling Mike how nervous I was while he got ready to ride in the support car and otherwise do really cool stuff with DS for the Danish team in the TD Bank Philadelphia International Cycling Championships [yes, I was uber jealous]. He told me I would be fine, that DS said I would kill it, gave me a kiss, and left, leaving me weakly pointing at my bike, on the verge of pooping my pants, yet again.
A few hours later, I was sitting in the middle of the first track I’ve ever been to, watching as experienced riders switched out cogs and chainrings, sprinted, and circled. A few minutes later, Joe - the main instructor and organizer - showed up with loaner bikes, and more clinic particpants filtered in. In all, about 10 women showed up, ranging from 10yrs old to 40. All were experienced in racing in some capacity, and I was thoroughly intimidated.

We first rode around the track, getting used to the banked corners, and learning how to use gravity to launch into a 200m sprint, where to stay on the track and how to pass others. After a drink of water and a few minutes of rest, we were then put in a giant pace line.
And that’s about the time when I started to get my ass handed to me. Mostly by a handful of tweens.
Due to my nonexistent pace line skills, and riding behind the probably 8yr old brother of one of the younger girls, I managed to get dropped, then linger in no man’s land for about FOUR FUCKING LAPS. Struggling to pull the rest of the line back to the front, I didn’t so much blow up as slowly putter out from pushing against the wind for what seemed like forever. I heard Jared’s voice in my head - “hey, at most, I’ll only be 399m ahead of you” - and then the wind gusted again.
The pace line broke apart, we drank by-then hot water, and rested before doing individual sprints, lead-out sprints, telephone pole jumps and power bursts, concluding with mock races. By the individual sprints, my legs were pretty much done. Of course, I apparently still had to go around and around the track, attempting to muster up some semblance of speed, while the wind treated us to billows of yellow sand from the baseball diamond adjacent to the track. By the time we were through, my jersey was marked by chain grease [from flipping my wheel] and patches of brownish-yellow sweat where I had wiped the sandy sweat from my chin. My glutes hurt and the sheer thought of climbing up 5 flights of stairs to Mike’s apartment with a bike over my shoulder - much less the ride back from 42nd St - made my head swirl.

I made it, though [an almond butter sandwich helped]. Brakeless, even. I had pulled out the cable in my front brake once I had arrived at the track and failed to put it back in properly. To be honest, I was a little disappointed in myself when I left; even though my riding has recently been limited to my commute, I expected to be a little stronger. I didn’t notice until halfway to the Main St 7 stop that riding brakeless was sort of coming naturally, and that I was totally okay with it.
Rain hit me around 27th St, but feeling bad about pulling out Mike’s Rapha Stowaway with my disgusting hands, I considered it a free shower and toughed it out. I made it up those stairs, jumped into the most awesome shower in recent memory, tried to study for the bar and ended up passing out in my underwear instead.
I woke up to stories and pictures of the Philly race, indulged in a delicious brownie made by Mike’s mom, and passed out yet again, dreaming of turning left at Kissena.