work it, girl

“You’re not working on Sunday? Sunday is funday. Sunday we dance around the shop naked.”
Kyle told me this as I leaned on the counter by the cash register at NYC Velo. It was Friday, early afternoon, and my legs were beginning to feel worn down already. A few hours later, I would sit on a couch and realize that the last thing I wanted to do was get up, much less cook dinner, descend five flights of stairs, run some errands, and climb back up those stairs. But for the moment, my knees were just a little uncomfortable, reminding me that although sitting at a desk for 8 hours a day probably isn’t healthy, it was a lot easier than scampering around all day.

With the hopes of working towards a new bicycle, I worked a few hours at the shop this past weekend. I restocked shelves, sold helmets and lights, was asked advice on sizing for someone my height [answer: difficult], mastered the basics of the cash register, ate lunch on my feet, and made fun of Ish. The usual suspects, who I always tend to forget about when I’m stuck at a desk for too long, were in. There was the guy in his early 20s, just getting into the fixie craze and primarily concerned about making his new bike look really flashy. On the hunt for powdercoated Deep Vs and anondized everything, inevitably with a budget too small to build his fantasy bike, I cringed a little remembering my own pink anchor-like rims. Selling those off moved up slightly on my list of priorities.
Next came the [predictably] Japanese tourist bike dorks, murmuring and pointing at the Ellis hanging in the middle of the shop, behind the pretty Vanilla. They bypassed the impressive single-speed, choosing to ogle instead at the geared wonder, and when Justin showed them the electrical shifting, they gasped in unison, and ooh-ed and ahh-ed for a good 5 minutes. It was nerdily endearing, maybe [mainly?] because they were Japanese.

And then, of course, the bike celebs. Saturday evening, John Prolly and John of Two Tone Atlanta [Twitter friend meet up!] swung by on some awesome bikes, then proceeded to molest the Vanilla with their cameras. We talked bikes and the New York State Track Championships taking place at Kissena, and took pictures and tweeted. They hung out for a while, before heading off to check out the Rapha Cycle Club, and when I looked at my watch after they had left, it was almost closing time.

Post-dinner, all I could do was sit with my legs stretched out in front of me, staring dumbly at the calves that felt like heavy clubs. Mike said he was going to hook me up to the Globus he borrowed from Brett, which sounded like a terrible idea. But then again, maybe not, as I woke up Sunday morning with dead legs and that sort of oppressive cloud-like sense of obligation to ride anyway. I did [in the park, nonetheless, which was pretty much like a circus], making my Sunday outside the shop my own fun day [there may have been some RuPaul involved...].
No naked dancing, though. But at least I know where to go to see that on any given Sunday.

mullets and gmc [bikes]

I’ve been on a purging spree for the past two weeks. I stuffed a huge garbage bag full of clothes and donated it to Goodwill. I am going through piles of notes, recycling everything I can, throwing away stuff I can’t, packing everything else into boxes, bags, and suitcases. Purge, rinse, repeat.
And in the middle of throwing out beauty products that probably shouldn’t be used anymore, I looked in the mirror at the bob that had achieved “soccer mom” frumpiness. Thick and gross, I called a salon, found out that my usual stylist was out for the week, and made an appointment with another one anyway. How bad could it be?
“I’m just going to add some layers on top and thin it out a little but keep the length,” my new stylist informed me. I’ve learned, however, that this is what every stylist - possibly with the exception of the one I would trust my life with in Japan, who has taken me from awkward tween to bouge-y punk to brand-name whore to some semblance of working professional without really uttering a word - is taught to say. And when you’re fortunate enough to have friends and family that wouldn’t refer you to someone that is just so-so, you end up being just a little too trusting when left on your own. You trust Yelp reviews and forgive a few botched cuts. You go to a new stylist employed by the same salon because really, come on. How bad could it be?

Well, I’m sad to admit: it can get pretty bad. Like mullet bad. Like wtf-I’m-actually-going-to-pay-another-stylist-to-fix-this-because-I-never-want-you-near-my-hair-again bad. Like I-briefly totally-considered-suing bad. [Although it doesn't look as terrible tied back...oh and do you love my Little Mermaid bath towel? I DO!]
Post-mullet-imposition, feeling sort of terrible for myself and acting right in line with predictable contradiction, I picked up the search for things to acquire. Even in spite of all the discarding and donating, I’m a packrat at heart. So reminding myself that that new one bedroom won’t fill itself, I went hunting for a new bicycle.
You know, the one with gears that I still haven’t managed to get my hands on [total lack of finances having something to do with it]. Ebay and Craigslist hasn’t turned up much, and I’ve pretty much given up hope that the Internet was going to deliver something awesome to my impatiently clicking mouse. Until, bitching and moaning to SkullKrusher about anything in my size that was decent, he showed me...

...THIS.
Possibly the shittiest bike I’ve ever seen, a close examination of the description of this stellar thoroughbred on two wheels will tell you that shifting can only be done on the top of the bars, like a mountain bike. But to brake, you need to use the hoods. I actually don’t really understand how this works, except that somehow, someone took grip shifters and forced them onto some road bars. And then expected people to buy it.
But fascinated in a disgusted sort of way, I couldn’t stop looking. And Googling. Amazon.com provided even more entertainment with some amazing reviews of this zippy 21-speed bike, and trying to figure out wtf is going on with the shifting, the ghetto quill-like stem, and who at Shimano was on drugs when they agreed to supply parts for this monstrosity, I found a picture. One that is almost as amazing as the existence of this bike.

At first, unable to admit that this could possibly happen, I convinced myself that I was seeing it wrong. I stared for a while longer, closing in on my computer screen, squinting some, tilting my head. But, no. What you’re thinking...dreading...is right. That’s a GPS, mounted on a sub $250 bike, with the hoods on backwards. Oh, yeah, and with those grip shifters. Awesome.
And if that hasn’t made your Monday, here’s another shot where you can see the grip shifters in all their glory, plus this guy’s impressive wrap job.

I could feel mechanics around the world cringe in unison, and my lunch almost came up through my nose when I saw the second picture. I clicked through the rest of the pictures provided by Amazon and considered buying one for about 30 seconds, mostly to embarrass friends that I would make ride with me. Oh the fun times it could provide...until the whole thing fell apart 20 miles from home, of course.
Sadly, I decided against it [I can be persuaded otherwise, though], for now. Which means no new bike for me, yet, but after discovering this little gem, I can’t say that the search hasn’t been anything short of entertaining. Even with a mullet.

skullkrusher and the speedmetal podcast

It was one of those times where I was in a room, ready to be sociable but too little sleep the night before meant I wanted to keep an exit plan in place. Small talk, conversations where I could slip away unnoticed, back to a cozy bed or sofa, falling asleep to bad TV, was the plan. But then Mike introduced me to SkullKrusher, the man behind Speed Metal Podcast. Nudging me and murmuring “that’s the guy, the one with the podcast,” I figured Mr. SK would find more knowledgeable people to hang out with and talk to about all things pro peloton.
He didn’t. We ended up joking around, talking about “flooring” [don’t ask], and generally acting like idiots [see picture below]. Well, until two 20-22yr old Korean girls walked in. Then I got dropped so fast, I would have been offended if the spectacle wasn’t so amusing [as well as the subsequent text-stalking that I've been privy to].
In the few weeks since, I persuaded SK to participate in an interview [my first!] via email about SMPC, cycling in Colombia, his favorite races, and bro-deals. Enjoy - and make sure to subscribe to his podcast!

KS: Okay, let's start with some basics: how did Speed Metal PC start? What was your original idea behind it and has it changed since?
SK: Well, my brother Lucho was getting so much attention with his silly blog (Cycling Inquisition), that I felt a little left out at family gatherings. Lucho would be the center of attention telling Gramma and Aunt Maria Fernanda all about his internet fame. I had to do something about it!
Actually, that's all bullshit. We have no Aunt Maria Fernanda. We do, however, have an Aunt Maria Magdalena, a Claudia Marcela and a Marta Lucia. OK, seriously now, here's the story: I really got into listening to podcasts while riding a while back. Not only cycling, but F1, soccer and football. I noticed that most cycling podcasts (especially those in the U.S.) were about cycling culture and not about the sport itself. It was a little frustrating. I'd get my fill of news and analysis from my F1 podcast, for example, and I'd learn nothing new about the pro peloton from any of the cycling ones. All I got, if I was lucky, was a rundown of the GC of the major tours. What I was SURE to get though, was plenty of ranting about riding your bike and what frame was better and some local century and the hosts new set-up. It's a very American thing, I've noticed. People who are "soccer fans," play the sport, but don't go to the stadium. Meanwhile if you show up to a pub early Sunday and meet a bunch of British fans, less than half actually play the sport. I'm a huge cycling fan. I love the sport. I have loved it since I was a little kid. Buying a road bike and riding it is a relatively new thing for me and I'm not that interested in hearing people talk about riding. I'm a fan first, a rider second. I guess I wanted to create the podcast I'd like to listen to.
How has it changed? Well, I don't think I'm as bitter towards "bike culture" as I used to be. People can do whatever they want, who am I to tell them otherwise. If you want to buy a Cervelo and ride it once a month without ever hearing about the Kuurne-Bruxelles-Kuurne or some other race, it's fine with me. Enjoy. Another thing that changed was my original co-host, DJ Dezzy Dez, left the show. He moved. The dynamic we had was fun, since he knew nothing about cycling, but I think his departure has helped move the podcast in a better direction. I've done a few episodes with my brother Lucho and with Mike Spriggs as co-hosts and I like it better. I feel we get more in depth and they get cycling inside jokes.
KS: Also, you told me earlier that you didn't expect people to be so into your podcast and what you were doing with Speed Metal. Did that change your own expectations of what you wanted it to be or become? Any additional pressure from all the fame?
SK: I'm not sure I knew what to expect, but I was overwhelmed with the amount of feedback we got, even after the first episode. Now, I think I feel a certain amount of responsibility to the people who listen. That sounds so fucken lame, but I do. I feel a certain amount of pressure to get new episodes done and to keep the quality of the information and the humor high. One of the biggest things for me now is to "take advantage" of the relative popularity of the podcast to launch other projects, like the T-shirts I'm doing and eventually (read: hopefully), develop Speed Metal Cycling into a brand. Jerseys, underwear, loopy straws, trading cards and incense.
KS: Loopy straws, huh?
SK: Dude, loopy straws are the shit! Your milk has a roller-coaster ride before it touches your lips. Not only are you happy 'cuz you're having some milk, but the milk is happy 'cuz it just went on a loopty-loop of fun. Can't wait to make some Speed Metal PC ones. Until then I have the Jens buttons. They've have been a real hit. Of course, they've been a hit 'cuz they are free, but I'll take whatever success I can get. My next big project is a limited edition set of 60 pins each featuring 60 of the best cyclists of all time. I'm doing 200 sets and releasing them 6 cyclists at a time. The first wave will be done soon.
KS: Can I get a bro-deal on those?
SK: Bro-deal? The only deal i know about is the ho-deal, when a prostitute gives me half off cuz it's my bday...

KS: Oh...so...um, how's riding in Colombia different?
SK: It's really, really, different. As a past-time, riding a road bike is almost non-existent. I can tell you that out of all my friends in Colombia, actually of all the people I know in Colombia, 50% of them may like cycling, but I can't think of one who owns a road bike. The majority of people who ride are people in the lower economical strata. Usually kids (farmers) in small towns in the mountains trying to use cycling (if they go pro) as "a way out" of poverty. In recent years that has changed a little and you might see an upper middle class dude here and there riding a carbon frame around the city, but overwhelmingly it's considered a sport for the lower class. I'm almost embarrassed to tell my friends there I ride a road bike for fun. They will most certainly make fun of me and ask me how my potato crops are doing this season.
KS: And tell me about the curses and witches!
SK: Colombia is a country (not unlike many Latin American countries) that is very superstitious. The amount of weird superstitions that exist in the sport is insane! My bother Lucho has done a couple of lengthy posts about the topic on his blog. Personally, believe in a lot of that stuff and I have too many superstitions to list, but I can tell you I'll never go anywhere without a silver key my mom gave me to "keep me safe." Not sure what that means, but now I don't feel safe without it. There's a few more amulets I take with me when I'm on my bike and I cross myself five times before a long ride. My mom got it in her head a few years ago that someone, probably and ex, put a curse on me. I now fully believe it, but I'm doing something about it! I wash my face every morning with holy water, in my wallet I carry a piece of folded white paper I must NEVER unfold and I sprinkled some weird powder thing my mom sent me on threshold of my front door. Colombian pros are nutty about that shit, too! We're all nutters over there!
KS: Okay so if you're so superstitious, do you believe that things were meant to be? Like you just happened to sit next to Mike, or that we just happened to be the only minorities at the Rapha event a few weeks ago?
SK: Hahaha! We were, weren't we? Everyone probably thought I was the delivery guy from a Mexican restaurant and you, of course, from a Chinese place. But, no, I do not think that everything was "meant to be." If I did, I wouldn't bother with all my weird rituals, you know? I think that each of us is destined for certain things, but on everyday bullshit, we write our own destiny. I know, though, that without all my rituals, I'd be writing a really bad destiny.
KS: Were you destined to get into cycling then?
SK: Being born in Colombia, I think I was. It was hard to escape the craziness in the early 80s. The country was obsessed with cycling.

KS: And switching gears a bit: best race to watch, and why?
SK: Damn, that's a tough one... On TV, for me, it's a toss up between the Tour of Flanders and Paris-Roubaix. Both races have such tradition and history of drama and usually live up to the hype. If I may use the term; these two races are "epic."
KS: Personal favorite race/race stage, ever? (and of course, why?)
SK: Damn, another tough one... Off the top of my head, 1990 Paris-Roubaix. It was a photo-finish between Eddy Planckaert and Steve Bauer. At the end the race was decided by an inch or something. It was a nail-biter all the way to the end. Maybe the '84 Roubaix. It was a total mud-fest and Sean Kelly won it like a man. Fuck, I'm sure there's probably an Alpe d'Huez stage I'm forgetting. Oh, shit Il Passo di Gavia in the 1988 Giro!! Freezing cold, snowing, windy and zero visibility. Breukink and Hampsten couldn't even stand on their own after the finish. Shit, if you have a chance to watch that, take it. THAT is an epic stage.
KS: Out of curiosity, because you obviously love watching/following pro cycling, what do you do when season's over?
SK: I masturbate a lot... is this part of the interview? I hope so...Actually, I watch a lot of classic cycling and Formula 1 races, I watch American football. I have an extensive collection of old cycling videos, so I get me fix while I fantasize about the Spring Classics to come.
And there you have it. The mysterious Mr. SkullKrusher. If you're inclined to stalk, follow him on twitter here, follow the podcast here, and subscribe to it here. Because you should.
* Note: Last image = SK supporting Colombian transplant George Hincapie in the cobbles of Northern France at this year's Paris-Roubaix (image courtesy of SK)...Lucky bastard!

kissing with helmets

There was a fly in my room last night.
Giant and green, with some hints of blue. I have no idea how it got into my room, but it swooped around my studio, launching itself across the space between my eyes and my computer. Too lazy to try and kill it, I wished with all my heart that it would just stop mid-air and die. I sat there, willing it to either disappear or fall dead, annoyed at both it and myself for being startled by its occasional presence near my head.
And in the humid heat that was anything like the cool temperatures of mountainous New Hampshire, I almost reached for a rubber band. Just to try it out.

It’s a trick that I’ve seen Brett execute several times a day at the Rapha Cycle Club. Spotting a fly lurking around the coffee table, as I looked around for a fly swatter, Brett took a rubber band, took careful aim, and released. The band jumped through the air and bounced off the stagnant fly’s body. They fell one by one, dead before they hit the ground, one even severed in half by the snapping rubber. No splatter though, and the neatly bunched up corpses - iridescently pretty if they weren’t such goddamn pests - got snatched up in a napkin and quickly disposed of.

“What are you going to do when he leaves?”
It’s a question I’ve been asking for a while now. We all knew Brett was getting married in August, that he was riding cross country for his honeymoon on custom IFs, that he was going to leave the Rapha Cycle Club and wouldn’t be back until after it had closed. It all seemed surreal though; even on his last day at work, I still saw him hanging out at the Rapha Cycle Club. But a week after that we were driving up to New Hampshire in a rented Mini, up to Sugar Hill, New Hampshire where phone reception doesn’t exist, the climbs are impressive, the roads kind of shitty, and you can get the best pancakes, ever.

A pre-wedding ride was planned but with some heavy hitters on the invite list and still without a road bike, I sat out. I had imagined a blissful morning of quiet reading while Mike climbed around the mountains on his De Rosa, maybe an excursion into town later, which I imagined could only be described by the word “quaint” [“nonexistent” might be more appropriate]. The Mini dampened such plans for Mike, making arrangements with other wedding-goers further complicated by the whole “lack of reception” thing, so instead a lazy breakfast was consumed, and what do you know, we saw the wedding ride sweep past us just as I drained the last of my Americano at Wendle’s Deli. We waved, and DS peeled off the group and offered a trip into Littleton to do a little discovering with his wife [who is, as expected, adorable].
We watched gliders being dragged across the sky, then being released to float in slow circles and land silently. There was a bike shop next to DS’s hotel, in a converted barn, and what do you know, they even offered horse back rides. I caressed an inquisitive nuzzle looking for carrots, and heard the thudding of hooves in my head and remembered the feeling of flying.

And Littleton? World’s Longest Candy Counter. ‘Nuff said.
But back to the real reason we were there: the wedding. AND THE CAKE. DO YOU SEE THIS THING? Designed by Brett to perfectly match their custom frames, it seemed like everyone took out their respective cameras to snap a shot or two. We milled about, I completed my fuzzy picture of “cyclists that Mike always talks about but who I haven’t met yet,” and for the first time in forever, I saw Jared. In a suit.

And then I saw Jared officiate the wedding.
Casual in that it wasn’t stifling, and carefully written, the speech made the crowd laugh and the bride and groom were full of smiles as they exchanged rings. People cheered as they said their vows and all of a sudden Brett was married. The wedding bands were quietly impressive in their implied weight, the rose gold glimmering pink and radiating a warmth that’s hard to come by in normal gold rings.

As the sun set, hor d’oeurves were consumed, champagne sipped, then dinner plates piled high with Tofu Wellingtons, veggies, and couscous, paired with glasses of wine, and more champagne. Speeches were given after the obligatory tapping of the glass, and though at any other event - no matter how exciting - I would have been exhausted, I wasn’t ready to go home until the wind picked up, reminding us all that this was New Hampshire, not the humid pockets of Boston or New York.

So, yeah, that’s why marriage has been on my mind lately. And as Brett and Edie take off to pedal across the country from Portland to NYC, I’m wishing them all the best. But with a stellar wedding behind them, gorgeous IFs beneath them, and forever to look forward to, I’m pretty confident that they won’t need luck or well wishes. They got this.
Congrats, again, guys! And I’ll be following your blog...so post lots! See you when you get to NYC!

i'm a loaner, dottie, a rebel

A friend once told me that I reminded him of Pee Wee Herman, “but in a good way.” I’m still struggling to figure that out; whether it was some sort of compliment, whether he meant that it was clear I was in line to inspire some limited edition dunks, or whether it was an honestly blurted out sentence followed by damage control. That was over a year ago, and I remain, as ever, completely confused.
He didn’t know then, and neither did I, that I would be dreaming of a red and white bicycle within the next few months. A steel IF Crown Jewel, in fact; mostly red [like Pee Wee’s], with a dash of white, maybe a touch of black. Classic colors because I hear that custom frames, like wedding bands, are mostly forever.

And like ideal husbands, in my mind, the Crown Jewel was smooth and perfect; like so perfect that I would never want to ride anything else and everything else would feel unnecessarily harsh due to its shoddy craftsmanship. Nothing, even a carbon fiber bike made by 8 year old South Asian children carefully selected by Pinarello for their dexterity, would ever compare. It would accelerate at the flexing of a muscle and would take me to far off places like Belgium, France, the Netherlands, and even Tokyo. We would be together, forever, and it would be the only bike I’ll need for the rest of my life. Sure, there might be something carbon in the later years of my life when my mid-life crisis hit, but out of a burning building, I would only grab the IF. In fact, in my imagination, I would even run into said burning building to carry out the IF: pristine and sparkling, ever ready to sweep me off my cleated feet, albeit with some melted tires.
All of which was sort of silly and purely the stuff of dreams because I had never ridden an IF before. Actually, my rides have been limited to one steel Bianchi single-speed which feels like it was made from water pipes, one aluminum track bike, and one handmade aluminum Cyfac that’s too big for me but has Campy Record on it. So, yes, I based my dreams on the opinions of friends who either work at IF, have IFs or who have ridden an IF. Great sample pool, I know.
But as luck would have it, last week, a green Crown Jewel arrived at NYC Velo. A demo bike for a potential IF buyer and built up with Dura-Ace. With a 47cm seat tube and 51 top tube, it was a touch too big, but something I could get my leg over, and when offered for a road ride upstate, I immediately accepted. I may have asked my customary, “really?” but it was with the intense hope that yes, really, I could take this out for more than just a spin around the block.

Late Friday morning, pedals screwed on, saddle switched out, and appropriately dressed, I headed out with Mike up 9W, the goal being the Palisades Market, maybe Piermont if we felt like it. It was little-ring-sitting-in riding for me; maybe taking it a little too easy but paranoid about hurting my leg so soon after getting back on the bike. The rear gear got switched up and down, up and down, Shimano apparently making more sense to me than all that Italian stuff that requires opposable thumbs. The bike, though obviously heavier than carbon fiber, was nothing like the steel I’m used to; it’s solid but doesn’t feel like there’s a dead body attached to your rear wheel. There was no conscious realization that it was steel or that extra effort was required to ride it. Light enough on the flats and secure on the descents, with gears that didn’t question my constant shifting, it was a lot of bike.
But it was a lot of fun bike, which was new and different, too. There wasn’t the terror of not being able to stop [I’ve given up on halting the track bike, quite honestly] but that’s not to say it’s a slow ride. Even in the little ring, with legs that have almost forgotten how to pedal, it required only a little pushing to kick up the speed to 22mph. And with no need to worry about how to slow down, it fed a desire to go faster and longer and up and over bigger and bigger hills. It got me to the Palisades Market without killing my knees or legs or lungs or heart. And I had it going even faster on the way back [although, yeah, that tailwind helped out, too].

It was over all too soon, and I almost didn’t want to return it. Actually that’s a lie. I didn’t want to return it, period. I wanted to ride it again the next day, and the next day, and the day after that. It didn’t even fit, which was the weird thing; I’d never felt such an attachment to something that was obviously less than perfect, that didn’t quite conform into my mental image of how things should be. It was clearly too big, but here I was, finding it difficult to say goodbye to something whose purpose was to fulfill a temporary curiosity; a loaner.

A few days later, I heard that little bike had changed. Narrower bars, shorter stem, the works:
“It’s different, now. You should try riding it again, next time you’re in town.”
Me and that little green loaner? That rebel?
Oh, I’ll be on it again, luck permitting. We’ve got some big adventures to live.

on getting dressed and the rapha continental

This whole thing is starting to get slightly dangerous.
I’m actually beginning to get used to being a completely useless slacker. I’ve spent more afternoons than I’d like to admit watching so-bad-it’s-good true crime shows and back-to-back Law & Order anything. If I’m going to be honest, the only reason I manage to get dressed before 11am every day is because Mike’s espresso machine has been collecting dust since the Rapha Cycle Club opened. I’m currently forced to put something on, walk down too many stairs and over two blocks to collect my morning Americano. Ridiculous, I know.

When the sense that I should be doing something with some semblance of productivity creeps up on me - “guilt” is too strong of a word to use here, I think - I’ve sought solace in my computer screen, attempting to find employment, catch up on blogs, or form my own densely muddied thoughts into words, sentences, or paragraphs. On one particular effort to re-educate myself on what the hell has been going on all summer while I was living under a rock, I found out that Velodramatic has been in France for most of July. In response, I kept my head perfectly still, glanced to my left and right, minimized Chrome and closed my laptop. Mental note made to read that later; sometime soon, I promise, just not now because the concept of Paris [Paris?...PARIS...?!] is a little overwhelming right now.
But despite the promise of vicarious vacays via Velodramatic, and the escape provided by the stacks of blogs and books to consume aside, I’ve still managed to spend most of last week watching and not so much doing. I watched as bags of gravel were shuttled into the Cycle Club, power tools taken out and new pictures hung in the gallery space. I spectated as graphics were laid out for the Rapha Continental gallery opening event Thursday night, and bikes were neatly positioned against each other. Rapha Continental riders themselves were in and out of the space from early Wednesday morning, and a little envious of all the activity buzzing around me, I offered to walk Rich Bravo’s IF - whose saddle comes up to just under my bra - from NYC Velo to the Rapha Cycle Club.

A few hours and a nap later - the latter is quickly becoming part of my everyday routine - I surprised myself by actually getting dressed in more than the Lululemon yoga pants that have turned into my version of what dirty sweatpants are to morbidly obese people. Jeans came out, plus a button down shirt, even a Rapha scarf...! I was pretty impressed.

Anyway, what was probably more impressive was the turn out and the presence of nearly all the framebuilders whose bikes were on display. IF, Igleheart, Seven, Bilenky...it was pretty cool to see the bikes and the people that made them, plus the guys who rode them, and people who are just into bikes in general. Though still in Step 2 of post-bar resocialization, which involves slowly learning how to interact with people on some sort of socially acceptable level, even I found the atmosphere totally chill and fun. And NO, I WASN’T COMPLETELY BLIZTED OFF THAT 40, THANKS.

Straight up sober, I still had lots of fun. I got to watch [among other things] Carey of Rapha [and Director of the Continental] climb into Kansas’ giant bag, met Skull Krusher [more on that later], and observed Cassidy’s attempts at pitching game. All of which made for a pretty solid Thursday evening. After closing up, we headed home where I finally peeled off sweaty jeans and shirt and passed out into the kind of sleep where you wake up feeling so rested it would be downright weird if you weren’t snoring the entire night.
And then I got up, clipped in on an amazing bike and went on a real road ride. More on that, though, later.