goodbye to the rapha cycle club

I bounced down the stairs, my just barely covered feet soundlessly skipping down the smooth stone stairs, shoes in one hand, the other alternately hovering over the banister and pinning the Rapha bonk bag, borrowed from Mike, to my hip. A thought occurred to me that I might very well crash head first into one of Mike’s neighbors given that I was stealthily flying down the stairs but I arrived on the first floor without so much as a self-conscious hello. On the first floor, one shoe in each hand, I hopped on one foot, then the other, securing shoes onto feet. One last look and sigh at the bonk bag - it obviously didn’t match - and I pushed open the door to the windy yet humid night.
Once outside, I teetered down three final steps, feeling slightly awkward and embarrassed. I paused for a moment, pretending to look inside the borrowed bag, and fixing my hair. I was in black, three-inch stilettos, a short, black pencil skirt, which, I’d discover by the end of the block, was a size too big, and a blue and pink patterned silky shirt. I had earrings on, and it was the first time in forever that I’d cleaned up, dressed up, and put on lipstick.
But given the occasion, I felt it was appropriate. It was Thursday night, the last day of the month of September, and we were all saying goodbye to the Rapha Cycle Club.

For the past few weeks, Mike had informed me of possible plans for the closing party, but it had always seemed somewhat surreal. Like my denial that summer was over about three weeks ago, it seemed like the Rapha Cycle Club would still be there, even after September 30, 2010. I would be able to just drop in, say hello to regulars like Ben [of the babelicious BH-Garneau team]and Fritz, get some killer Americanos made by RJ, and make fun of Cassidy. It was a place I occasionally ate lunch, watched the Vuelta, parked my bike before weekend rides, and met up with Mike after I got out of work. But in the last few weeks of September, it seemed much more than the collection of my admittedly shallow experiences. It had been a place that, within its short life span, had simultaneously drawn in seasoned cyclists and converted others into cycling fans. It was a place that elicited exclamations of disappointment by more than a handful of people that they hadn’t discovered it sooner, as well as hopeful suggestions by regulars that maybe Rapha could keep it open for just a few more months. On paper, it was a large pop-up shop with a coffee shop and two huge flat screen TVs. But in that huge space, at that large, glass-topped table or in the spaces between the racks of jerseys and shorts, we all seemed to find exactly what we had been looking for.

And too soon, it was 7pm on Thursday, September 30th. I strode down the block [it’s impossibly to simply walk in stilettos], across the street, and over two doors to the glow of the Rapha Cycle Club. Half the table had been pushed against the wall, Bryce was DJing near the cash register, and the broom wagon had been converted into the bar, the kegs tucked neatly inside and served in appropriately pink cups. Bikes were stacked two rows deep against the wall, and familiar faces swum among unfamiliar ones, all bordered by white t-shirts [hand-screened by Mike] stating “R <3 NY.”
Judging by the attendance, it seemed like NY loved Rapha too. The cyclists that you’d want to show up to your event to legitimize its authenticity were all in attendance, including Ben, Bravo, Sam, and CJ. [Kyle] Peppo showed up a little time later along with DS and Andy, while a fair number of girls balanced out the Y chromosomes in the room. Skull Krusher regaled us with hilarious stories, as always, and people kept seeping into the room. We talked about injuries, recent crashes, racing, when I’m going to get that road bike, and, sometimes, what was going to happen after the party - and the NYC Rapha Cycle Club - was over.

Maybe we all didn’t believe it, or maybe we wanted to be part of a really good send-off, because I’m pretty sure all of us had a lot of fun that night. The fact that we were losing a safe haven where we could watch the Tour and the Vuelta, watch movies on Wednesday nights, and sip coffee before taking off for a mid-week group ride, was put off until Friday morning. For the moment, we sipped beer out of plastic cups, laughed with friends, and swung hips to the beat streaming out of Bryce’s speakers.
When the beer ran out, people drifted outside and then to the after party, mostly by bike, some on foot. I sat on one of the stools, resting legs that weren’t used to walking and standing in such high heels, watching Derrick - the new directeur sportif for Rapha Racing - and Mike make plans for organizing inventory the following morning. I watched, as usual, Mike lock the door and pull down the shutter. We hailed a cab for Bryce, helped load his equipment into the back, then slowly walked home, Mike verbally unwinding the day’s events, sounding relieved that the weather had held, and that so many people had showed up. I nodded, trotting to keep up with Mike’s flat-soled stride, the reality of the closing not sinking in. Not yet, anyway.

A day or so later, I passed the space after work, the shutters down as Mike had finished with inventory for the day. “Glory Through Suffering,” it still said, and I remembered when Mike had gotten the vinyl decals made and rubbed them onto the gray metal. It made me sad, even if it was a little embarrassing to admit such a fact. It wasn’t as if Rapha was gone forever, but I couldn’t resist hoping that I could break in, drag that table to the middle of the room, and make everyone come hang out again. I glanced up quickly, just to make sure that the sign was still hanging outside the space, despite knowing that it would eventually be taken down.
I looked for that sign again, the following day, on the way back from a ride. It was still there, and I held back a sigh, harboring a selfish hope, however distant and unlikely, that maybe they’ll do it again here next year. That maybe Rapha might come back to NYC, and maybe even stay for a little bit longer, with Brett around for the entire thing, this time, so that we can repeat our memories. It was a silly thought [given that chances that it would happen were slim to none], but it seemed something worth hoping for.

putting down a pedal

"You only ride Sunday?"
Pollo asked me this after I rushed into Velo on Sunday afternoon, a couple of hours after he saw me on the GW Bridge. I shook my head no, and tried to explain that I just didn't have a road bike, which is why I'm shuttling between Boston and New York, working two jobs, six days a week. Seven if you counted the hour I went into Velo, after a call that they were swamped with people and could use my help.
By the time I got there, the shop was quiet, but after organizing receipts, hauling a rental up the stairs from the basement and trying to figure out how to ask Pollo in what world he thinks I would be capable of riding to Nyack [that's a 80 mile trip] on a track bike ["Only track bike? Track bike okay on 9W. Okay for Nyack," he informed me], I realized that these past couple of weeks, Pollo is right. I do only ride one day a week.

Which explains why it's been so quiet around here. The 9-5 internship three days a week lets me squeeze in a little bit of roller time after work if I don't stop by to hang out anywhere. The 11-8 bike shop gig lets me spend more time with bikes, learn how shops work, and doesn't chain me to a desk all day, but since I don't tend to get into the city until 11pm the previous night, riding's out until I have a day off. Still, while lots of bikes are around, the pressing need for a "real" job, plus - ironically - the desire for a road bike, has me deferring saddle time for work and cover letters.
I want to change that. In fact, I need to change that.

Because no matter how much of a pain in the ass it seems to get on a bike after too much time in an office, and no matter how uncomfortable it is to sweat buckets on the rollers instead of riding out in the sunshine, nothing really compares to spinning my legs around [on a real bicycle, of course]. It’s actually the perfect antidote to a stressful day: spinning enough to get disgustingly sweaty and then taking a relaxingly scorching shower can make an otherwise shitty day sort of alright. Of course, when I’m trying to cope with a shitty day, I’m more likely to be having a meltdown that tells me that I seriously have no time to be riding a bicycle. And then I don’t. And then I feel even more guilty.

So I’m putting my foot down [to myself]. I’m committing to riding more, even if it’s indoors, and getting those projects that have been floating around in my head, done. I’ll be writing more, too, because like bicycles, this makes me happy and keeps me sane.
And if I don’t do all of the above, I’m holding you all to hunt me down and kick my ass for not doing it. Or at least taunt me for staying slow.
Deal?

triathletes, cockroaches, and 60 miles

I never understood physics. I just didn’t get it; why it was important, how it worked, etc. I’m not talking about advanced physics [that’s in a whole nother world of “I am so confused”], but simple introductory physics. I recall vague examples of energy being transferred from one pool ball to another being involved, and glasses half full of water being swung around and not spilling. That’s about it.
Oh, and one other thing: that a body in motion likes to stay in motion.
At the time I “learned” that rule, I was more concerned with why an inanimate object would have wants or desires [sadly I was the only one that didn’t see the end of any potential career in medicine or science for another two years]. But it’s all coming back to me, slowly but surely, a decade later. Because bicycles and physics are like peanut butter and jelly. They go together and love each other and people really get them together. But to me? I’m feeling like when I was eight years old and choking down PB&J sandwiches at friends’ houses just to be polite and silently gagging. I still apparently don’t get it.

But I’m trying. And that old rule about bodies in motion hit me full force on Sunday when I rolled out of bed after completely passing out at the rockin’ late hour of 11pm. I could barely walk, and with sore legs that didn’t want to fully extend, I crab-walked down the hallway to dive into the bathroom, the need to pee being the only thing that was powerful enough to get me out of bed. Descending the stairs was painful but loosened up tight muscles, the running around before I left NYC behind for Boston aiding in the recovery process.
Recovering from what? From, oh, you know, DOING MY FIRST 60 MILER, EVER. I was so secretly proud of myself, I would have danced after my shower if my quads weren’t struggling to support my weight. After doing a grand total of 20 miles during the week, I got peer pressured into going on the NYC Velo monthly ride, led by Erik of Vice Magazine. Actually, I was asked to be at the shop to help out at 7:30a.m., which apparently means “7:50a.m.” in Velo-speak. I pulled on bibs and a jersey just so I wouldn’t have to climb those damn stairs again, and “helped out” by watching people filter in and talking to people about their bikes. The group that showed up consisted of about 12 or so guys, plus 2 girls [myself included]. The route planned was a brisk 80-miler that skirted the edge of the town I grew up in in New Jersey, but knowing I wasn’t up for throwing down four times the number of miles I’ve done all week on a bike in one day, I told Andrew I would tag along until we crossed the bridge, then do a solo ride up River Road.

So in my head, I imagined a leisurely ride up to the GW Bridge, then the struggle up those two climbs on River Road and an easy ride back on 9W, hopefully in the big ring. My illusions of having the energy to go up River Road crumbled as the group kept what was probably a “leisurely” pace for them, but was uncomfortably close to “balls to the wall” for me. CJ and Erik were at the front of the group, and shot up Riverside Drive with me huffing and puffing, attempting to suck on a wheel but losing it completely.
By the time we got across the bridge, I had the distinct feeling that I had probably blown myself up trying to keep up and that trying to climb up River Road would be suicidal. We were less than an hour into the ride and I was already popping Nuuns into my water bottles [Nuuns are incredibly awesome...you can even break them in half if you have smaller water bottles or you just want to thin it out]. I thought I was off the hook at that point; the planned ride was going up Knickerbocker Road, which is west of 9W. I thought I would be solo cruising.
Until CJ, Chris F., and Stanley decided to go with me. CJ called it the “fat, slow group” while Chris F. referred to it as “the ride for people who have other things to do other than ride all day.” Whatever the ride was called, we spun up 9W, past the Palisades Marketplace, and for the first time ever for me, to Bunbury’s in Piermont. There was a decent climb or two, a muffin split with Chris, some crashing into the woods [not me], and triathletes that piqued CJ’s competitive edge enough to have him decidedly drop me on the way back [the next time I saw him was at the bridge. LOL.].

But holy shit, as sweaty, snotty, and smelly as I felt after I was done, I could only think about doing a 70 miler next time. I was able to come back in the big ring, having at last grasped the concept of shifting gears and how to manage all of them. That’s not to say I wasn’t complaining, I was. When I protested at a climb, David, a friend of CJ’s who we picked up at Bunbury’s told me that I sounded like CJ two years ago.
“Now look at him. He’s a like a cockroach. He won’t go away.”
CJ laughed mid-climb, telling a story about his last Tour of Battenkill which had me laughing despite my labored breathing. An hour later, I was in no man’s land, but it was totally okay; we all start somewhere, and it’s usually off the back. Chris waited up for me, then bombed past me on a descent, shouting as he passed that that’s what 200 pounds looks like [there’s that physics again]. I had no hope of keeping up.
Maybe in two years, though.

lobsters and hogs

At family gatherings, I usually sat at the “kids’ table.” This usually consisted of me and my sister, plus the few cousins that could still relate to us. Given that my mom - the youngest in her family - pushed me out when she was 37, this meant that aforementioned cousins were at least 11 years older than I was. The kids’ table [or “the young people’s table” as it was later called] was fun for my sister and I, but looking back, I’m impressed that my cousins were able to even carry on a conversation with us. With the exception of cyclists, I find it difficult to talk to anyone who is over 3 years younger than I am. Toddlers and babies just make me awkward. I’ll point and pull sleeves of friends and say how cute they are, but when people give them to me to hold, I tense up. I’m deathly afraid of dropping the child or not holding him/her right or doing something wrong which will enrage the parent and result in them slapping me.
Which is why when Mike told me I could sit at the “kids’ table” at his family’s annual Lobsterfest, I muttered something like “um, nevermind” and found something busy to do. I imagined the scenario that unfolds before me when my mother has threatened the same thing: me sitting at a separate small table with my cousin’s 6 year old tyrant of a son, getting abused by a toy train or verbal abuse that’s meant to be funny but is just annoying, until I snap and then he cries to his mother who probably wouldn’t really care but everyone else will remember it forever and judge me by it, including my own mother. But hey, Mike’s American. That means he has loving, accepting, nonjudgmental parents [this is true]. The kind that dispenses hugs and stuff. And the hugs are of the cute, warm variety, not the stiff, awkward ones I’m forced into when my sister tries it.
So I agreed to go. Even with the threat of being dumped at a separate table with small children whom I wouldn’t know how to talk to [what are they even into these days?]. But again, these are American children, which means they are adorable. And have blue eyes. I even got to hold one. And no, I wasn’t there as the Asian nanny.

I didn't even drop the baby! A few minutes after I relinquished him to his mother, as more family members and their respective children filtered in, Mike offered to walk his mother’s new Specialized Ruby Elite [with 105] out to the garage. She said I could try it out, and I got to ride my first ever women’s specific CF bike.
It’s a 48cm, but easily fits my towering height of 5’2.5 [Mike’s mother is about 5’1]. Despite what everyone says about CF, this bike felt solid, like there was something there. It accelerates well [even in my Vans on clipless pedals], and although I only took it out on a quick spin, I bet it’s an awesome bike to take out on longer rides. Pedaling up the driveway, Mike appeared beside me on his father’s new Specialized Roubaix, another CF bike. With a fairly minimal paint job, the raw carbon of the Roubaix makes the bike look like the equivalent of a muscle car: fast and strong. The two bikes together make for an impressive pair and Specialized moved up on my list of wish bikes. I’d totally get one if Velo carried them [ahem!].
But then I rode this, and my life changed.

JUST KIDDING. And yes, that’s a Harley.
Then, as we were finishing up playing outside, food started coming out. Cheese, crackers, and fruit in the kitchen, steamers on the stove top and after we swung by the fish market in Mike’s father’s truck [I got to ride in a truck! Oh man, I love trucks!], lobsters. A big boxful of lobsters. We attacked them after we stuffed our faces full of steamers and after I ripped that crustacean apart, I was just about ready for a mid-feast nap. Mike and I just sat there for a while, feeling full and/or pregnant with food babies, staring at our swollen stomachs, until the entire family got together for the annual photo meticulously staged and taken by Mike’s father, Gene.

Then there was dessert. Oh yes the Spriggs like their dessert. I saw the cake on the table and silently thanked Mike and Cassidy for making me ride as much as I did last week. Then I grabbed a fork and ate a big chunk of that thing. I mean, it said “Mike/Rapha” and “Kaiko, JD.” WHY ARE AMERICANS SO CUTE AND NICE???

So after that, I went into a diabetic coma and had to be carried to the car and rolled home. But not before we flipped through the Winning magazines that Mike's uncle, Andy, brought for him [he had saved all but the first three issues]. We laughed at the awesomely 80s ads, and kept pointing things out to each other. It's a treasure trove of design ideas and just good cycling stuff in general. At least half of the issues featured some kind of pro female cyclist, too, which was definitely cool and appreciated.

Before I got into the car, I think I said something about how I have to ride and all that but that coma lasted well into Monday. But that’s okay, there’s always tonight, and tomorrow, rollers in my room, and from what the Internet tells me, Thursday Trick Nights at Superb...! So that whole fitness thing might win out over the whole flabbiness thing. Might.

rides and needles

I blame my childhood epilepsy for a lot of things: the parental prohibition on engaging in sports, the inability to climb trees and my subsequent complete lack of interest in traveling at any rate faster than a brisk walk. All of which could be explained by simple laziness, but the epileptic seizures and symptoms that quietly vanished along with most of the awkwardness acquired during puberty seemed like a good enough scapegoat. Epilepsy was to blame.
It did, however, teach me how to HTFU. The fact that I had to take medicine to control my seizures meant that I got my arm stabbed with needles every few months for blood tests. I detested them. The needle always seemed larger, wider, and more deadly than it actually was. The heavyset nurse - the nurse was always heavyset, usually with glasses and pale curly hair - would approach to poke a hole in my arm with that silver needle, a rubber tourniquet making my vein swell and pulse. I imagined the tip of the hollow needle as a gaping, sharp metallic tube that was at least 2mm wide. Enough that it couldn’t not hurt, no matter how brave I was. And as the nurse approached, dabbing the pit of my elbow with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol, I drew in a deep breath...and usually screamed.
At eight years old, I would consistently bawl in sheer terror. Given that blood tests happened too frequently to count, my mother probably found it both tiresome and secretly hilarious. By my teenage years, I had learned to contain the tears, holding my breath and looking away, squeezing my eyes shut because if I couldn’t see it, it might not feel so bad. That’s never true, but it helped keep the freaking out in check. Towards the end, I actually looked, and found the way blood gushed into test tubes fascinating. I still couldn’t look, though, when they slid in the needle or when they pulled it out.

It’s been over a decade since I’ve gone in for one of those tests, but the needle and the looking away, the way I could hear my heart beating in my head, and the slow exhalation when the deed was done has been coming back to me these past few days when I’ve managed to drag my butt over the river and to New Jersey. Actually there was more involved, like my loud ragged breathing and frantic spinning while trying not to pass out, and the other day, clinging onto a wheel knowing that that would be the only way I could possibly make it home in one piece.
Caught in the Rapha Wednesday ride a few days ago with Cassidy and Wei “Top Ten” Chen, I had no hope that I could keep up, much less make it to the end of River Road. I had tried the first climb [about a quarter-mile long] a few days before; and actually considered sitting down and nursing my legs at the top. But my solo ride yesterday turned into a group when I caught up with Cassidy and company on the West Side Highway. We were joined later by Matt - who raced with Lang back in Seattle - and Chris 2 from Velo. Our motley crew slid across the bridge and bombed down the sidewalk that leads to River Road, me mostly terrified and trying not to ride my brake but failing miserably. We would group together, then spread out, the faster guys flying down the descents and up the climbs. Hitting the first climb, Matt peeled off to start the climb from the docks on his single-speed. I made it halfway up in the big ring and then spun feebly the rest of the way, getting out of the saddle but staying in the drops the last 10 feet.

We dived down more descents, dodging some nasty potholes, while Chris and Cassidy laughed at how I rode like I was still on a track bike. The final climb appeared almost suddenly. Matt peeled off again to add another quarter mile or so to his climb. I looked up, and I ditched any thoughts of doing any part of it in the big ring.
“Just spin,” Cassidy and Chris advised, making it sound easy although my legs were incapable of moving at such a rapid pace, “and put your hands on the top of the bars.”
I tried, I did. But my body would curl forward like it didn’t want to sit up and the sensation of trying to “spin” in my granny gear but finding that some sort of mashing was also involved to get up a mile long climb was weird, for lack of a better word. The only thing I could hear was my labored breathing and since the jokes had died down, it sounded embarrassingly loud. Cassidy spun beside me, telling me that I was doing great and that I was almost there and I wanted to tell him that he should look into becoming a life coach but nothing would come out. I mostly sputtered, while flip-flopping between the top of the bars and the drops. I think I managed to spit out a rhetorical “seriously?” and even laughed when Wei - who had yet to break a sweat - and Cassidy pushed me up about 10 feet, their hands on either side of my back.
It got harder after that, though. The road curves deceptively, making the disappointment that the climb wasn’t over that much deeper every time I turned a bend. I gave up. Like the time BRC-IF guy paced the hell out of me, I stopped looking. I kept my head low, peeking at the 3 feet in front of my wheel and nothing else. I suppressed hopes that it would end, and just focused on getting up the stupid thing. Not that it made it any easier, but like those all-too-frequent blood tests taught me, in a pinch, not looking/voluntary denial isn’t such a bad strategy.

At the top, I nearly fell over. We stopped for a few minutes for a bathroom break and my feet were doing that thing where they quiver in my shoes. Cassidy suggested we all go up to the Palisades Marketplace, which was only a few miles away. To be honest, if I had been alone, I would have just headed home, but I’m a sucker for peer pressure so we went, Cassidy, Wei, Chris and Matt dragging my wheelsucking ass up there and then back to the city. In hindsight, my choice not to peel off was probably a good thing, as I probably would have died a long, slow death on the side of 9W had I tried to get home by myself [or been victim to the more embarrassing alternative: bonking and cabbing it back to the city].
Back at the Rapha Cycle Club drenched in sweat and crusty, Mike asked me if I would ever do it again, but I couldn’t really think. I just sat and looked at my legs and feet and told him I didn’t know. He asked me how the shorts were, and I remembered I had a new pair of Rapha men’s bib shorts on and thought about how I hadn’t noticed anything on my ride and even how my butt never got sore even though my thighs might be a bit wide for the extra-small. But hey, if I keep riding, they’ll slim down, right?

Well, probably not with the sheer amount of food I ate afterwards. But like I told Mike a later that night, that ride was the hardest thing I’ve ever done on a bike. That’s sort of embarrassing to admit, but the complete ass-kicking I got on Wednesday was also incredibly fun. It made me want a road bike even more [is that even possible?] so I that I could conquer that ride...or at least do it with a little more grace and maybe a tad less sweat.
Eager to fill that void in my life due to a lack of gears, I helped out for a few hours that same night at the shop. I had to cut my visit a day short and hustle back to Boston the following day, sore legs and all, but when I fell asleep Wednesday night, I was hoping I could do that ride again, one more time, before I became gearless again.

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.