success not an option

Mike is always telling me that I should start another blog [“you should start a running blog....called ‘Foot Strike,’” or when I mentioned my hamstrings, “you should just change the blog to “Hamstring Strike”]. Fed up with his constant suggestions, I told him I was going to change the name of this blog to “Face Plant” so I wouldn’t have to start another one and it would be generally applicable to my life.
So I was going to change my banner today [April Fool’s] to “Face Plant.” I was too busy face planting to get it done, though.
I’m picking myself up, dusting myself off, and heading out to do the usual 2 hour ride for the first time in a week. I can already feel my entire lower body hurting. But that’s okay, I think I’m getting used to that part.

Remember last week when I was booking it through some legit wind? My legs hurt, but I wasn’t afraid of it for once. I knew I could juice them out a little more and I’ll still be able to make it home, mostly injury free [there’s little in this world that Aleve can’t fix]. It might sound silly, but I thought that was kind of cool. Maybe proof that I was getting a little stronger. Maybe proof that there was some hidden potential in those legs. Maybe proof that I was getting this whole thing right for once.
But a week off the bike and a little bit of cabin fever makes for prime face planting situations. I’ve been trying to get back up but sometimes it can be kind of a struggle.
This time last year, I just liked bikes. And then it got complicated. Stupidly so. Who knew that what kind of bike you’re riding, what kind of jersey you’re wearing, or what kind of helmet you have on could be the basis of superficial judgment? I mean...seriously? We’re all in the equivalent of an 80’s take on a superhero outfit gone terribly wrong. I’m of the opinion that we all look pretty fricking ridiculous.
Still, being a single-speed among derailleurs, I fight that self-conscious mentality a lot. I know I stick out more than I maybe am comfortable with. I know my limitations are pretty glaring, too. And it’s clear that I’ve managed to put myself in an awesome situation where I can’t conveniently hide in a pack or relate to people who can ride for more than 6 hours. As far as the internet goes, I’m apparently the only female cyclist foolish enough to acquire two single-speeds and insist on riding them like road bikes. I’m going to be honest; that can be frustrating. It makes getting on the bike just that much harder.
But sometimes, I forget: success is not an option.

A mantra that originated on one of those rare days when I had the confidence to admit that I don’t really belong anywhere near a bike, it’s actually helped me stay on the damn thing. It even got me thinking I should try my hand at a crit, just to see how long it would take for me to get lapped [and oh yes, I would ride that 25lbs+ Bianchi]. People would probably take offense at that, but failure’s a lot more fun when you can spectacularly redefine “disaster” in the process. And quite honestly, I’m pretty good at that.
It’s all about attitude, people. Attitude in Lycra. Now off to blow up that Dover ride...!

perpetual bonk

On the verge of an academic bonk, I was guzzling an Americano at 5pm while he was sticking to tea at our weekly meeting, when he said,
“Keep to what you can manage, you know? Otherwise, you just end up looking like an idiot.”
We weren’t talking about me, or even him, really, but the gears in my brain finally started turning. Shit, I thought, maybe I’ve been doing this completely wrong. Maybe spending huge chunks of time wishing my stem was a pillow was actually not normal. Maybe being exhausted was something that should be happening after I get off the bike, not before. Huh.

I understand this is old news, but I’m going to point to childhood trauma on this one. My Asian parents beat into me the philosophy that if you suck at something - other than math, that didn’t get through to me - you just have to try harder. Put in twice the effort as normal people. Never mind that I probably have a VO2max of 2; push the pedals hard enough and maybe I’ll be able to go faster than 20mph one day. Maybe even sprint for more than 30 seconds. And if that effort wasn’t enough, try three times as hard.
Yeah, I really shouldn’t have applied a philosophy that my parents only intended to apply to academia to bicycles, but I never said they taught me common sense [the fact that I don’t have one is a total genetic fluke, not due to a failing of theirs, though]. So instead of taking off days, alternating between cycling and running/strength training, I was trying to do it all. At once. And while I am somewhat multi-talented - as in I can wash the dishes and talk on the phone at the same time - I am not quite that adept.

That didn’t keep me from trying, of course, but it only resulted in me bonking in pretty much every area of life. I was tired all the time. I wasn’t eating enough and sometimes I hated more than just the first five minutes on the rollers. I barely had time to write, much less design. I was starting to get apathetic about class. Things were either not getting done or else going into the shitter. Awesome.
Small wonder, then, that when my trusted confidante snorted and made that statement, the lightbulb in my head sputtered and blinked and I thought, “I am such an idiot.” In my eagerness to be somewhat competent on a bicycle come spring, I was essentially demolishing myself. Worse, immersed in my newbie status, I forgot to look to the pros for guidance. Because even Victoria Pendleton has a rest day. In fact, her training regimen consists of lifting, riding on the track, avoiding hilly routes on outdoor rides, never running, and minimizing even standing on her off days. And while I’ll never be a world champ, that sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than what I’ve been doing for the past few weeks.

So yesterday, I resisted. Even as my bike seemed to stare back at me in hopeful anticipation of being ridden, I kept my butt planted on my chair. And while the complete lack of physical activity involving massive amounts of sweat was foreign enough to induce a slight level of paranoia, when my sister asked how “Perez,” my “flaming, gay, pink bike,” was, it didn’t seem like so much of a lie when I said, “oh, good,” in response.
I may not have ridden “Perez” yesterday but I’m pretty sure we’re both the better for it. And of course, there’s always today.

existential exit

Denial can only last so long, and when your rear brakes start to sound like metal grating on sand, it’s time to install new pads.
Or at least to install new pads within the next two months. On auditory notice that my brake pads were nonexistent, I still managed to forget about buying new ones for about a month. Visual notice that my brake pads actually were no longer there, combined with the increased inability to stop had me nervously watching Andy while he dug through a box of pads. Luck smiling down on me for once in my life, I was able to claim the last ‘cross set in his inventory.
Because stopping’s important, you know?

I’m not talking about the ability to slow down or stop in the middle of the West Side Highway, River Road, or Central Park, with one foot clipped out to wait patiently, because quite frankly I’m the one that can hardly keep up. My rear wheel isn’t ever going too fast; at best it feels sturdy and reliable, at worst like an anchor with a dead body wrapped around it. Ascents are painfully slow. Descents are faster but still akin to a walrus lumbering lazily towards water. But it’s comfortable despite its inhibiting weight, and kept me fairly grounded.
The first time I rode Mike’s Cyfac to New Jersey, though, the only thing I felt was pressure on my feet and exhaustion tugging at my thighs. It was like riding on air, like flying. The kind where even your brain stops screaming and all you can do is blink.
And even though it was heavier than that Cyfac, potential memories flashed like strobe lights through my brain as I took my sister’s new Bianchi Via Nirone on an unauthorized spin down 2nd Avenue last weekend [HAHA I RODE IT BEFORE YOU, oops, i mean, sorry Kak!]. Built up and exactly my size, it was sitting pretty in NYC Velo and I couldn’t resist jumping on to shift the gears and coast down the street. The brifters bent inwards under my curious fingers, the derailleur clicked, and the cassette spun. I was jealous and a small part of me - okay, more like at least half of me - was tempted to pick up the damn thing and throw it into oncoming traffic. It just didn’t seem fair. I’ve wanted a road bike for so long now that it almost seems like I’ve been biking forever.
But that’s not true [clearly]; I’m just spinning out of control.

It’s almost too easy to do, too, which makes those jumbled up feelings of envy and bitterness simultaneously more tolerable and more frustrating. There is a lot of teaching of need, of powerful learned wanting that manifests itself into an exchange of things, stuff, whatever, for the motion of sliding plastic and a signature. It’s everywhere, even in an industry fueled by human muscle and grace. And when people told me that this was cool, this was pro, and that this would buy me membership into the exclusively cool, I - an ignorant newbie who is about a billion miles from even trying to emulate Cat 4s - bought into it.
Unknown at the time, and realized only a few days ago, the foolish purchase of that mentality also bought me quite the existential crisis. Deadset on chasing a false sun, I had turned into the modern day - albeit cliched - Icarus, vanity and the desire to fit in shadowing the blatant signs that my wings [or wheels, as the case might be] were melting. Right before I fell, I asked myself why I started all of this - the bikes, the blog, the obsession - in the first place, and unable to come up with a clear answer, I fucking crashed.

But it stopped me, too. Maybe with a few more psychological bruises and a lot more self-disgust than I had anticipated, granted, but no one ever said this sport was easy. It was never supposed to be; at least not as easy as cutting a check or typing in your credit card number. And I forgot that, even in the company of legit racers who didn’t give a shit what they were riding as long as it worked [and, okay, wasn’t steel], friends who didn’t need to spend money to look like they could lead a breakaway because they could actually do it, and win. Meanwhile, I was trying to hide the weakness of my legs by covering them in money; and in that game, there’s never any winning.
I crashed again yesterday, for [sort of] real this time, first bouncing into the right side of the doorway before smashing into the left side before I did the tumble-slide-fall onto the rollers, my feet still trapped in the clips. My shoulder - skinned and turning an angry red - burned, and I remembered that was where Jared, a Cat 1 track and road racer who will entertain my stupid questions about optimal gearing for the track, punched me last weekend. We were with Andy who once [snobbily] told me that I had to work on my bike snobbery, Chris who does triathlons without training for them, Justin, whose quiet acceptance of everyone as they are is as comforting as his nickname of “Hot Chocolate,” and of course, Mike, the expert of tough love who, unmoved by my emotional meltdown, dared me to give it all up. And I remembered, I really love those guys.
I got up, checked the bike, and climbed back on. And I remembered, I really love this, too.

t time

You know when you end up walking behind a couple, and they're holding hands and cooing to each other and giggling and also blocking the entire sidewalk? And then you try to either walk past them or slow down so you're not overhearing them murmuring cutesy things to each other but it winds up just being more awkward because they don't notice you're trying to pass them so you end up literally two steps behind them for an embarrassing length of time? And when they finally notice all you can do is mutter some lame apology as they let you pass by?
I hate that. And that frustrating impatience you feel when you get stuck behind an oblivious couple on the sidewalk is the the reason why I cannot take the T. Anywhere.

Maybe it's because I'm used to the clean, almost sterile efficiency of the Japanese public transit system, but waiting for a train that's clearly on the schedule of "I'll show up whenever the fuck I decide to" is mind-boggling. Add to that the fact that I am, without a doubt, faster than the Green Line and I'll prefer to bike everywhere. Even the Red Line sort of repels me.
And recently, I'm really glad I don't take the T. Because as irresponsible as I am, I just couldn't tolerate dying via a train conductor who is too busy texting. Or something equally retarded.

No, I am not paranoid. Running errands around Coolidge Corner, I heard the wailing scream of a transit police car booking it down Beacon. I figured it couldn't be more exciting than a fender-bender in the bougie suburbs of Brookline. But passing Washington Square, I saw an inordinate number of po-po [remember, this is civilized Brookline, not Dorchester], an ambulance, and a train. It looked like someone got hit.
Granted with the speed of the Green Line, the victim probably got nudged a little. And because this is Beacon, not Comm, it's not like there was any risk of getting hit by a train and then flying into speeding traffic. Still, that shit is scary.

One more reason I'll be throwing a leg over a bicycle all winter. And besides, being crammed into a stuffy, airborne-germ-infested train car also means increased risk of exposure to those cuddling couples. Which would be enough to make me jump off the T, anyway.
I'll take my chances on the bike with the unpredictable drivers, traffic, ice, and snow, thanks.

almond croissant disaster

Despite how addicting it was to watch le Tour over the weekend, I was grateful yesterday was a rest day. It was one less thing to miss, and simultaneously, one less thing to sigh and roll my eyes about.
Don't get me wrong, I love watching the Tour. It was what came afterwards that has me shaking my head in remembered misery.
In fact, Sunday started out in a picture perfect way. A quick bike ride up to the East Village, beverages acquired at Think Coffee, then a jaunt into Soho to pick up pastries at Balthazar. Then, strolling back east on mostly-still-sleepy Sunday morning streets, walking within mere feet of Terry Richardson. Because a weekend in New York always requires some sort of celebrity sighting.

And then, of course, the Tour. With orange brioche, galette aux pommes, and an almond croissant that I'm still thinking about. Grabbing the last flaky half of the galette, I was half lying on the couch, feet supported by the trusty ottoman, plate resting on my chest, pastry shards flying as I shrieked and cheered on Pierrick Fedrigo and Franco Pellizotti over the soothing cadence of Phil Liggett. All, fortunately, with company that [hopefully] wasn't noticing what a complete slob I can be.
Still humming on the tdf high, I reluctantly boarded a bus back to Boston at 1pm, leaving behind a city that's quickly becoming a favorite. And two hours later, I was on the side of the highway.

In Connecticut. The middle of Connecticut. With a broken down bus and not enough seats to take us all home on the next two buses passing through. A random taxi pulled through and offered to take some of us to South Station for $250. It was tempting but none of us took him up on the offer. About two hours later, I threw my bike under yet another bus, and lulled into a sense of reassurance, passed out for a few hours in a jam-packed bus.
7 hours after I left NYC, we finally lurched into South Station. Grateful for the calories consumed earlier that day, I made it home by 8.30pm, then it was back to work until too late, and up too early for another Monday at the office.
I'm already planning another trip down to the city in a few weeks. And while Sundays in New York can start off decadently sweet with almond croissants and cycling, fearful of jinxing myself, I'm more than a little hesitant to indulge in both again.
But, you know, I can be persuaded otherwise...

throwing chains

Dear Old Woman in the White Sedan,
I understand you're old and there's not much in life to make you happy anymore. I also understand your time behind that steering wheel is extremely limited, and that you'd rather drive over people than consider slowing down.
But when I throw my chain, and skid to a startled stop because I have no idea what just happened, don't nearly run me over because you were tailgating me.

It also makes you look like a giant bitch when you stop there, honking your horn, when you could easily back up and drive around me. Okay, maybe you couldn't back up because your fender was touching my rear wheel and there was a car behind you. But honking at me just motivates me to flip you the bird, especially when I'm only occupying about 2ft of the side of the road.
If it gives you any satisfaction though, you scared the shit out of me when I felt your fender pushing my bike. You should also have been scared. Mostly because you might have killed me. But I'm sure you couldn't really give a shit.
Thanks again, for being an inconsiderate bitch! I hope you burn in hell!
Love, Me