kitting up for 2011

I’ve often complained about the severe shortage of jersey designers who have eyes. At least for womens’ jerseys. Which may be one reason I wear my NYC Velo jersey with such pride. Okay, it could also be because it’s the only jersey I own that’s not summer weight. Red, white, and bearing the triangular logo that makes me look and feel like a superhero, my “three season jersey,” as I like to call it, gets zipped up over the only proper long-sleeved baselayer I have. Every day. That’s right. Every. Single. Day.
This can be called either disgusting, frugal, or both. But it makes for getting dressed fairly quickly. While others might peruse their massive collections of gear, unless I have my period and am therefore too busy complaining about riding rather than getting dressed, I can be ready before chamois cream hits taint.

But that doesn’t mean I’m immune to wanting a new jersey or two. With the 2011 teams falling into place and the curtain being lifted on quite a few kits, I was kind of excited about the whole thing. Until that whole Leopard [or LEOPARD or LaYpArD or whatever] thing.
I actually didn’t see the kit until a few days ago, mostly because I was afraid to. I saw the twitter storm it fueled; claims that it was exactly like Rapha, or, no, Rapha-influenced. Heavily Rapha-influenced. Allegations that the entire peloton was going to turn into some giant black mass that would also function as a solar power generator. Well, actually a black, white, and blue mass. And then we would all be confused because none of us actually have eyes.

...Jesus. I knew you guys were drama queens.
Okay, to be fair, Garmin-Cervelo and Sky, both of which have mostly black kits with a single stripe across the chest, may be difficult to distinguish. But how is anyone going to miss the almost-no-logo, allegedly Rapha-ed kit of Leopard? More importantly, how is anyone going to miss the deliciousness that is FabCan in, well, anything? Or at least a kit that can make Andy look like he’s been eating too many donuts? Although look at Frank. Boy lookin’ fiiiiiiiiiiine. Makes me want to lick that...kit.

Anyway, while we’re on the subject of crushes, because a good friend of mine has the biggest boner for Cav, can I just say: I am really happy for HTC-Highroad? Because now they can have a much sleeker looking kit without the weird fake abs outlined in yellow because whoever designed it might have thought they would need an excuse for Cavy’s butterteeth? Like “well, it was the yellow from the kit reflecting in his teeth,” when everyone would know that’s not true? Point being, I would totes rock that.

So 2011 looks like it’s going to be a year of simpler, understated designs, with an aesthetic that isn’t so in your face. At least for the popular teams. Except my favorite, my Tour wild-card-hopeful, apparently never got the memo.

When I first saw the new Skil-Shimano kit, I didn’t so much as scream as feel this sense of deep betrayal. The white kit with red stripes that have been the signature of Skil-Shimano have been replaced with neon green ones, justified as some sign of commitment to environmental sustainability. What? I mean, I understand that Argos Oil is a new co-sponsor, but unless “Argos Oil,” is read, “BP,” I don’t really understand this whole argument. Friends pointed out how “euro” the new design is, and how the new kit is awesome because the green stripes are really pretty random. After a few hours of staring at it, I see their point. Although to be honest, I’d support any team with a Japanese rider known for attacking, no matter how lame their kit.

And at worst, it doesn’t even come close to the monstrosity I saw in Peloton Magazine the other day. Unfortunately, I think the "hit list" means "this is a hit!" rather than "this has been hit with the ugly stick!" Because there's no way around it. That jersey is hideous. It’s almost like some sadist decided that, since there’s no UCI rule that requires female pro cyclists to get paid a minimum wage, they might as well make their lives even more miserable by making them wear this jersey, too.
Remind me to never aspire to become a pro. Unless Skil-Koga wants to pick me up, of course.
Note: pictures blatantly stolen from other sources, except the first and last.

rapha scarf friday - jan. 7, 2011

Happy [very belated] new year!

Been doing more riding than writing but with snow predicted all weekend, I'll be back next week.
Have a great weekend, guys!

girl friday

It’s Friiiiiday! Weekend’s just around the corner. I’m not in the office today, but if you need some distraction, as a highly diligent, female professional, I’ve got it covered.
Half Draft:
Existing at the towering height of 5’2, I figured that until I could purchase either a Cervelo or a custom bike, I would have to live with the color of whatever mini bike I could find. And then a few months ago, I met a few extremely cute girls who changed all that: Britlee and Michelle of Half Draft.
The thing is, these girls aren’t your ordinary run-of-the-mill cyclists. They stand out [pun intended] because they’re as short as I am. The height factor instantly became the center of our conversation: how to find bikes that fit, the 650cc vs. 700cc question, and what we currently ride. And the best part? Britlee and Michelle told me about their new site, Half Draft, which is devoted to reviews of bikes and gear for the shorter rider.

When I saw the sheer number of bikes on that site, I actually said “woah,” out loud. Though the cross bikes reviewed are mostly in the 50cm range [and thus too big for yours truly], the chart with comparisons of quality and price is extremely helpful. There’s a post about how to change your stem to enable better reach, and the Dolan Pre Cursa even made No. 3 on their tiny track bike listing. This is tiny bike heaven, and with the average height of American women hovering around 5’4, Half Draft is the perfect resource for the shorter, female rider.
Downtown from Behind:
It could be PMS or an onset of SAD, but when temperatures drop, I start to crave bright colors. And clothes. And accessories. I crave fashionable people and New York City.

So when I found Downtown from Behind, I predictably spent about 15 minutes browsing the archives and reading the short entries. The project, by photographer Bridge Flemming, will document every street below 14th Street via a picture of a cyclist from behind. With a mix of designers, artists, models, bike shop owners, and non-profit organizers, it gives a taste of the diversity of New York, and the different characters that shape the city.
A warning, though: you’ll end up spending a ridiculous amount of time on this site.
Mr.Newton - Hey Bike Girl!:
Found through a site that linked to another site that linked to this one, and because high fashion and bright colors make me happy, I threw Mr. Newton into my Google Reader a few weeks ago.

Yesterday, he did a post exclusively on girls on bikes. If you’re not into the kitting-out-in-Lycra thing, if you’re nostalgic for summer, or you just want to be reminded that riding a bike doesn’t have to limit your wardrobe, go take a look. I may never be able to ride a bike in a pink chiffon dress, but that doesn’t mean these photos didn’t have me browsing my closet for cuter outfits.
Crap, now I need to buy another pair of boots...and another bike...

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.

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.

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!]