From the "Super Duper J.D. Ride" [3 attorneys + Dave N.] from a few days ago.
Yes, my "kid size" Coffee Oreo Frozen Yogurt from Kimball Farm was as delicious as it looks. Have a great holiday weekend, guys!
of romance novels and road rides
Recently, like most women my age who are somewhat unemployed but can cobble together a coherent sentence, I’ve entertained the idea of trying my hand at writing a romance novel [or ten]. This may be part of my continued counterintelligence operations against the parental institution, like how I am currently refusing to even linger on the idea of having children, getting married, or otherwise leading a stable life with steady income of my own. But it may also have something to do with the fact that I have a pen name picked out, a plot that can too easily turn into a series, and a willingness to watch enough porn/read enough romance novels to be able to write a sex scene in my sleep. Not that kind of sleep.
In my mental databank, I have a slew of plotlines involving sexy, alpha-male neo-pros, a few beta-male mechanics, the Spring Classics, sweaty bib shorts and chamois cream [because, of course, my novels would involve cyclists]. There are dramas involving embrocation and bad boy messengers, spectacular crashes and consequent rescues, and possiby a three-way with bi-curious podium girls. But at the end of the day, everyone would get either a diamond ring, a future spouse, endless phenomenal sex, or a similar form of guaranteed happiness.
Like J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter series, these future best-selling ideas came to me randomly, between soft-pedaling to the grocery store and sipping my usual Americano at Cafe Fixe as I blankly stared out the window. The latter may have been the subtle impetus, as every Tuesday night [back then], from 5.30 in the evening, clusters of Lycra-ed cyclists would spin their way up Beacon to the Cassidy Field parking lot for the Landry’s Tavern Ride. As a modern-day damsel - but one that was not yet capable of distress on a bicycle - I sighed wistfully as I watched them, realization of speed and power still a vague concept confined in my fantasies.
Over two years later, I had a road bike, but remained the vigilent stalker of the Landry’s Tuesday night rides [which had by then turned into the Greenline Velo Wednesday night rides]. I watched the procession up Beacon Street on those Wednesday evenings, my IF safely tucked away in my apartment. Like a deeply self-conscious cross-dresser, I chose to pull out the tools of my fetishized hobby only in towns that were a safe distance from the one in which I lived. I happily rode to Lexington to get my legs ripped off early Sunday mornings but when Wednesday evenings came around, I could be found in yoga pants and a t-shirt, concealing revealing tan lines. And, you know, casually watching the group ride gather in a totally non-creepy way.
But every stalker has his/her breaking point. Though this usually manifests itself in some violent act against the stalkee, I chose to tamely come out of hiding. I slapped on some chamois cream, bibbed and zippered up and headed out toward Cassidy Field a few Wednesdays ago. If worst came to worst, I told myself, I had a cell phone, enough friends that could probaby pick up/tell me how to get home, and if need be, an excuse to sputter out between retching up my afternoon snack. In this worst case scenario, where a ride leader might be stuck caring for me, I’d explain between heaves that I was a “writer,” and hope that the implication of being mostly deskbound would relieve me of any obligation to be “athletic,” or otherwise capable of hanging onto a medium pace ride. If Bill Strickland came up, I figured splattering a little vomit on the mentioner’s shoes should be enough of a distraction.
Yes, me of so little faith and so many excuses. All over a sub-two hour ride that, to be honest, wasn’t nearly as terrifying as I’d imagined.
The ride is a 24-ish mile loop with a few fun climbs and a crap ton of descending. Everyone separated into smaller groups by speed with 3-4 Greenline Velo team members leading each group [it’s a no-drop ride in the sense that you’ll get picked up by the group behind you if you get completely dropped]. With a morning ride already under my belt that day, I stuck to the 16-19mph medium pace group and expected to just barely hang on. To, in fairy tale speak, play the role of the helplessly persecuted princess who needed saving [mostly from herself].
I didn’t realize the irony of my mostly-white IF stallion, or that I was riding it, as opposed to being captured somewhere and crying. I believed - and still do - that my legs are generally ineffectual. But when we hit our first climb, I felt a surge of uncharacteristic faith; some sort of hope that maybe not all my friends were lying to me when they said I wasn’t such a terrible climber.
Besides, when you’re on a bike and the road suddenly turns upwards, there’s not much to do but clip in and dig in. I got to the top, didn’t fall over and immediately die, require resuscitation, or otherwise embarrass myself. My lungs were in a bit of distress but not to the point of princely rescues and/or swooning. And just knowing that I could haul my weight around with a group of strangers who were probably less forgiving than my friends was pretty awesome.
No longer the classic damsel in distress, I tried not to wheel suck too much and closed gaps without someone else leading the way. Because while being helpless can be fun in that it absolves you of responsibility, it will never teach you how to exist outside fantasies of royal co-dependence. Or how to hang on to a group ride.
This realization saturated hopes of a career as a romance novelist as it slowly dawned on me: I’m not sure I will ever understand the desire to mold relationships into the ideal where happiness comes in the form of a diamond ring and offspring. Which, in romance novel terms, means my future books may not be bestselling successes.
...but hey, who said that I couldn’t do research every Wednesday night?
the weekend in pictures: june 25-26
Finally changed my cleats...
Did a ride...
And a flat turned into two new tires [Continental Ultra Race - thanks Greg!]...
missing something
Dear RSC peeps,
I had big plans to come hang out today. I was going to do an easy 30 mile loop in Dover before planting myself at the coffee bar for too many hours. And because it's so beautiful out, I even slathered on the sun block.
Maybe it was the weather, but I was feeling really good, too. I was climbing a little faster than I usually do and making decent time. And I was really excited to see you guys [because it's been like what, FOUR DAYS?].
So I was super focused on my ride. An hour passed and I was getting kind of thirsty so I looked down and...
...Yeah. I don't know when I'm going to stop being an idiot, either.
I'm home now, but I feel like a sun-dried tomato. So see you guys [and that Americano] tomorrow.
-k.
nyc bike lanes
Hilarious.
Thanks, Jones!
pouring it on
“You’ve really been pouring it on, huh?” Jeremy said, when we met up at RSC a few weeks ago.
It was the week I did my first RSC group ride, which was followed up mid-week with another lesson in how to close [gaps] with Geoff and Dave N. The next day, we were back in Lexington for a 60-ish mile ride out to Harvard. Easy pace, Jeremy had promised, so I - apparently too trusting for my own good - had agreed.
Maybe it was the coffee cupping we did before taking off [a Stumptown blend via a french press and as a pourover], but we started out at Geoff and Dave’s usual [easy] pace of 19mph. “I think we got outvoted on the pace,” Jeremy said to me as I alternated between scrambling in my little ring and struggling in the big one. We weren’t even 30 minutes into the ride and my legs were not cooperating. “But Geoff has to turn off at some point, then we can take over,” Jeremy added, providing some hope of relief. That didn’t, however, keep me from feeling like the fat kid in gym class.
Ah, the memories of junior high. In reality, though I’ve never been obese, I’ve always been the awkward, invisible one. In gym class, I consistently got picked next-to-last in dodgeball [adding insult to injury by simultaneously depriving me of “last pick” status]. I was never a completely useless teammate, but one that obviously was not going to last long in the game.
My classmates weren’t wrong to think so: I couldn’t run fast or far, couldn’t throw or catch a ball to save my life, and generally had little interest in physical exertion. I was never an athlete, had never possessed the agility and strength to claim to be one, and ditched gym class for art class as soon as I was permitted to do so. And as if to compensate for my lack of endurance, I picked up smoking in college. “Me? Run?,” I’d say, as a cigarette dangled from my lips. I’d take a big drag then; the thought of running and/or the three minute walk to my destination having winded me, necessitating another cigarette. I survived a part of college on carcinogens and caffeine as muscles atrophied. The former, ironcially, eventually showing me that I had more lung capacity than I had previously thought.
I never tired of coating my lungs in tar, but called it quits when I started to get serious about cycling. Breathing [oxygen] having become a priority, it dawned on me that my lungs might not feel like exploding if I wasn’t sucking on a cigarette at the end of every ride. I shared this revelation with my sister soon after a doctor diagnosed her with asthma. “Yeah, that’s good, I should quit. I’m having trouble breathing, too,” she said, exhaling smoke on the other end of the phone line.
The theory panned out for both of us, but still lacking athleticism, I knew I had a lot to learn on the bike and a lot of bad habits to shed. The “But I’m Not An Athlete” excuse worked for a while, buying me time to build some legs before joining group rides, but like any excuse, it started to get lame. Which is why I fell victim so easily to Dave N.’s happy cajoling into a RSC ride, and to Jeremy’s plan to ride to Harvard that day. No better way to pour on the miles than with people who can make me ride so hard my eyes bug out of their sockets.
Which is exactly what happened until Geoff peeled off. The pace eased up, then, but we had about 50 more miles to go and two decent hills to climb. We swapped jokes and took turns complaining until the climbs got to our legs and all we could do was spin [as Jeremy and I watched Dave N. become a small black and white speck up ahead of us]. Between climbs we shared a Coke and shoved some food down before attempting the longest climb I’ve ever done. I remember only two things from that climb and they happened at the same time: I ran out of gears and Jeremy and I mutually fell silent.
But at the end was the infamous Harvard General Store. We had a makeshift lunch, filled our water bottles, and just to make it a day, did the extra Fruitlands loop. It tacked on more climbing that I expected, and gasping for air, I wished I hadn't smoked so much back in college [and, okay, law school]. But then we got to the top. The landscape spread out before us in the bright, warm sun and the air felt that much cleaner. Most of the 2500+ feet of climbing done, I felt a little pro. Epic, even. And yeah, if a pack of cigarettes would have survived in my jersey pocket, I might have pulled one out, Cipo style.
But epic rides require that at least 30% of it consist of gravel. So Dave N. led the way through some sandy dirt and gravel, the soft surface sinking a little under my skittish tire. I slowed down, dropping a few dozen feet behind Jeremy, unfamiliar with anything that isn't somewhat smooth asphalt. Dave N. and Jeremy smoothly skipped through the uneven path, the sun shimmering through the trees on both sides of us. And it occurred to me that sometimes, when it's not dodgeball, maybe, it’s kind of fun to be [next-to-] last in line.
We stopped on something smoother for a while, before that turned again to gravel, then into a small climb, and an uncertain descent. And as if to replace those mid/post-ride cigarettes I used to suck on, we even stopped for raspberry lime rickeys in Concord before taking the flat way home.
And because we all have that inner fat kid in us are so pro, we poured it on when we got back to RSC. Except this time, it wasn’t miles on legs, but Stumptown’s Hair Bender espresso on Rancatore’s vanilla ice cream. Affogatos for the weary legged, even if not of the athletic variety. A shot of delicious for the ride home.
...And yeah, it was better than any post-whatever cigarette.