turning it up a notch

“…And where do you plan on burying her?”
The question, posed quite pleasantly by Dave N., interrupted a listing of New Hampshire notches: Bear, Crawford, Jefferson, plus a debate about the Kancamangus pass and a throwaway comment concerning Hurricane Road. We were at Ride.Studio.Cafe sipping post-ride caffeinated drinks, when it was revealed that I would be expected to spin my way through all of the above and then some. I slouched a little further into my seat as my eyes bounced between Dave and Chris, trying to pretend my legs didn’t hurt already from our earlier 30 mile spin.
Because though not usually one for spontaneity, I was headed up to New Hampshire the next day on a whim. “I’m taking you up to New Hampshire with our bikes,” the wording went, and doped up on an affogato with a carbon fiber loaner bike courtesy of Ride.Studio.Cafe., I had – happily, yet perhaps a little rashly – agreed.

The planned route – I only later learned – stretched north from North Conway up towards Crawford Notch, then to Jefferson. It turned east from there, before cutting south into a sliver of Maine. Bearing west would bring us back across the Maine-New Hampshire border into North Conway. 100 miles of spinning, but a ride that could be cut down to 60 or 80 depending on how we felt. It sounded almost quaint; a countryside jaunt with a few hills along the way.
Except, you know, we were talking about the White Mountains.
Had I understood the exact elevation of these combined passes, perhaps I would have exhibited some hesitation. Or outright refusal. Familiarity with the terrain, curiosity regarding elevation gain, or simply not being a dumbass and the ability to use Google Maps would have provided me with the necessary insight to just say no. Such skills would have informed me that this seemingly pleasant ride would take us up and near mountains named after whole families decimated by landslides on their slopes. Wikipedia would also have shredded any remaining romantic notions that I would survive the ride, much less make it up even one of those notches without drooling all over myself.
But here was a loaner bike and a boy promising adventure, and all I could say was yes, yes, yes.

An hour after kicking off from the parking lot, I was predictably regretting my conscious naïveté. On a compact crank for the first time in over a year, I impatiently struggled to establish some sort of rhythm while drafting off Chris’ 6’2” frame. I scampered along to his easy soft pedaling, our mismatched cadences mirroring our contrasting gaits even off the bike. Me scurrying low to the ground, taking three steps for every one of his long, loping strides; an extra couple of pedal strokes for every one of his.
Not as if there was anyone around to see our motley duo. Pedaling down roads sandwiched between forests, past signs warning to slow down in the event of moose, riding through White Mountain National Park is the stuff of nature-loving, loner dreams. Smooth asphalt leads towards mountains so picturesque they inspire both awe and a desire to conquer their beauty. Pedaling towards one mountain brings another into view, then another. Their sides sometimes scarred by ski runs, the uneven peaks layer themselves against the backdrop of a clear, clean sky that sparkles with stars at night.

Signs of civilization only came in the form of the occasional passing car and – in our case – construction crews building back roads where whole sections seem to have disappeared [thanks to Hurricane Irene]. A mechanical shovel took a swing at Chris before graciously lurching out of my way. We were never sure if it was on purpose, but a giant tank of Foster’s, sitting innocently atop an orange traffic barrel, probably had something to do with it, too.
Our momentum slowed after that, broken up further by more missing sections of asphalt. By the time we arrived at the base of Crawford Notch, my thighs were feeling flimsy despite the fact that the real climbing hadn’t even begun. I remember the road curving up before us, my wheezy breathing that started right before the last push, and the 13% grade slope that continued far longer than was really necessary. Chris’ black and white Cambridge kit skipped along up ahead as I crawled to the top. I put my head on my stem and looked for a place to lie down and die.

My legs feeling as stable as Costello’s in “Pump It Up,” we turned back after that, our bikes flying down that 13% grade. The wind roared in my ears, the deafening noise of blasting air like nothing I’d ever heard or felt before. We swung back the way we came, at times a little faster than on the way in, towards showers and food and beers.

“Next time,” Chris said, “next time, we’ll do the whole thing.”
I think I laughed in response. I may still get buried along the way, but I’ll take any excuse to ride up those New Hampshire mountains again.
And because we all love to eat… [places to refuel in North Conway]:
Moat Mountain Smokehouse and Brewing Company A hike if you’re walking from downtown North Conway but easily accessible by car, we grabbed dinner here post-ride. Portions are huge and the beer is yummy [we shared a sampler of about 7 different beers for about $7, but agreed that the Moat Brown was the best of the bunch].
Stairway Café Located one floor above street level [hence the name] in downtown North Conway, it’s an adorable space with a vintage-y feel. I inhaled most of my eggs, bacon, and pancakes, but the best part was that they offer locally made game meat sausages [the venison was pretty amazing]. If you’re in the area and hungry for brunch, this is your place.
[Fourth and last picture taken by Chris Gagne.]

pedal wrenches and airplanes

Headed stateside today for the next two weeks for my best friend's wedding!

Bridesmaid's dress, shoes, handbags, Sidis, and helmet are packed and ready to go. Unfortunately, blogging will most likely be suspended until I get back. Don't worry, I plan on coming back with plenty of stories.
And for some of you...SEE YOU SOON!!!

bar review: bonk breakers

My mother has imposed a recent rule in the house which forbids me from drinking tap water.
“Here,” she said, as she shoved a giant bottle of water towards me, “make your coffee with this from now on. And stop drinking water from the tap. There might be radiation in it.”
Since March 11th, my family has stopped buying domestic beef, everyone is currently avoiding vegetables, dairy, and rice from northeastern Japan, and half the lights in every building are turned off as Japan rushes to shut down every nuclear power plant in the country. And as someone who might still be alive in 30 years, my homecoming has forced my mother to throw more caution in the wind: buying crates of bottled water and giving me livid stares of outrage when I refused to use an umbrella to run an errand in misty showers.

This has resulted in regular thirst, and the odd feeling that I am wasting money whenever I consume bottled water. It’s a vicious cycle that has also affected when and how often I get on the bike. Like a dealer stepping on his supply, I cut my water with electrolyte sports drinks, squeezing out the value of every bottled drop. And holding out on my thirst, I like to tell myself that attaining that state of exhausted dehydration will make whatever I’m stuffing into my mouth taste that much better.
If you’ve ridden to the point of thirst on a bike before, you’ll know what I’m referring to. It’s that point at which Nuun-ed water tastes sweet, despite the fact that when you try to drink it when properly hydrated, it tastes sort of gross. Because we all lower the bar when it comes to food consumed on the bike. Tucked into a jersey pocket and exposed to 100+F heat for over three hours, even Clif bars soften and become somewhat more palatable. Ride long enough and the disturbing softness of Clif shot blocks turns into something to be grateful for - because, let’s face it: no Haribo gummi product can be chewed twice and then simply swallowed.

Which is why when Dave N. pulled out an orange package from his jersey pocket a few months ago, I was skeptical. “These are really, really good,” he said; those same words used to inaccurately describe Clif bars to me a few years ago. “They taste like real food,” Dave went on, as I politely nodded, reminding myself that even shot blocks can taste good when one is deprived of enough calories. “You can get them at REI,” he continued, as my interest waned further, my desire to walk the two extra blocks from Superb to REI quickly becoming a convenient excuse never to try these new bars.
But curiosity and the need for chamois cream got the better of me as I ended up at REI a few weeks later. By then inclined to believe Dave’s taste in most things [especially the gastronomical kind], and looking for a gluten-free alternative to Larabars, I grabbed a few Bonk Breakers on my way out: [Dave’s favorite] Peanut Butter and Jelly, and [my current favorite] the Almond Butter and Honey flavors.

Oh. My. YUM.
Made primarily of oats, rice flour, and nuts, the most welcome thing about Bonk Breakers is that they’re soft. They’re softer to bite into than your typical slate-like Clif bar, and because they’re not dried-fruit based like Larabars, Bonk Breaker residue doesn’t tend to get stuck in your teeth. All the bars are also free of gluten, dairy, and soy, and perfectly sized to fit into jersey pockets. Not to mention how the Peanut Butter and Jelly flavor actually looks like a PB&J sandwich, and is actually delicious enough to eat off the bike.

When I had a few packaging problems with one of their bars, Jason Winn, the founder of Bonk Breakers was kind enough to not only send me a few replacement bars, but also their newest Blueberry Oat flavor. More oat-y than the previous Bonk Breakers I’ve tried, it tasted like those muffins I'd been lusting after since cutting out wheat from my diet. Except with Bonk Breakers, you can tuck this one into your jersey without worrying about the crumbs and inevitable mid-ride muffin implosions.
Unfortunately, I’ve only found one bike store that keeps these bars in stock here in Tokyo. Good thing I’m headed stateside in a week for my best friend’s wedding…because a few boxes of these are definitely coming back with me.
[Now available at RSC!]

coffee excursions: bear pond espresso

In an unassuming spot by Shimokitazawa station, you can find a rare thing: exceptional espresso.
Urged to go to Bear Pond Espresso by Dave S. at Ride.Studio.Cafe, and jonesying for some good espresso, I jumped on the Odakyu subway line to get a taste. The space is small but cozy, with worn wood counters and a stylishly stark interior. A white La Marzocco machine perches on the counter, behind which hang single serving French press pots. The menu is simple, but delicious.

Photos can’t be taken inside, so you’ll have to content yourself with a shot of what remained of my cold brew as I walked back to the subway station. I had an espresso before that; a bright shot with echoes of Stumptown’s Hairbender, although Bear Pond roasts [and sells] their own.
A few bags of beans might just be delivered into the hands of some lucky friends in a few weeks. Until then, feel free to vicariously indulge…