the rapha continental with alex stieda

A video popped up on Facebook the other day, shared by a friend, and I watched it on a wary whim, expecting a front row seat to another story I wouldn't be able to relate to. But a minute in and it suddenly made me smile, bite my lip, and hold my breath. It even got me on the bike this past weekend, if only for a solitary, indoor, hour.
A baby step in the right direction, it came in the form of a gentle push by Rapha, Rich Bravo, and Jeremy Dunn.

Rapha Continental Alberta, Canada with Alex Stieda from RAPHA on Vimeo.

Thanks, guys. Miss you!

"it's not you, it's me"

Like most women on the shit end of that five word phrase, I've come to fear and resent it. So often unexplained, I've been forced to interpret it to mean not what it states, but that "it most certainly is you, but to accelerate this break up, I'll just take the blame for it. Oh, and there's the door." That phrase, towards which any action seems helpless, has an effect much like the Lehman Brothers' announcement of bankruptcy: my presentability to the general public drops like the Dow, while the economy and I commence a general plunge into the sweatpants phase of "totally letting myself go." Anguished self-interrogation is often involved.
It would be nice to say, here, that it's for these reasons that I've avoided using this phrase when breaking up with someone. You know, tell a white lie, get me some humanitarian points, give off the impression that I've had opportunities to initiate breaking it off with significant others...unfortunately, though I'm prone to general pessimism, past boyfriends will be hard pressed to say that I wasn't at least adamantly optimistic about our quickly deteriorating relationships. So much so that I've ignored clear red flags like a total lack of a sense of humor, or the inability to comprehend simple grammatical rules. Somehow, my generosity failed to be appreciated…and…well, you get the idea.
So it wasn't until my last weekend as a 28 year old that I learned exactly what it feels like to say, "really babe, it's not you, it's me."

Okay, maybe I didn't actually say those words. And maybe the decision was forced on me. And maybe I only came to the conclusion that it wasn't working out after I spent a weekend weeping in frustration, anguish, and self-loathing. But a weekend is still less than weeks/a month/several months/a year; significant enough to consider it progress.
And though I was the one initiating the break up, even if it was with a training program, it still hurt. A lot more than I expected.
Since my first race in June, the disappointment of disappointing others had lingered, ensuring that I would throw myself into training for the next one. I had four weeks to drop weight, get stronger, and build up my endurance. Undaunted by the near impossibility of accomplishing all three simultaneously, I picked up a copy of Chris Carmichael’s “Time Crunched Cyclist,” and proceeded to hammer out intervals three times a week on an empty stomach. On Sundays I would do longer rides with hill repeats thrown in. I bonked at work but figured that generally feeling like you just got T-boned by a semi was normal and medicated with copious amounts of coffee.

It [obviously] didn’t work. Two Saturdays ago I couldn’t finish my last set of intervals; the next day I tried to ride outside, only to come home within 20 minutes, sobbing. An attempt to get on the rollers afterwards escalated into bawling my eyes out for the rest of the day. This level of complete and utter depression – one that wasn’t alleviated by a little outdoor riding – was unusual even for someone who was once christened “Doom and Gloom” by a previous boyfriend. I finally took the hint, stopped riding altogether, tried to fix up that “cheese grater in my kneecap” feeling, had an embarrassing meltdown in the shop, and ended up spending race day at home. I would have been in sweatpants if it hadn’t been 33C/91F.

The time off the bike was probably much needed, but that didn’t make it any less upsetting. What was more alarming though was that after a full week off – something I hadn’t done in months – a general apathy began to settle in. At first, like the random guy who grabs your wheel and won’t let go, any thoughts of riding were followed closely by some lame [yet in my mind, justifiable] excuse. After a few days, I stopped trying to reason with myself and nixed ideas of a quick spin or a slow ride with a simple, lazy, “…nahhh.”
I suppose this is called “burn out,” but knowing that cycling is something that I should want to do makes it harder to accept. A few days ago, after passing my parked bike without so much as a glance, I caught myself wondering if this wasn’t just a prolonged death knell for my cycling in general. Whether the move to Tokyo, the inability to communicate, the lack of friends, and the consequent mixture of anxiety, frustration, and depression aren’t the same red flags I tend to ignore in otherwise totally compatible boyfriends. That perhaps I am once again ignoring the obvious, in the hope that the impossible might, if I just try hard enough, work out.

In response to my wailing, well-versed friends did the virtual equivalent of picking me up, dusting me off, changing my flat, and handing me back my bike. Just as they’ve done every time I’ve eaten shit on that unstable bicycle of Dating and Relationships. And like those post-boyfriend-endo moments, I’m still sort of standing there, unable to clip back in out of fear, guilt, and those occasional moments of bitter rage. The expected liberation of being on the other side of an “it’s not you, it’s me,” never panned out, but I've realized that maybe [hopefully] I've been wrong this whole time. Those five words aren’t always a disingenuous attempt to rid your life of an unwanted other, but can be a concession that sometimes, no matter how hard you might try, right now, at this point in life, you just can’t keep up. It hurts to admit due to it’s simple honesty; because it wasn’t Chris Carmichael, or the bike. It really was all me.
There is, however, one freedom that results from that concession. Assuming an interest in not being a repeat offender/abuser of the phrase, it's one that points to obligations and a personal responsibility to work towards a better version of yourself. It might not save you from overtraining [that's all you], but there's the hope that you just might be on the receiving end of those five words, next time.

of clothespins and oakleys

There are two events from my childhood – The Eraser Event and the Clothespin Experiment – that stand as testaments to my mother’s temporary sadism and healthy sense of humor. Both were masterminded, executed, then promptly forgotten, though my sister and I remember the former [the more traumatic of the two which will have to be shelved for another day] with lingering horror. The latter was a personal experiment that started with a causal comment that my mother had always been self-conscious of, and unhappy with, her nose.
“But why?” I asked.
“Because it’s too small. I wish it were taller. I’ve always wanted a taller nose,” she said.
By “taller,” she meant pointier, with a proper/extant bridge. Something that could hold up glasses and Ray Ban Wayfarers without additional support. A common complaint among Japanese women, my eyes widened at the thought of being cursed with a similar fate.
“I want a tall nose when I grow up,” I said.
“Maybe if you put a clothespin on it for a long time, your nose will get pointier,” my mother replied.

I immediately canceled plans to run around with my sister, play with my toys, or watch TV, and spent the rest of the afternoon sprawled on the couch with a plastic clothespin firmly attached to my face. Every few minutes, I’ll have to detach the pink clothespin, its gripper-like textured ends leaving marks on either side of my nose, to allow the blood to flow back into the most three-dimensional part of my face. Those brief moments felt like cheating, and thoughts of suffering a stunted, smaller nose later in life kept the clothespin in place. I stuck it out for the afternoon.
Needless to say, I, like most Japanese people, still need to have extra plastic pads fused onto the nose pieces of my glasses, avoid situations that require safety glasses that are not of the goggle type, and cannot find sunglasses to save my life. When I do come across that rare pair that doesn’t need further elevation to stay up near my line of vision, I am tempted to buy them up in bulk for the day when my current pair will inevitably get crushed, lost, or left at an unsavory ex-boyfriend’s house.

The lack of sunglasses – though it limited my potential Marla Singer mystique – wasn’t such a glaring problem until I started cycling. Fortunate enough to require glasses, it wasn’t until I wore contacts one day and ended up sucking a wheel through some sand that I realized exactly why sunglasses are on the list of “stuff you need if you’re going to be riding a bike.” Yet no matter how many times I stared down the same pair of Jawbones, they never shrank to fit my face, and my nose refused to grow into them.
“So try the Asian fit,” Josh suggested.
Apparently designed with the flatter face in mind, it seemed like the perfect solution…except that they had to be special-ordered. Stores didn’t usually carry them, and if they did, not all the Asian fit models would be in stock. This didn’t make sense to me, given the herds of Chinese and Japanese tourists who always seemed to be within my general vicinity. Their existence within Oakley stores also proved confusing: if none of the glasses fit our flat faces, what in the world were they doing there?
I never figured that one out, but upon returning to Tokyo, I found that some ingenious marketing person had slapped an extra plastic nosepiece onto nearly every pair of Oakley’s sold in Japan, thereby rendering every model capable of fitting the Asian face. The “Asian fit” distinction no longer applied; every model that had previously required the rare Asian gift of an actual bridge was suddenly up for grabs, even to those who hadn’t had the foresight to suffer through an afternoon with a clothespin on their nose.

Oakley, however, failed to account for my chipmunk cheeks. Now, most of their frames sat higher on my face, but my cheeks would press against the lenses like a frat boy’s bare ass on a Xerox machine. Smiling was impossible; facial expression remained detrimental to any semblance of pro. Meanwhile, my muscular cheeks [the ones on my face, that is] could elevate whole Oakley frames.
My mother probably would have encouraged the facial workouts for anti-aging purposes [although I’ve since become hesitant to take any of her facially-related advice], but strong cheeks and smoother skin weren’t going to do anything for the tablespoons of dirt that I’d scrub out of my eyes after every ride. Having given up on Jawbones and Radars like that guy friend you’d happily marry if his personality wasn’t so repulsive, I sought out Oakley’s frame with the smallest lenses: the Flak Jacket.

Streamlined and small enough to prevent overwhelming a smaller face, the Flak Jacket does what no other pair of Oakley’s has managed thus far: it leaves millimeters of space between the lenses and my cheeks. Happiness, excitement, and suffering are all capable of expression underneath this svelte frame, even if you happen to be Asian. It’s not the ubiquitous model of the pro peloton, but that distinction makes it the more unique choice while the Oakley brand stays true to classic pro chic. If being different isn’t your thing, well, they’re close enough to let you channel a little Sylvian Chavanel when you’re getting properly Cancellara-ed.

Oakley’s being what they are, though, there is nothing Marla Singer about these shades. With these on, I’m more likely to be mistaken for Ultraman or a monochrome bee, not the personification of mysteriously sexy. I understand, too, that unless I’m attending a BBQ with a bunch of bros, when I’m off the bike, my Flak Jacket should stay dutifully tucked into its black, slightly yonnic case. My social calendar is, sadly, currently lacking in these types of culinary events with paragons of alcohol-infused, alpha-masculinity. I am, however, still actively resisting the urge to buy up a few extra Flak Jackets to put on ice. You know, just in case.
“Look at my new sunglasses,” I said to my mother a few days post-purchase.
She looked at me for a few seconds with the usual expression of incomprehension when I seem excited about something that either doesn’t make sense or looks ridiculous when not paired with a bicycle.

“…They’re for biking,” I muttered. “I finally found a pair that fits my face. Because putting a clothespin on my nose didn’t make it any taller. Remember that?”
“No.”
“You suggested it.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, and it hurt so bad.”
“Well, you got the best nose out of all of us,” came the reply, “you should be thanking me.”
“Right,” I said, as I pulled off my new Oakley’s and settled my normal glasses back in place. I peered into the mirror pretending to adjust the plastic frame, but actually wondering how obvious the extra plastic nose pads were, “…thanks.”

a racing start

“Oh but see, she’s dressed normally.”
It was a snippet of a conversation that I caught as I rode by two guys last Sunday morning, who were apparently discussing what cyclists wear. I guess I am dressed normally, I thought, as I shifted the overstuffed Baileyworks messenger bag on my shoulder layered over a t-shirt, a zip up hoodie, and jeans.
But then again, the next thought came somewhat slowly, it is 3:15 a.m. on a Sunday morning.
In twenty minutes, I would turn onto a still-dark street and meet a few teammates for the first time, before helping to load up a rented van with all of our respective bikes. 3:35 a.m. on Sunday morning [or is it still Saturday night?] will very rarely be an optimal time to be making introductions, but approximately three weeks ago, I had decided it would be a good idea to register for a race. It seemed like the thing to do when you join a race team.
I was, however, somewhat limited in my options for races. It was like being forced to choose a date from a drug rehab center: there were plenty of skinny heroin addicts [hill climbs], and a handful of meth heads [enduros], but given those options, I went with the guy that looked like he had just made a few bad decisions, had snorted a few too many lines of coke. Approachable and seemingly normal; a June crit organized by the Japanese Cycle Racing Club [JCRC] at the Shuzenji circuit in Izu.

It was probably a good thing that I had no idea what I was getting into. Reliable sources told me that the race was hilly, but since we would be racing clockwise [the “reverse” way], there would be three climbs of around 5% each, per 5km lap, instead of the 8-11% pitches if you did it the “right” way. No flat ground, just climbs and descents. But how bad could 15km be?
“Oh, yeah, and,” Eric added, when I met him for some intervals around the palace early one morning, “there’s a hairpin turn, too, plus kind of a corkscrew after that.”
I paled. I was quickly finding out exactly how unsavory my June date would be. But loathe to retract my intention to race, I registered anyway. We were already on the highway when I learned that the last climb to the finish line was more like 10% rather than my anticipated 5%. I almost jumped out of the speeding van. “I don’t want to waste any of your time,” I wanted to say, “really, just let me go home so I don’t embarrass any of you any more than is absolutely necessary.” Instead, I tried not to hyperventilate as I watched the sun come up on a Sunday morning from the back of a van packed with carbon wheels, race-ready frames, overstuffed backpacks and one lone steel bike.

Less than two hours later, we pulled up to the circuit. Located in Shizuoka prefecture, Shuzenji Cycle Sports Center is a multi-facility bike park with a top-class mountain bike course, a small dirt bike course, a 5 km circuit, and an indoor velodrome that serves as the training ground for a pro keirin school. Between the entrance to the park and the circuit, there’s even a mini rollercoaster and a carousel for the kids. Arriving before the gates opened, we all trekked to the bathroom to change into our kits, and for possibly the first time in my life, there was no snaking line outside the women’s room, although the men were all forced to line up outside.
Dressed and ready, we were sent to pick up our numbered helmet covers and sensor chips, and in reconning the course, I realized exactly how hard this was going to be. “Murderous,” was the first word that came to mind, followed by the phrase, “I am fucked,” as I realized that this was going to require a lot of shifting. In the front. Suddenly those seemingly unnecessary repeats of hills-that-are-probably-longer-than-any-climb-at-Shuzenji became almost useful, but useless because I clearly hadn’t done enough of them.

I marinated on this newly-gained knowledge of my first crit course as I watched and cheered on Mr. Yoshimura, Mr. Yamanoha, and Mr. Fujimaki race in their respective classes. Mr. Ishizuka showed up too, after riding the entire way from Tokyo to watch us race. Too soon it was 9:55 a.m., and I was lined up at the start line with seven other women. We started out as a group up the first climb, but I made the mistake of riding my brake through the descending turns, losing time. By the last 10% pitch, I was pulling up the rear and just about dropped when the girl a few feet in front of me dropped her chain. A courteous girl [“Oh, excuse me! Sorry!” she squeaked as I almost crashed into her] with thighs the size of my calves and Di2, I Contador-ed her and pulled myself up the climb as fast as my burning legs could turn over the pedals. Two more laps to go and I stuck my bike onto the next girl’s rear wheel.

By this point, the faster women were a good three minutes ahead, while the rest of the field had shattered. I passed two more women on the next climb and rode the rest of the race in the lonely, demotivating hell that is no man’s land. I was trying to climb faster than 8mph when Mr. Yoshida, racing in the top S class which started five minutes behind the women’s field, passed by in a small group of pink helmet covers.
“Kaiko. Keep going,” he said.
By the third lap, my lips were quivering from exertion but I stopped riding my brake on the descents. I managed to climb the last incline standing but still fumbled to the finish line in my little ring. “Fifth! You came in fifth!,” my new teammates told me. “Oh,” was the most I could manage, afraid that if I said anymore, I would start dry heaving. I sat in the grass for the next 20 minutes, feeling nauseous and regretting every swallow of iced tea as Mr. Yoshida went around and around and around. We shouted and clapped every time he passed us, until, twelve laps later, he vanquished our team by coming in third.

An hour and a half later, I collected a certificate for coming in within the top 6, and posed for a few awkward photos. We all snapped shots of Mr. Yoshida’s third place finish before packing our bikes back into the van for the trek home. A few hours [with a tongue lashing for general incompetence] later, we were back at the shop. Exhausted, sweaty, and running on fumes, even as we cradled still-fresh disappointment, we were already talking about next time.

I woke up yesterday with cranky muscles and sunburn. But between the rewriting, editing, and proofreading, I stared out of my office building window, counting the weeks remaining, and intervals necessary, for July.