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.”

bieber fever

From: K STo: Josh Subject: Bieber fever
I cut my hair. [Insert Justin Bieber joke here.]


------------------------------------------------------------------------------- From: Josh To: K S Subject: Re: Bieber fever
Resemblance is UNCANNY, bro.

but...but...

A few days ago, I made the mistake of making eye contact with a police officer. I braced myself for a scolding [“Young lady, you shouldn’t be riding in the middle of the lane…”], but got into a five minute conversation [yup, on the side of a busy intersection] about bikes instead. At one point, he said:
Policeman: Do you ride for a team?
Me: What? Ahaha um, no.
Policeman: Then...you must be a pro.
Me: Ahahahahaha hardly!
Policeman: But...but...you’re wearing Castelli...

...And I didn’t really believe it when a reliable source told me that Castelli is the most pro brand here. Time to buy up some more Castelli gear!
Hope you had a good weekend, guys!
[Coming soon: WORDS!]

bonsai bike shop bromance

I’m not one for stereotypes, but unless I am PMSing and therefore off my fucking nut, I am very predictably a push-over.
I have supplemented this unique trait by tending to have friends who will demand my time and attention by dragging me out to ultimately enjoyable events that I am always hesitant to go to. That’s not to say I don’t give them the obligatory, initial, most likely annoying, quaffing [as Biggie put it, “…and she starts off, ‘well, I don’t usually,’…”]. But a murderous glower, clenched teeth, or an exasperated tone are usually enough to get me out of bed and into some half-decent clothes. Depending on who’s doing the asking, of course.
Well, until last week, that is. Because when Chandler told me to just show up to their hotel on Monday after Tim wrapped up some interviews, I was PMSing, but miraculously refrained from whining or otherwise coming up with some lame excuses. I emailed back an okay and without another word, got my ass to Odaiba.
…Just in time to catch a photo shoot with Hiro Ito of Cannondale, Koichiro Nakamura, and Hideyuki Suzuki by the random Statue of Liberty replica near the hotel. I predictably paparazzi-ed.

After a late lunch of okonomiyaki, plans as to what was next were up in the air, but there were vague murmurs:

“Yeah, let’s go there then.”
“Okay, yeah that’s a good idea.”
“Bonsai? Okay, okay.”
I was all, “Tim’s into trees???”
Bonsai or Bonsai Cycle Shop, it turned out, is actually the name of one of the coolest bike shops I’ve been to [and not just in Tokyo]. Opened last September, it’s a beautiful bike shop that also houses a small café run by the incredibly talented Natsuki-san. Yoshida-san and Natsuki-san greeted us at the entrance, the door opening into a space surrounded by the smell of freshly baked double-chocolate muffins. Yoshida-san explained that he wanted to build a shop around the three things that cyclists consumed: coffee, dirt, and chocolate. He managed to do a lot more than that, though, offering a space filled with awesome frames, bike parts, and custom jerseys. The shop is impeccable; details [like the lighting fixtures and the small Oriental rug in the workspace] tying everything neatly together. Like all great shops, the care that went into every detail is obvious, resulting in the sense that everything is painstakingly curated, but only enough to be inspiring as opposed to inaccessible.

Soaking up the good vibes of the shop, I was half a centimeter into a perfectly done Americano when Tim called me over for some translating. Yoshida-san patiently waited out my version of translation, which consisted of listening to Tim’s question in English, nodding that I understood, then attempting to telepathically convey the question in Japanese through imaginary laser beams emitting out of my eyes. It didn’t work; my mangled Japanese produced far better results.

Like the book Yoshida-san produced when I told him Tim and Chandler were on the hunt for gifts for friends. Called simply, “Le Tour de France,” it’s a collection of amazing photographs from the 1986, 1987, and 1988 TdFs by Yasufumi Kitanaka. It’s also a publication that’s been out-of-print for some time; Yoshida-san told us that the publishing company happened to be nearby with more than a few boxes of these books in storage, thus making Bonsai Cycle Shop the only place in Japan where you can get these gorgeous books. A sucker for most things involving bound pages, I purchased one to savor – a few pages at a time – between the pedaling and ride route searching.

I could have easily spent a few more hours there, just looking at stuff. But dinner was calling and there was more discovering to be done. We said our goodbyes, and I promised to pay another visit soon [a promise I followed up on yesterday, to see Yoshida-san’s new Indy Fab and sip a post-ride Americano.]

Tempura and some shopping in Shinjuku followed, after which Tim and Chandler wrapped up the night with a public display of bromance.

24 hours later, I’ll briefly contemplate not being such a push over before saying a mental, “fuck it,” and having one of the best nights of my life. But more on that later.
[Some more pictures here.]