[Because I couldn't say it better than Luda...]
Just bought me and my cars bikes all some brand new [okay, used] shoes
And the people just stare so I love to park it
And I just put a computer in the glove compartment
With the pedal to the floor, radar in the grille
TV in the middle of my steering wheel
[Like that [finally] slammed stem? More soon, as always!]
I've recently reached that point in life - maybe that was a few years ago but I was only willing to admit it now - where my body mostly only makes sense in a kit. I've been genetically gifted with quads that will grow...and grow and grow...with the calves [and okay, ass] to match. This makes me the envy of the bodybuilders at my gym who refuse to do heavy squats, but also makes me look like a tree stump in skinny jeans.
It's a sad reality for someone who used to love denim. The trade-off was that I discovered Lululemon and Assos.
Though the designers at Lululemon have come up with a way to make even my ass look, well, spectacular, in yoga pants, Assos has been the real game changer. It's been almost a year since I purchased them, but my Assos T.FI. Lady S5 bibs have become one of those garments I try to "save" for special occasions. I'll grit through the relative discomfort of my worn down Capo shorts on shorter rides, just so I won't have to risk my Assos bibs coming under more wear and tear. Sure, they were bulletproof enough to come away with only a small scrape when I crashed back in October, but like the favorite pair of killer heels you generally keep on ice, you can't ever be too careful.
And like those heels, these bibs feel...sexy. The difference being that they're also extremely comfortable. The fabric is similar to that of Rapha's [mens'] bib shorts [circa 2010] - silky smooth and supple - but a touch better. It feels good to slip into, and unless you're stupid enough to lose a few kgs after purchasing them, these shorts won't ride up, despite the fact that only the back half of the leg hems have rubber grippers. Everything molds to your body and moves with you in these bibs, including the just-right, infamous, light-blue chamois. You feel naked, but awesomely, confidently so, like how great boyfriends can should make you feel even after you stuff yourself with way too much food.
Even new, the chamois was never obtrusive, either. It's thick enough to provide comfort for those mega-long trainer rides or anything that involves lots of time in the saddle, but outwardly appears low profile. I never got the feeling that I had two giant diapers on, or that I was walking around with a pillow precariously attached to my already bodacious ass. As an added perk, the bibs are cut rather generously in the hips and thighs. Which means I easily fit into a size small (win!!!).
The best part, though? The slightly strange between-boob strap.
I consider myself a fairly creative problem-solver, but never figured out how to drop the bibs to pee without taking off my jersey and trying to find a place to hang it. Assuming there's a hook provided in the bathroom, it never works out well because my pockets are inevitably stuffed with tubes, tire levers, a multi-tool, food, phone, earphones and whatever else. This means I end up battling various layers of Lycra in a fight to drop the bibs and juggling discarded layers so they won't touch the floor, all while crammed in some small public restroom. Yeah, I'm sure there's a porn genre for that, too, but listen, I'm not getting paid for this.
With the Assos bibs, I can unhook the strap, pull it over my head, and slip it down my back, all with my jersey still securely hooked to my shoulders. I'm flexible enough to be able to link my hands behind my back, so the strap gets shoved up my back with one hand, and grabbed with the other. All with my jersey securely on my shoulders. Even if you're not that flexible, you only need to shrug the jersey off one shoulder, not both. The guys probably won't get it, but this has been a total game changer.
Oh yeah, and for someone who is less than endowed totally flat, the strap also gives some illusion of boob-age. Which is cool because I can use all the help I can get in that department, too.
After losing a few kgs, those bibs are starting to creep up my thighs on rides. It's a shame, because it's barely been a year since I purchased them. I'm saving up for another pair, though, even with the other womens' bibs options that are popping up.
Because you've been there. Racing towards the nearest bathroom mid-ride, unsnapping your helmet before you even get off the bike. And who seriously has the time to be taking off a jersey when that happens?
Details
Price: 24,780 yen
[Note: I got the 2012 model last fall, on sale, for about 19,000yen at the Tokyo Assos Pro Shop.]
[And yeah, you're welcome for having no shame and posting these unflattering pictures of my butt on the Internet.]
Josh called me out for not including a podium pic of Adam by sending me this masterpiece.
I love it.
I know things have happened since then, but I’m still reeling from that incredible win on Friday. I have a lot to say about it, but I’m simultaneously speechless. To commemorate the event, though, I got my first tattoo…
[Okay, not really...But the Hanseeno site is now live!]
But I did soak up some Tokyo sun in the only jersey I could wear after Friday…
And treated myself to my first, cold taste of summer via an adzuki bar [it’s a frozen, dairy-free, sweet red bean paste popsicle].
Even ran into Basso on the way home.
Oh yeah and these past three days? Best. Weekend. Ever.
Sometimes, you stare out the office window on a Friday night, counting down the minutes until your shift ends and live coverage of the Giro starts.
And sometimes, you run home in the rain without an umbrella because your favorite pro cyclist is in the breakaway.
And sometimes, you mutter encouragement into your computer screen and cling to a hope that a friend can TT the next 30km solo.
And sometimes, just sometimes, that declaration you made that he could win a few Grand Tour stages this year, that comes true.
And in those sometimes, you’re totally allowed to cry happy tears for someone else.
Congrats, again, Adam [hey, what did I tell you, right?]! And happy birthday!!!
[Sorry for the screenshots, guys, way better pictures are on Steephill.]
My family has always placed a premium on living.
The big 3-0 is just about exactly two months away, but normal people continue to tell me, "oh, you're still so young!" My parents and relatives tend to underline the ephemeral nature of that belief, following those same statements with the qualifier, "but you won't be, soon." The point being, I suppose, to hurry up and get living because geriatric dementia and death are right around the corner.
The prevalence of this attitude can make family dinners incredibly depressing. As the youngest child of two youngest children who married late, until a decade ago, I was the youngest person at any family gathering. It made me easy prey. I'd get roped into seemingly innocent conversations about what I've been doing which would unravel into lectures on why I shouldn't want to get old. Putting aside the fact that I never expressed such a desire, what sort of resistance can you offer against the inevitable? "Don't worry Dad, I have it on good authority that I'm not ever going to die"?
The dispensing of that kind of advice also implies that I'm not quite living enough. But when you're racing against death, I'm not sure how you'd go about winning that one. Foregoing sleep to squeeze the seconds out of life seems to be a miserable way to live, not to mention that it sounds like a good way to work yourself into an early grave. In that respect, this game of living can be kind of like the bet you make with life insurance companies: you only win when you actually die.
The point I assume that my family is trying to make is that life is relatively short. We diverge on what exactly should be done regarding this temporal issue; my parents have always believed - with apparently my best interests in mind - that climbing the corporate ladder at all costs will eventually lead to my happiness. I can't blame them; nearly five years on and they still don't know about this blog, much less what I do in my spare time other than [literally] spinning my wheels. No surprise that they think I am wasting away precious life seconds.
Sometimes I believe it, too. I feel guilty for not killing myself, living. Other than my horrible posture, I have little to show for all those endurance miles and hours spent watching grainy feeds of pro races. The drama is - as with most things - largely internal. No one gets to see the pain involved in shoveling shit against the wave of scheduled intervals, the weird, tormented crazy resulting from self-imposed writing deadlines [and the anxiety/despair/complete panic when I come up with...nothing], or the heartbreak of seeing Lotto come in 21st on Stage 2 of the Giro. There is no tangible proof that I'm living as hard as I can, which, if you ask me, seems uniquely unfair.
But that's probably the point of signs that tell you that you're really alive; from the cross-eyed pain of voluntarily turning your legs into meaty mush on the bike to picking up the pieces of yourself after a break up to laughing so hard you can't stand up straight. It's easy to assume that if you're not doing that last one, all the time, that you're not living like you should be. But it's all the spaces in between, the theatricals that no one else gets to see, that make those moments of no-holds-barred-I'm-going-to-piss-my-pants-laughing so beautifully sweet.
It's in that negative space, too, where you might find how to follow your heart. How to live, really; to fight the good fight, one pedalstroke at a time.
Even if you're already close to 30, and nearing death's door.