watts and a wardrobe

In all the notebooks I'm scrawling into on any given day, the random, disjointed thoughts are broken up by half completed designs for garments I'm going to get around to making. Once I finish my ride, do the laundry, run to the grocery store, clean my bike, edit that blog post, I was going to get to it. You know, eventually.
While I continue to prioritize the riding, in the beginning, I used to have mixed feelings about it. I wanted the bike to make me a waif-ish climber, but despite what Rapha ads might promise, the opposite happened. Though pedaling for hours might gift some women with narrow hips and gazelle-like physiques, the kilometers built me up into what would be considered, by Japanese standards, to be similar to a brick shithouse. It makes sense - for every Contador, there is a Cavendish - but I can't say I was elated at this discovery. I'd be lying if I said that the projected restriction of my already limited wardrobe wasn't a part of that disappointment. [Skirt below made and embroidered by me, tan lines from last year. Someone in NYC will hate me a little for this so...um...sorry?]

Growing quads, glutes, and calves made it easier, though, to convince myself that my abnormal proportions had exiled me from shopping like a normal person.The voluntary disqualification from consumerism also stemmed from the fact that I never liked to blindly throw myself into trends. Scallop-edged shorts that make me look both blubbery and like a pedophile's wet dream are in? No thanks, I'll pass. The temptation to conform lingers, but I'm still vain enough to refuse to wear anything that makes me look worse. I'm also, unfortunately, funny about clothes in the same way I am funny about bikes: I can't bring myself to buy anything that isn't [reasonably] well-crafted. It's unfair to compare stock welds to those that now grace Fireflys, but the exposed zippers and cheap, hurried seams of everything offered at Forever 21, Zara, and H&M ensure that I'll never go into bankruptcy via fast fashion. Learning how to use a sewing machine and an appreciation for impeccable tailoring have resulted in a perversion of the Diderot effect: I can't, in good conscience, buy anything that I could make - with my limited skills - better, and so I end up refusing to buy anything at all. [And yes, those ridiculous tan lines help, too.]
Unconsciously - and perhaps to my bank account's detriment - I've somehow grown into my cycling body. I like knowing that I'm stronger than women with smaller legs and nonexistent calves. On doing the usual personal physical assessment that every woman does at least once three times a day, I caught myself wishing that my glutes were bigger. Quad separation seemed like a reasonable goal, too. With that, I looked at my closet, sighed, and went shopping.

Unfortunately, self-acceptance doesn't mean that the world automatically embraces your proportions and starts producing things that fit just right and are incredibly flattering. And because I refuse to trade watts for a wardrobe, I dusted off some French curves, pulled out drafting paper and ironed out rolls of muslin. Since then, I've been working on a couple of projects, post-ride, when my legs don't work so good. Because what girl doesn't want to [try to] be [as Zoolander put it] really, really, really, ridiculously good-looking, tan-lines and all?

[I'll be posting progress updates and completed projects that hopefully don't make me look like a vertically challenged blob. Keep those fingers crossed for me!]

voluntary loner

"Are you alone? Training? You don't see women that do that much here."
It's been over a year since an older gentleman with stronger legs said that to me. We bumped into each other on a popular ride route, on a weekday morning because I was unemployed and he was self-employed. He offered a wheel for the way home, and I bumped into him three times that same week.

Employment, winter, and a trainer mean I haven't seen him in months. I have his number ["were you trying to pick her up?!" a friend of his joked when I ran into them], and I'm sure he'll be down to ride, but I feel a little weird getting back in touch. Riding alone - either because I don't feel like burdening anyone I know with my slower legs or because I want the freedom to roll out of bed and ride without waiting for someone who's "going to be there in like 10 minutes, I just woke up" - has always been become the norm. The group rides I've been on are happy memories, but my reclusive riding has turned me into the eternal bachelor friend, the one who's been flying solo for so long that commitment starts sounding odd; a nice concept, in theory, but maybe one that doesn't apply here.
You could say that I've been hoarding the freedom implicit in solitude. There's security in knowing that I'm alone, plus a twisted ego boost from being confident that, no matter what happens, I'll be the one getting myself home in one piece. There are no concessions to make - of water, pit stops, ride routes, or meeting times - which means I get to be a selfish asshole, but that I also have to deal with whatever comes my way, alone. I'd like to think that it's made me better at not blaming other people for situations I've created...although, you know, let's not entirely rule that out yet.

It would be disingenous of me to claim that embarrassment at my self-consciousness has nothing to do with being the voluntary loner. When you ride with others, you start to notice things about how you ride, or they're noticed for you. Habits become "really fucking weird habits," or, worse, "shit you're not supposed to do." That kind of insight, though usually helpful, can be a bit like "suggestions" from significant others about your personality: uncomfortable to hear, and sometimes only appreciated in hindsight. You'd think I'd be used to being wrong by now, but I still have a hard time not letting it get under my skin.
The annoying thing is that after you disengage from all that for a while, after you get used to the independence, after you see nothing but positive things about the isolation, you wake up early one Saturday morning and wish for the impossible friend who would be doing the same, just so you guys can go out and ride. Not someone to vent to, or to shoot the shit with, but simply to be there, riding next to, in front of, or behind you.

As someone who requires a regular people detox, it was a strange feeling. It only made sense later, grimacing through the prickly, hot pain of tired legs as I dragged my bike up the train station stairs. It wasn't only the desire to make some more of those unforgettable, shared memories. With friends that like to ride hard, there will always be an understanding of why you're useless for a handful of hours afterwards. There are no demands to shower, get changed, and immediately go shopping in heels. It's okay to be caught between exhausted and hungry for the rest of the day, spending the afternoon with legs stretched out, watching highlights of the TDF, and going to bed at 10pm on Saturday so you can do it all over again on Sunday. That distinctly heavy, post-ride exhaustion becomes a part of your life - raging bitchfests are too easily triggered by drained legs, so my weekend naps have become non-negotiable - and remains elusively inexplicable to those who prefer to always coast easy.

"Oh, fuck," I had said breathlessly to no one in particular last Saturday, halfway up a mountain pass. My legs were reminding me that I hadn't ridden there in almost a year while my face was dousing itself in sweat. Not the glistening-in-the-heat-this-could-be-sexy-if-done-right kind, but the kind that gets squeezed out of your skin because you're pushing so hard on the pedals. I looked terrible; my hair half matted down with sweat, not a trace of yesterday's eyeliner around my eyes, my face bright red.
Even so, I would've loved some company.

june selection

Is it already July?
It's been a pretty quiet June, but here are some highlights:
- How Sagan parks his bike. So, so good:

- If you wanted to go a little higher and, say, fly, then head to Prague:

- Low tech: French bikes made of plywood. All that's missing is a cute basket... [via Bikerumor]

- Hi tech: Ridley's new Dean FAST, Lotto-Belisol's new TT bike for the TDF. [via Bikeradar]

- Andre Greipel is the new German national champ!

- Adam [Hansen]'s new shoes for le Tour [the other foot has red lettering]. Yup.


[More writing soon, I promise!]

rainy season training, in gifs

[A typical training week now that it's rainy season in Japan...]
Monday: Rest day. Check out training plan for the week.

Tuesday: Longer spin day, with intervals that don't look so bad so I'm all...

An hour later...

Wednesday: Short, sweet recovery.

Thursday: Power intervals. Ten times. DONE.

Friday: Rest day.

Saturday: 2 hours inside because of the rain.

Sunday: OUTDOOR RIDE!

Rinse. Repeat.

excuse my beauty

Catching a glimpse of my reflection in the train window the other day, I realized how much I used to dislike my face: the boring, brown eyes that weren't big enough [or some exotic shade of blue or green], my Asian nose, cheekbones that didn't seem to exist, and a face that lacked angles and looked too much like a spotty, brown egg. I never had expectations to be truly beautiful, but there's always some adjustment required when you're told to live with something you had no part in acquiring. My adolescent-into-young-adult wish to look more...whatever obviously never materialized, but for a while there, I really wanted it to. It wasn't for a lack of trying, because I did try. Like, really hard. In the way that is unique to that lethal mix of vanity and insecurity. I was skinnier back then, too, but predictably unhappy. [Yeah, that's me, circa 2005.]

Then sometime after I turned 25, I stopped caring so much.
In hindsight, the change was fairly abrupt. The exhaustion from wanting so much, from feeling that if I just had this shirt/beauty product/pair of jeans/handbag/shoes, my life would be better, wore me down. It helped that I was barely employed, and thus unable to afford anything I wanted. It also helped that I was in Japan, where appearances seemed to rule everything. The impossibility of keeping up, the unhappiness implicit in any obsession with appearances, the superficiality of what I was buying into simply became too much.

I think of those years when I tried on vanity, then discarded it as a bad fit, as kind of like a 12 minute interval. There's discomfort felt at your own perceived physical inadequacies, and even a sense of rejection at first, while you feel sorry for yourself, before you settle into the pain. It lasts longer than you'd really like, and quite honestly, you're not very attractive while you're in the midst of it, but you arguably come out a better person. You could dope via plastic surgery, but to me, it's never seemed worth it.
I'm tempted to say that it's not ideal, that you deal with the face and features you're given, and you make the most of it. That that's the best you can really do when you're not gifted with the right balance of genetics. I think that can be true, but these days, I'm fortunate enough to forget what I look like. I only manage to remember when I catch startled, horrified stares from strangers. What are they looking at? I sometimes wonder, before tugging down the sleeves of my t-shirt ["oh, yeah, that"]. If they're staring a little higher, at my face, I don't even bother. I mean it's not like someone drew a penis on my face while I was asleep last night, right? .......Um....Right...?

Because, really, I'm okay with it. My physical appearance - the freckles I'm secretly proud of, the tan lines that limit my wardrobe - is the cost I pay for doing business in the life enrichment industry. Like the millions of "I'm sorry"s and "thank you"s that are due to loved ones, they're signs of kilometers imperfectly traveled. Admissions of guilt or gratitude never kept me from wearing a strappy dress, but the frustration of living in a t-shirt filled fashion hell is easy to forget. I know every time I slip into my [Lotto-Belisol <3] jersey, that I'm printing my skin with another declaration, tattooing lines that will take multiple winters to fade away. I look at my chipped nailpolish, stubborn chain grease hiding under one fingernail, a cut on a finger from working on my bike. None of that ugliness ever matters enough to trade it away for appearances' sake. And once the legs are turning over the pedals, my face, my imperfections, my insecurities about my facial imperfections, all slip away.
All that extra shit just gets in the way, anyway. They are excuses to cling to something that signifies acquiescing to obligations to appear a certain way, to live life as someone else has described it for you. A perpetual Plan B, an escape route for when your efforts don't pan out, that foot out the door just in case you fail. It may give you a multitude of empty "could"s ["well, I could be better at cycling, but sweating makes my eyeliner run..."], but ultimately, you get short-changed of your full potential.

Since letting go of the silly, sometimes extreme, self-consciousness, I've found that there's much more to life than sleeveless tops, strappy dresses, evenly tanned legs and wearing shorts without shame. For me, there are pro jerseys, Assos bibs, and a bike that has yet to fail me. There are places to discover, foreign countries to visit and pro races to see, with eyeliner or without. The latter would never fit into a life as it should be lived for a single Japanese woman. Obsessions with beauty products and fulfilling empty social duties to look pretty seem like a shitty way to live, though.

Looking back on my vain era, I think I've figured something else out, too. That when you can live life in a way that you end up forgetting what you look like, when you can get out of your own fucking way and stop tripping on your ego, then, well, you're finally doing it right. And that's something worth hanging on to, because that's what makes you a stunning kind of beautiful.