le tour a paris

When the heat and humidity get oppressive in Tokyo, when air conditioned chauffeured cars start to get stale and the 2002 Dom Pérignon rosé gets warm a little too quickly, I often send my assistant scurrying to book a flight to more temperate climes. I’ve always preferred the villa in Monaco, although the private island in Fiji can be quite pleasant. Since taking up cycling, I’ve considered purchasing another residence in Nice, perhaps a small château in Aix-en-Provence…the 6 bedroom in Girona is starting to look a bit shabby, after all.
But that was the extent of my French musings – a few properties I would maybe discuss with my trustee – as crowds have always deterred me from the Tour de France. The press of people contributing to the heat of Paris summers, the nightmare of transporting my army of garçons to fan me from every angle [they never seem to be able to stay in one place], the châteaux that friends would insist I stay at. I’ve been known to order a case of 1988 Krug Brut at the mere mention of actually visiting Paris for the Tour.

The realization of a necessary, token trip to mark my thirtieth birthday, however, dawned. I was bored with Fiji, my parents asked me to tag along with them to Monaco, but Alex of Sram sent an email suggesting I join him in attempting to photobomb the photographers at the last stage of the 100th Tour de France. I couldn’t say no.
Thus, last Sunday morning, we convened at the Royal Suite of the Hôtel Plaza Athénée (Sram Red 22 has apparently been doing very well). A mix up with the helicopter reserved to transport Ben, Jason, Alex and I to Versailles turned into a train ride on the RER. The conversation and company proved to distract from my sweating through my custom Miu Miu dress, and the experience was quaintly quotidian. All that was missing was that bottle of Krug.

A flick of a yellow band around a wrist got us through to the start, where we strolled to the team buses. Saxo first, then OPQS, Cannondale, and Lotto for me. No amount of rose water or Marc Jacobs perfume could have kept me smelling luscious at this point, but Adam Hansen, ever a gentleman, didn’t mention my dusty appearance, offered some Dom Pérignon, and held my Hermes Kelly bag while I scaled a barrier. We caught up, in real life – he really is a sweetheart – before parting ways with promises to race our Ferraris, as soon as we settle on a good wager. [If he bets a pair of his Hanseeno shoes, though, I’ll have to get my F12 back from Tim Johnson…a good excuse to fly stateside for ‘cross, maybe?]

As the pros wheeled to the start, the Sram gentlemen and I collected near the team buses. How to get back without the helicopter?, we asked each other. The train, while tolerable, didn’t seem to agree with our hand-tailored garments and Italian shoes. Neither does the RER supply an endless amount of champagne or wine. As I pined for my chauffeur in shining Aston Martin, OPQS came to the rescue of this damsel, offering a ride to Paris in the plush confines of the team bus. I could hear the rattle of ice around a bottle of champagne from within. We gladly accepted.

An hour later, we were in Paris. My assistant had timely sent a few garçons, although their fanning did nothing to alleviate the heat. I was only too glad to arrive at the VIP tent, where the white wine was chilled, the beer cold, and the fois gras finger sandwiches and tiny madelaines in abundance.

Fed and buzzed, we strolled out of the tent to the adjacent grand stand and watched the pros fly by ten times up and down the Champs. Between sightings, giant TVs aided my line of vision, sometimes obscured by a large fan or a spaced out garçon. Passionate, fast French kept me updated when I tore my eyes away to sip more wine or consider my dessert options. Life, I was realizing, in Paris, during the last stage of the Tour, is very, very good.

Though none of our chosen sprinters took the stage, we celebrated by climbing over those pesky metal fences - so efficient at keeping the crowds out but quite detrimental to our aimless wandering - onto the course, before making our way slowly back toward the team buses. We shook hands with friends and said some au revoirs, and thirsty for some more champagne, headed to a hotel bar for a few bottles of Laurent-Perrier. The night slowly slipping by, we strolled around the city, Ben ripped his pants right across the ass, and we ended the night at the only brasserie open at 4am. I slept for an hour on my Egyptian cotton sheets, the air stirred by a still-awake fanning garçon, and got up the next day to meet the talented and charming Dave Chiu for some artistic endeavors [of the spectating variety].

I have a plane to catch tomorrow, headed back for a short shopping spree to Tokyo, then maybe a jaunt to Bora Bora for the rest of the summer. The Paris Plages are charming, yes, but don’t quite hold the luxury of their French Polynesian counterparts. But I will be back to watch the Tour...perhaps next year from the balcony of a new château…
[More pictures, here.]
[*Events may be slightly exaggerated.]
[A big, big, huuuuuge thank you to Sram, OPQS, Adam [Hansen], Dave [Chiu] and everyone else who made this trip absolutely amazing. Hugs and high fives...hopefully see you guys in Tokyo soon!]

bienvenue...

A Paris.

It's been months in the planning, and only a few nearest and dearest were privy to this secret trip, but I am currently in Paris. No, I can't believe it myself.
There is a final Tour stage just around the corner, and a few friends - old and new - to meet. I'll tell you all about it. But for now, some charcuterie sounds really nice...

daily distractions

When I moved back to Tokyo two summers ago, my mother was growing about three different things on the balcony. A net supporting a curtain of leafy vines stretched from our second floor balcony to the roof, sprouting delicate flowers.
"I'm growing bitter gourd," she said.
"Is it working?" was my response.

As this is Tokyo, where a backyard is considered a luxury, my mother's horticultural experiments usually take place in giant, black planters that resemble witches' cauldrons. Appropriately, they seem to yield little that is edible. In otherwise bountiful moments of the year, my mother will put on an old, wide-brimmed straw hat, pull on rubber gloves and disappear with a large garbage bag in hand. She'll return an hour or so later with a corpse of a blueberry bush, or some other casualty of neglect half protruding through the plastic.
"Can you help me move one of the big planters? I'm replacing the blueberries with eggplants this year," she'll say. "Oh, but be careful, don't try to do it alone, I'll help," this 5'3, 85 pound, 65+ year old Japanese woman who pouts when a size 0 ends up being too big will add, "I know you're not very strong."

My response is always something along the lines of, "what....what are you doing?" Because between the plants, the dog, the house, and making sure that my father doesn't die of starvation because he barely knows how to use a toaster, my mother's made herself into quite the accomplished lacquer ware artist. There are never enough hours in the day two weeks before a deadline for a competition, but she will insist on swimming lessons once a week and social obligations I wouldn't bother ever penciling in. I don't get it; it's like she hates sleep.

I've often looked at my mother's never-ending list of things to do and simply shaken my head. I always preferred to focus sharply, obsessively on my loves, because I didn't want the additional worry of other distractions. I also wasn't sure if my heart had room for too many extra things, as if loving something else would signify some hint of apathy. In those moments when I can't stand to turn the pedals without sobbing, my natural inclination has been to simply smother myself with the bike. I don't know, it always seems like a good idea at the time.
Looking back on those crazed moments, what I ultimately didn't want to face was doubt shrouded as "other priorities" that might crowd in and push out the sweaty suffering. I remember looking at the mess of scars covering both knees after a week riddled with too many meltdowns. Why did I do this to myself, I briefly wondered. I remembered something my sister had said the first time I tore up my knees: "Ew," she had scoffed, "I hope it was worth it; you can't ever wear a skirt again." And that had been okay, because when you limit yourself to one love, it has to be worth it.

The funny, inevitable thing is that I caved and wrenched that stubborn heart of mine open, just a little. A few weeks ago, I clipped out of the bike, inhaled, and let myself get distracted away from my watts by designs, secret plans, and other half-formed things that are currently tumbling towards a doozy fixation. I made a dress that will hopefully always show half my tan lines and all of my scars. You wouldn't know it from the arid desert this blog has turned into the past week, but I wrote, too. I lost some sleep doing all of the above, lost more sleep to ride and watch the Tour, and was surprised to find myself happier for my multitude of loves.

Like the omnipresence of some degree of Kevin Bacon in Hollywood, you could easily trace all of my current daily distractions to the bike and therefore claim that nothing has really changed. I think that’s the point: true loves – like, the really real ones – should never be so limiting that they impose straitjackets, blinders, or simmering doubts of potential loss. They should, instead, usher you out the door on sunny days to ride and put a book, a keyboard, or a sewing machine in front of you on the rainy ones. They should do things like wake you up at 5am to insist on some quality time together, yet share you without guilt or jealousy, allow you to kill some poor, unsuspecting plants every year, and never, ever be your obligatory one and only. They should set you free, really, and kiss you always so you keep coming back.
Again and again and again.

vascular

One of the more interesting things I saw this weekend...

Proof that my shins are getting lean...?
It's going to be a crazy week, but good stuff coming soon!