air conditioning my samurai spirit

“You know he doesn’t let his family use air conditioning, right?” My coworker asked.
“…But why?” I said, “I mean, I know air conditioning screws up your body’s ability to regulate its own temperature and stuff…but it’s…really hot out.”
“Well…I mean, maybe that too,” my coworker responded, “but I think it has more to do with how it’s supposed to diminish your samurai spirit or something.”
I gave him a look.
“I swear, it’s a thing. Look it up.”

We were trading some gossip, as I attempted to fan the humidity and sweat off myself with a plastic folder. Tokyo summers are densely humid and hot – this past week having been particularly brutal – but it was the first I’d heard of air conditioning being a detriment to my samurai spirit. I had, until this point, been under the impression that artificially cooled environments were aiding my ability to remain zen when my body seemed unable to stop sweating. And sweating uncontrollably just didn’t seem very samurai.

But this was the coworker who had warned me about the Paris Syndrome, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. A five second Google search later confirmed his statement. The references were vague, but enough to concede that yeah, it’s apparently a [real] thing. "Okay, fine," I said to the back of my coworker's head, over the partition between our desks, as I pulled on my cardigan. The air conditioning was kicking in in the office.
My allegedly diminished samurai spirit came to mind again on Sunday as I pushed the pedals towards home. It was my second day in a row riding outside in heat so intense it felt like the sky had pulled a wool blanket over Tokyo, while blasting the city with a heat lamp. On Saturday, I knew temperatures would peak at 37C, but thought, well, how bad could it really be? And the worse it was, the better it would be for my samurai spirit, anyway, right?
Apparently it can get pretty bad. And apparently, I’m lacking in the samurai spirit department.

Five bottles of water and Skratch kept me alive on an easy three hour spin on Saturday, but the next day, even with stronger legs and slightly less punishing temperatures, I was toeing the edge of heat crazy. If you keep pedaling, it’s not so bad. But your denial inevitably stumbles across the too obvious signs of what exactly you’re doing to yourself: the hot water in your bottles, the waves of heat coming off the asphalt that reaches under your bars to sear your eyes, the sight of your shorts sprouting salt crystals, the reality of sweat coming out of your shins. It's like doing one of those masochistic juice detox fasts, where you convince yourself you have to feel like shit for a little while, but don't worry, in ten days, you'll feel so much better. Clinging to life on a hunger high, it's not hard to chant to yourself that you feel better ["energized," even] doing this, but stop and think about the situation for a minute and you realize all you want is a huge burger and a king size bag of chips. Or, in my case, a cold shower, green tea shaved ice, and air conditioning.

Sprawled out on my bed after scrubbing the sweat off of me, my skin still stained with the heat, I reached for the air conditioner remote. Modernity may be maiming the samurai in me, but actual death by dehydration seemed equally detrimental to that cause. Or so I told myself. Shaking my head at my own ineptitude, I drew up my knees and noticed crisper tan lines that were finally edging towards "good." I stretched my heels towards the ceiling before dropping heavy legs onto the bed.
"Whatever," I thought, as cool air swirled around me, "samurais never had to ride bikes, anyway."

re-connecting

My Internet connection at home inexplicably disappeared for a few days, but like a banged up knee, it's back in action.

Good stuff coming in a bit!

july selection

It's been a struggle - physically and psychologically - to readjust to Tokyo after a week in Paris [really, can someone just import me there?], but here's some good stuff from this month, mostly inspired by Paris...
- This didn't happen in Paris, unfortunately, but so, so cool. [via Bike Rumor]


- The green [Sram] red goatee. Just because I got to see it. [picture by Brakethrough Media]

- Bicycle Spring Rolls from The Garum Factory? Oh, my YUM.

- Nico mentioned Spinlister when we did a little 4-year reunion in Paris. For cities without bike share programs, it looks like a fun, easy way to get around town while traveling. Fingers crossed they have some tiny bikes listed...

- And because my trip wasn't all about cycling, I stumbled on a little taste of Japan while I was there too, in the form of Claire Naa's jewelry. I've fallen in love with her stuff.

More soon!

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!]