tim johnson does tokyo...on tv

For the past three years, I’ve been bookending the cyclocross season from opposite sides of the world. It starts in the mid-fall in Massachusetts and ends in Odaiba, a man-made island in Tokyo Bay. Oddly, I watch the same guys race in both locations; first through dirt and grass and a New England fall, then through sand and a relatively warm Japanese winter.

Except this year, I caught the tail end of Holy Week in a dry Providence, Rhode Island and finished off the season of mud and cowbells on a slushy, snowy Tokyo beach.

To be honest, I spent the snowstorm on Saturday in the comfort of my own home while Chandler apparently raced through it. I dug out proper rubber boots for the following day and made plans to meet up with Tim, [his wife and former pro] Lyne Bessette, Chandler, and his pregnant wife, Jenny. As usual, fun times and general ridiculousness were expected.

I did not, however, expect to end up on Japanese TV.

When I finally caught up with Tim, he had a three man video crew following his every move. I had initially assumed that it was part of Cyclocross Tokyo; that maybe they were getting footage for a promotional video. How wrong I was. Tim had apparently agreed to be a part of the show “YOUは何しに日本へ?” [roughly translating into “Why Did You Come to Japan?”], in which a TV crew will select and follow a foreign visitor for a few days. They’d been with Tim, Lyne, Chan, and Jenny since the four had landed at Narita airport.

“So this is like ‘Tim Johnson Does Tokyo’?” I asked.

“Kinda,” he said.

In hindsight, the whole situation is more awkward than I’m currently comfortable admitting to myself. Even after I was informed of the reality of possibly ending up on national TV, there was a race to watch and the likes of Katie Compton, Wendy Simms, and Lyne Bessette to cheer on in the elite women’s race.

We speed walked through packed snow and slush, from the podium to the start line, and cheered as Lyne tore up the almost un-raceable course. Spectators yelled encouragement in Japanese as the American and Canadian athletes sped by, racing through slushy sand and heavy mud. It was the most exciting women’s race I’ve watched, in Tokyo.

Katie predictably took the win, and after congratulations were dispensed, the five of us, plus the TV crew, wandered around the course until the elite men started [Tim’s shoulder injury from World Championships kept him from racing this year]. The five of us screamed and cheered at Barry Wicks while being video-ed by the TV crew. It was awesome, albeit slightly awkward.

The men’s race ended with Zach McDonald taking the win, with Yu Takenouchi and Barry Wicks rounding out the podium. We watched Tim present the awards to the winners before calling it a day. Like every year, I came home exhausted, legs worn out, but happy and giddy. Road season is calling, but there’s nothing like ‘cross on a Tokyo beach in February.

[Tim also gave me an adorable bottle of maple syrup. So you know what that means: MAPLE SYRUP CHUGGING CONTEST!!! Also, more pictures here.]

the lady is a tramp

[Unemployment and a Monday with temperatures around 18C can only mean an outdoor ride. With a soundtrack by Sinatra.]

She gets too hungry for dinner at eight She likes the theatre and never comes late She never bothers with people she hates That's why the lady is a tramp

Doesn't like crap games with barons or earls Won't go to Harlem in ermine and pearls Won't dish the dirt with the rest of the girls That's why the lady is a tramp

She likes the free fresh wind in her hair, life without care She's broke and it's oke Hates California, it's cold and it's damp That's why the lady is a tramp

[Don't worry, it snowed the next day. And I don't hate California!]

retirement

When I started to hit the gym in the early morning, I quickly found the regulars. There are the two white guys – one tall and lanky, the other a bit shorter and less blonde – who both deadlift with bad form, the guy in his 40s with the mustache, and the other mustached guy with the huge biceps and little legs. People watching at the gym escalated from curious peeking into a creepy, secret pastime. But it was the older, anorexic woman who became my barometer of normalcy. At first, I was concerned and alarmed that a woman whose thighs were smaller than my forearms was frequenting a gym. “She’s going to snap something,” I used to think. Then I realized she was only showing up to use the Jacuzzi bath, and our mute acknowledgment of the other’s presence in the locker room settled into an awkward routine. I’d even been more worried than I should have been when I hadn’t seen her in over a week.

Months later, I gimped into the locker room and nearly the entire wall of lockers facing the doorway was wide open. It struck me as odd, and I paused for a second; the gym was consistently deserted in the morning, could the gym staff be cleaning? But that didn’t make sense because this was Japan, where things were always orderly. People didn’t leave locker doors wide open, much less entire walls of lockers.
A movement caught my eye then, and I saw my anorexic acquaintance at the end of the row of lockers, slowly opening the next one. She looked in and pulled out a particular hanger – the one she’s apparently been looking for – and returned to her own locker to hang her coat. I stopped pretending that our interactions, however minimal, were any kind of normal at that point.
It’s easy to get caught up in routine, no matter how unhealthy or strange. Repetitive actions are suddenly your new normal, and before you know it, you’re comfortable there. It’s worse when there’s a steady paycheck that pays just enough to keep you glued to your desk, working vacation to vacation. It’s life’s sneaky way of cheating you out of juicing it for all its worth, trading it all in for security and the ability to pay rent.
So, I kicked myself in the ass last week and quit my job.

I wasn’t entirely miserable. I didn’t have a horrific boss, and my coworkers were all nice to me [a favorite paralegal even got me a bouquet of one of my favorite flowers [callas!] when I left]. The work wasn’t hard. I should have been grateful to have a job. But something wasn’t quite right. Unemployment is scary, but I think the thought of doing what I was doing for the rest of my life scared me even more. Integrity can be a bitch like that.
It feels incredibly selfish. I mean, it is pretty selfish. I have no idea what’s next, either. It could be something totally fucking awesome, or homelessness.
Fingers crossed it’s the former [and doesn’t involve first going through the latter].
[This also means I'm available for any freelance writing work. Get in touch if you need a writer!]

sushi, food babies, and apple pie

I’m bloated. There is eyeliner residue still stuck all over my eyelids [yes, I did shower]. My legs don’t want to support my weight today [not only because I’m a few kgs heavier].
I’ve ridden a grand total of two hours in the past four days and am currently fully committed to flaking out on today’s power intervals [sorry, coach!].
But since the day before started with eating apple pie, in an alley, with Adam Hansen, and ended with the best meal I’ve had in my life so far, I am also committed to not caring about the consequences.

Let’s do it again, soon, Adam.
[Picture above taken by Adam. See his tweet for some extra food porn.]

alive

It's been kind of a hectic month, with lots of pretty significant stuff happening in the past two weeks.

I've got a good friend coming into town for a few days this week, but I'll be back soon with lots of stories!

is this real life?

“Kaiiiiiiikoooooo.”
I can still hear him singing my name, the sound echoing off the twisted turns of our cinder block dorm hallways. My name would be delivered thick with fake charm that we both knew he didn’t have to use, but the effort was flattering. His was the first Boston accent I fell in love with.
We were never together; more tightly bound confidantes and wingmen to the other, old-school, die-hard friends. We drifted apart for a while after college but he still IMs me with the same opener, chanting my name from across the world to tell me the kind of stories that make “The Hangover” pale in comparison [...except no one has gotten Tased in the face...yet].
“So I spent the weekend with M,” he told me the last time, “and he wakes me up going ‘yo, my apartment’s on fire.’”

What followed was a story involving a fire, getting electrocuted, somehow jamming a door so it wouldn’t open, then ripping it off its hinges, and getting pulled over by a cop on the way home. There was more, but I probably shouldn’t elaborate. In any case, he put it/his life rather succinctly, mid-story: “…And I was like IS THIS REAL LIFE???

That same thought crossed my mind on Sunday. Shivering in my cold apartment, bundled up in fleece and sweaters, I watched my favorite team racing in shorts and short-sleeves in the People’s Choice Classic. 25 laps around sunny, hot, summery Adelaide – there was even a crash! – and it felt like everything was back. Adam was racing, Lotto – in red this year! – controlling the front, Giant-Shimano [that’s going to take some getting used to] creeping up and Sky edging forward. It felt like I was back. Kind of like 2013, except with that heady feeling that things this year are going to be even better.

It’s surreal and wildly optimistic because it’s still January. I know that it’s going to get worse [read: February] before it gets better [read: March/spring/Spring Classics]. There’s a long way to go until the Grand Tours, better weather, and less fantasizing and actual doing of travel plans. Really, what in the hell is a week-long World Tour road race doing in the middle of January, hanging out there like it belongs with the cyclocross crowd? This time of year is supposed to be reserved for the misery of icy mud, not tantalizing hints of the road season to come. I understand that the seasons are all fucked up down there, too, but does the Tour Down Under really have to showcase their Australian summers while the rest of the world is freezing its ass off?

It’s January, guys…is this real life???
Despite my grouchy bitching, it so fortunately is. To paraphrase the Game of Thrones* series ROAD SEASON IS COMING. I couldn’t be more glad.
* Not that, you know, I read fantasy books or anything...