This whole thing is starting to get slightly dangerous.
I’m actually beginning to get used to being a completely useless slacker. I’ve spent more afternoons than I’d like to admit watching so-bad-it’s-good true crime shows and back-to-back Law & Order anything. If I’m going to be honest, the only reason I manage to get dressed before 11am every day is because Mike’s espresso machine has been collecting dust since the Rapha Cycle Club opened. I’m currently forced to put something on, walk down too many stairs and over two blocks to collect my morning Americano. Ridiculous, I know.
When the sense that I should be doing something with some semblance of productivity creeps up on me – “guilt” is too strong of a word to use here, I think – I’ve sought solace in my computer screen, attempting to find employment, catch up on blogs, or form my own densely muddied thoughts into words, sentences, or paragraphs. On one particular effort to re-educate myself on what the hell has been going on all summer while I was living under a rock, I found out that Velodramatic has been in France for most of July. In response, I kept my head perfectly still, glanced to my left and right, minimized Chrome and closed my laptop. Mental note made to read that later; sometime soon, I promise, just not now because the concept of Paris [Paris?...PARIS...?!] is a little overwhelming right now.
But despite the promise of vicarious vacays via Velodramatic, and the escape provided by the stacks of blogs and books to consume aside, I’ve still managed to spend most of last week watching and not so much doing. I watched as bags of gravel were shuttled into the Cycle Club, power tools taken out and new pictures hung in the gallery space. I spectated as graphics were laid out for the Rapha Continental gallery opening event Thursday night, and bikes were neatly positioned against each other. Rapha Continental riders themselves were in and out of the space from early Wednesday morning, and a little envious of all the activity buzzing around me, I offered to walk Rich Bravo’s IF – whose saddle comes up to just under my bra – from NYC Velo to the Rapha Cycle Club.
A few hours and a nap later – the latter is quickly becoming part of my everyday routine – I surprised myself by actually getting dressed in more than the Lululemon yoga pants that have turned into my version of what dirty sweatpants are to morbidly obese people. Jeans came out, plus a button down shirt, even a Rapha scarf…! I was pretty impressed.
Anyway, what was probably more impressive was the turn out and the presence of nearly all the framebuilders whose bikes were on display. IF, Igleheart, Seven, Bilenky…it was pretty cool to see the bikes and the people that made them, plus the guys who rode them, and people who are just into bikes in general. Though still in Step 2 of post-bar resocialization, which involves slowly learning how to interact with people on some sort of socially acceptable level, even I found the atmosphere totally chill and fun. And NO, I WASN’T COMPLETELY BLIZTED OFF THAT 40, THANKS.
Straight up sober, I still had lots of fun. I got to watch [among other things] Carey of Rapha [and Director of the Continental] climb into Kansas’ giant bag, met Skull Krusher [more on that later], and observed Cassidy’s attempts at pitching game. All of which made for a pretty solid Thursday evening. After closing up, we headed home where I finally peeled off sweaty jeans and shirt and passed out into the kind of sleep where you wake up feeling so rested it would be downright weird if you weren’t snoring the entire night.
And then I got up, clipped in on an amazing bike and went on a real road ride. More on that, though, later.