What's a girl to do when a law journal implodes in her face, dragging friendships down the drain with it, and mashing on the rollers in frustration just isn't cutting it?
She gets out every sequined whatever out of her closet, tries them all on with every high-heeled shoe she owns, then sits on her bed, clothes strewn about, reading On Writing by Stephen King or re-reading bits and pieces of Ten Points [by Bill Strickland] or perusing through the November issue of Bicycling Magazine [again]. And when that doesn't do the trick, it's time for a makeover.
Not the kind involving a perm or manicured nails, but a bike-over. The bar tape has been slowly unraveling on my Bianchi, but in true scatter-brained fashion, I decided to concentrate my efforts on the kept woman that is the Dolan.
Because the Dolan might be flashy, but she prefers to stay indoors and fan herself in front of the TV [or, in my case, Hulu]. The deep track drops were sexy but inhibited outdoor ventures, and like most trophy wives/girlfriends scantily clad
boobs bars can only get you so far. The white saddle was [literally] an intolerable pain in the ass. So I put my foot down.
I was going to fully wrap those bars and smack on some hood brakes and switch out that stupid saddle even if it ended up looking like me wearing mismatched sequined clothes and too much eyeliner after a stressful day. Because while it might not be kosher, if that was going to get me riding more, and longer, then I didn't care about breaking THE RULES. I'd rather get run over by another cyclist on the track, rather than get hit by a bus on the way to the track because I couldn't properly maneuver that skitterish Dolan with track drops on it. Besides, the track drops can be strapped to my back, and road drops would open up the possibility of riding the Dolan in places where this concept of "wind" was less forgiving than in my apartment.
The saddle went first, replaced by the [totally awesome] leopard-print, porn-star saddle that came stock on the Bianchi [as Kanye would say, "they don't make 'em like this anymore,"...jealous?]. The bars got pulled off, and with the aid of a bestie [a.k.a. M1], the road drops got the full bar wrap treatment.
I know, I know. You're all scrutinizing and judging just how those bars got wrapped. I actually debated writing about it because it's the one thing that can elicit volatile displays of emotion from the most stony-faced of mechanics. The thing is, while I do care about how my bars look and feel [and I think they turned out pretty slick], I realized that in the process, half of me really didn't. It wasn't sheer laziness [okay, there might have been some of that], but as long as it stayed on my bars until spring, and as long as I could ride the damn thing hard and long, and, okay, as long as it didn't look heinous, I didn't really care. I could try to find the perfect white women's saddle [why are those so hard to find?!], and I could wipe down my rims and buy whiter tires. I could even switch out those cheap black toe straps for white leather ones. Or, I could forget about how it should look and ride it.
Because like the sequined ensembles I throw together on a stressful whim, how good my bike looks [or not] won't do me an ounce of goddamn good if I can't pull my shit together. Which, as applied to the bike, means being able to pedal that thing fast and hard. So that's what I'm doing - riding - and, of course, hoping the slightly confused mishmash of parts, patterns, and colors will get my legs to Chris Hoy proportions by spring.