only if...

Yesterday morning was a disaster. Zero coffee until 11am, a dentist appointment I was late to, frustration at not really having a bike I can do anything with, the empty sense of not really belonging anywhere, and mood swings like woah.
Funny, how, a little past noon, I was standing in a place I would have never expected to be a year ago, surrounded by friends who work in a bike shop in NYC, comfortably snapping too many pictures. And then having lunch with the incredibly awesome people behind Independent Fabrication.

Yup, that's right. I went to IF. I'm still not quite sure how it happened. But when NYC Velo became an IF dealer a few weeks ago, a trip to Boston was planned, and a casual "you should come" turned into a full day of adventure.
It started, of course, in Somerville, at the infamous IF factory. A place I couldn't have dreamed of entering without some tangible pretext [most likely in the form of a credit card and an order form for a custom frame], I entered empty-handed and left with an SD disk full of pictures, a few new friends, and some capacity to dream of racing bicycles again.

Mostly broke and with a knee that's slowly giving out, but simultaenously terrified of the obligation to race that would come with having a fully-functioning geared bike, I'm currently having a classic love/hate relationship with the Bianchi. Yesterday it was mostly hate/hate to the point where I was hating all bicycles. Yet somehow I dragged the tractorino to Somerville to a place full of too pretty bicycles and a spray-painted wooden sign that demanded those within those factory walls to "Live the Dream."

An audacious command, the desire to do exactly that seems to permeate the people of IF. But in a way that doesn't reek of douchebaggery or condescension. The somewhat intimidatingly large logo on the factory door leads into a bike nerd's paradise, but one that's full of friendly, incredibly laid-back people. Serious people who have managed to retain the fun in their work and craft. And that is impressive.
IF's passion for bicycles cleared the doubting depression over my ability to do anything of value on a bicycle. Team jerseys became coveted items again, as did derailleurs. Over lunch at the Tavern At the End of the World, I even jokingly recalled a casual suggestion that, to me, seemed completely absurd: that I should get an IF and race for NYC Velo in Boston. Too bad it was snatched up as "brilliant" and "great" with Andy and Joe [of IF] informing me that I could "totally pull off a Factory Lightweight" but I'd have to wait on a NYC Velo kit that would actually fit.

I blinked before backpedaling in panicked fear, the thought of an IF Factory Lightweight a little too much for my awkward legs to handle. And while talk of racing seemed centered around the kind that involves two derailleurs, NYC Velo managed to leave with the infamous pursuit IF track bike in the back of their car. I even got to touch it.

With a Dolan in my kitchen, racing track seems much more feasible. But when I do decide on something with multiple gears and the ability to shift between them...well, that Factory Lightweight is looking really sexy...

disaster zone

Imagine newspapers, fabric, bottles of screening ink, plastic tubs of cottage cheese [for mixing ink], and tailor's chalk strewn around the floor, cardboard boxes spewing out fabric with a track bike wedged into a corner and you have an idea of what my room currently looks like.
Needless to say, it's a mess [no, I'm not posting pictures of it]. Any ordinary person would probably think I've completely lost it. And sometimes I think I might have as well.

After spending most of the day [unforeseen circumstances dictated that I got the day off] alternating between screening, cutting, hopping between laid out fabric, and sewing, my shoulders were sufficiently cramped to allow for a break. Observing the destruction wrought in my room, and some mostly complete hats, I took a breather to pat myself on the back. I've been productive today, I thought.
And there was only so much I could do; the bigger box of fabric from NYC hadn't arrived yet. Thank God. I can blow off certain projects for a few--
And then the doorbell rang.
Yup. That box came.

So it was back to work, hands sometimes covered in ink, other times finagling fabric under the foot of my sewing machine. My trash can filled up over the course of the day to the point where it was vomiting out slivers of fabric, pieces of thread, elastic, and all the bits and pieces associated with crafting. Pushing my machine to work harder and faster, I almost didn't feel guilty about wimping out on my ride.
Okay, I admit, I did a mere 6 miles today. I know. The guilt. But if it makes it any better, my knee was stiff by the time I called it a day and took my foot off the [sewing machine] pedal. My shoulders were feeling it too, and even my fingers were a little tired [although, that could be the endless gchatting].

Finally extracting myself from the hat factory [i.e., my desk], I stretched my fingers while thinking about my next ride, slightly dreading those hills. And that's when I noticed it. Despite the layers of sun screen I pour onto my arms before rides, I'm officially rocking the hood tan. My thumbs and forefingers are a noticeably darker shade than my other fingers. Great.
At this point, the only thing that's going to save me is an airbrush tan. Although, I suppose this is another badge of [cyclist] pride.

oi oi oi!

I once had the worst crush on a boy who was into ska. We're talking one of those I-can't-even-look-him-in-the-eye crushes. He never knew my name. Probably for the best, as my creepy was definitely reaching "old pedophile" levels.
My best friend tolerated my drooling, and when the crush finally disappeared one day, she proceeded to mercilessly make fun of me. I totally deserve it.
I did have a thing for checkerboard patterns, a good brass section, and the sugary sounds of pop-princess-disguised-as-rebel-punk ska before the crush though [seriously, who can resist the Tokyo Ska Paradise Orchestra?]. And I still love the aesthetics; studded belts are still a must, checkerboard slip on Vans are key, and I love love love my black Chucks.
I understand how Avril-esque that might make me sound; and at 25, I'm way too old to be fronting like I belong in any kind of music scene. But old ID pictures of me with pink/red/orange/purple hair will bring an embarrassed grin to my face as I shake my head at how ridiculous I used to look.

Those same old nostalgic memories of my punkier days flooded back to me last weekend when I saw the spacers on my new bike. Given the sheer amount of pink on the bike, I was almost afraid that it would be too cute; an adjective that I don't tend to identify with. But the alternating silver and black spacers - Erich's signature touch, apparently - looks, well, amazing...and balanced...and though subtle, makes the bike just so much more me.

The spacers also balanced out the cranks and the chainring that got installed the other day as well. Having been tucked away under my bed, fueling dreams of new bike days and matching rims, I finally had a bike frame to put them on. The fruits of my sweatshop labor [Thanks Jason!] finally have a home. And a pretty gorgeous one at that...!

As for the crush, I coincidentally ran into him last weekend as well. Still on my new bike high, I was giddy with excitement and smiling everywhere. He actually said something to me, and looked me in the eye and smiled. My bike-fueled happiness smiled back at him, effortlessly, before I turned and bounced out the door.
That better absolve me of at least some of the old pedophile creepiness.

march madness

Not the NCAA one, although I've technically filled out a bracket for that. I had no idea what I was doing, even if a friend informed me that he had his money on my being the dark horse NCAA bracket champion. Needless to say, I'm currently ranked DFL.
March has been hectic though. While I was dragging my feet, trying not to think about a bike I own but couldn't ride, hubs and rims arrived, spokes were laced, and a wheelset was complete. The list of things I need to get this bike ride-able was becoming shorter and shorter. The picture of the frameset that's been sitting pretty as my desktop background is no longer recognizable. For some reason, this month has been a whirlwind of activity.

Screams of excitement have gotten louder and less shameful, jumping up and down in happiness in front of normal customers are currently a given at IBC, as is my perpetual expression of surprise whenever I walk in. But there was also the arrival of a pair of Champ grips from Georgia, and yesterday I even found myself in the library, staring at a friend from school...who showed up to my carrel with helmet in hand...and in spandex.
After which I couldn't concentrate and restlessly read the rest of my assignment before flying out of school and down to IBC yet again, but this time with some extra goodies in my bag. I got to watch Erich install the Champs onto the pretty track drops Eric gave me [even though I offered to pay for them!]. The installation made some interesting noises which alternated between squealing and farting. Air was involved. As well as neon green gloves.

Erich, being an anal perfectionist [let's continue the dirty innuendos, shall we?], even turned the grips so that the arrows were perfectly aligned with the curve of the bars. Knowing full well that those grips won't retain their white-ness for very long, I still couldn't keep my hands off of them.

The My bike was hung up on one of the stands as the two Eric[h]s, Dan, Marcus, and Jeremy handled the constant flow of customers that poured in, and I just stood there, admiring it. A few people even asked me whose bike it was, and I got to practice my gloating [I'm working on it, Marcus!].
I even got to ride it. But that's for another day. For now, I'm off to train for this ridiculous idea of a fixed century. On the tractorino, of course.

lucky

There are apparently some things every girl should do. One of those things is to take the most roundabout route to your local bike shop with a bottle of champagne tucked away in your baileyworks. Oh, yeah, and ride fast.
Because when bottles of Veuve Clicquot are involved, good things happen.
Being pressured to at least come out to the "Champagne and 40s" themed pre-party ["because we're classy...and we're not"] for the law prom I refused to go to, I threw a bottle of champagne in my bag with a bottle of water before heading out on a quick ride yesterday. The ride was super short, so I sprinted as fast as I could, whenever I could, trying to make my thighs feel that searing burn.

Disgustingly sweaty and breathless, I stopped by IBC on my way home. I expected to drop in for a quick chat and be less of a wobbly-kneed, steamy mess when I left. Lucky for me, though, I happened to walk in on Erich building one of my wheels.
Despite the initial "Ahhh don't look!!!" I got to watch my Miche hubs being laced to my front Deep V rim with DT Swiss Competition double-butted spokes and black brass nipples. This was, admittedly, the first time I've seen a wheel being built; much less one for me. Naturally, I took enough pictures to make a Japanese tourist proud.

The black nipples were Erich's idea, and I initially didn't think it would make a huge difference, and was expecting silver nipples anyway. How wrong I was! Like [unnecessarily] painted toe nails in the winter, it's the small details that simultaneously pull everything together and turn up the sophistication factor like woah.

"Bike Parts Learning Time with Erich" unfortunately had to end before the whole thing went into the truing stand [and yes the above picture is a sneak peek at the already completed rear wheel]. Mostly because I was already late to the pre-party, and I had champagne to deliver. I tore myself away from that coveted space behind the counter, next to a bike stand that held up something too pretty to articulate with words, to get back on my trusty tractorino.
I'm stopping into IBC again today. It's going to be another good day. I can just tell.

rollercoaster ride

I was in tip top temper tantrum form yesterday. And although I knew I didn't have any right to be, I was angry at myself for sounding so lame in my apology.
I was biting back a cocktail of anger, stress, and general exhaustion combined with a knee that felt like it was splitting in half as I rode back home. UPS told me my pink, front rim was waiting for me at home and I managed to drag it into my apartment, totally beat. I wasn't even that excited about it.
And just for shits and giggles, I decided to check my normally-empty-save-for-the-rent-check mailbox. And found this:

Sent from Georgia from an old college boyfriend, just when I was starting to despair that the only person who gave a shit about my day was the homeless disabled guy that calls me sweetheart and hangs out outside the liquor store, it made me sit on the floor and cry. The card told me it was for White Day, a holiday totally made up by a bunch of Asian people who figured out that they could sell twice as much chocolate if, on March 14th, they instituted a reverse Valentine's Day where the men have to give the women chocolate/presents/whatever [in Japan, only women are supposed to give stuff to the men on Valentine's Day]. Unexpected and utterly sweet, it lifted most of the black vortex of depressing that was swirling over my head.
A few hours later, I got an email from Erich at IBC and my jaw dropped. And then I almost screamed:

It's so fucking pretty. The decals were coming off from the start but Erich found out that they were over the clear coat but under the matte. He managed to peel them off, sand it down, then spray on a layer of matte to even out the ugliness left by the decals. Vinyl transfer were made, stuck on, and now...just look at her!!!
I knew Erich was awesome but now he is super-duper-omg-are-you-serious?! AWESOME. Looking at that picture nearly made me start panting in anticipation. I got flushed and my heart started beating faster. It got me giggling at my screen.
Sure, she won't be done in time for the Freddy v. Jason alleycat tonight, but in a way, that's for the best. If I'm going to ride a bike this hot, I'm going to have to do some catching up...[but I'll see you all at the afterparty!]
[Good luck to all of those racing!!!]