back on the tank

I watched some bits and pieces of the World Track Cycling Championships on cycling.tv [yes, the ones from March...I know, I know] last Sunday while sweltering in the humid heat. Mike just randomly put it on his computer; he later said it should be inspiring, but I think he just has a thing for girls on bikes with big thighs.
It was cool to watch, though, especially because whoever was shooting it insisted on taking close ups of all the female racers’ faces just as they started their sprint. There were all kinds of grimaces as they turned gears that weren’t ever meant for normal people, making the painful start somewhat hilarious to the spectator on the other side of the screen. Their otherwise impeccably made-up faces crumpled into a burst of speed as each racer booked it around the velodrome on feather-weight bikes that were something else.

My mom once asked - as if I would know - why female athletes sometimes have make up on before their event. A few months later, she informed me that she had figured it out:
“It’s because that’s the only time they’re ever on TV and they probably want to look nice.”
Thanks for the FYI, mom.
Anyway, back to bikes that are made to go fast. After riding Mike’s Cyfac and a few days off, my legs were feeling good, so it’s back to Dovering it every chance I get. By now the routine is familiar, and climbing onto the bike a few days ago, I pushed off...and grimaced.
You know those tactical war videos where there’s a tank that’s going over some small dirt hill at a weird angle so it ends up briefly stopping at the top of the aforementioned hill, nose pointed at the sky, before the sheer weight of the thing makes it crash awkwardly down the hill? That’s the image that was running through my head the entire time I was on my tank of a bicycle a few days ago. Shit is heavy. And to think I’m leaning towards a steel frame for that ever elusive road bike...
I got used to it after a few miles, but it was kind of a pain in the ass. Literally. My glutes were tired, my calves were seizing up again, and I reeked. Eh, easy slow ride tomorrow, I thought. Something kind of lazy but enough to get me out of the house for a while. Nothing fast, anyway.

Of course, when I make those kinds of decisions, I inevitably run into people I know who have gears and are way faster than me. This time, it was 100psi in a Rapha Club Jersey and on a Gold IF Factory Lightweight who joined me for most of the way back. My relaxing ride went the way of toe clips in the pro peloton because seriously, who has gears and actually goes slower than 15mph? It was fun, though, to ride with someone new, and I do appreciate the faster pace. I did feel a dark chill of fear when we passed Paceteaser-BRC-IF guy who thankfully was heading in as we were heading out. I sighed in relief though part of my head spun at the idea of getting caught up in a ride with BRC-IF guy again.
My legs made it home, got stretched, then the arms got to work doing some push ups and reverse flys before a shower, lunch, and coffee. Then it was back to work for the tank that is my brain, slowly lumbering through Intellectual Property law for that exam I’m taking today. The last 24 hour take-home law school exam of my life. Hopefully it’ll go as smoothly as my rides; even if it’s a little more painful than I’m probably expecting.

pony express

Coffee table books.
I love them. Not because of their sheer size and authoritative weight, but because they reveal so much about their owners. When a person’s willing to spend at least $50 on a book - especially in this day and age of Internet everything - you know they have to love the subject.
My coffee table books, tucked away in a designated corner of my bookshelf in Tokyo, are all about horses. The real kind. And tucked between the encyclopedia-esque tome on every breed of horse and pony and the one simply called “Horses” that’s clearly from the ‘80s is a book on paintings by Remington. Because no other artist could depict the vibrant adrenaline of the Pony Express.
And while I’m working on building up my own coffee table book collection of all things cycling, I’m still switching out ponies and imagining that I’m delivering letters across the Midwest [okay, or just through Boston...from my desk...at the office...]. The Bianchi is made to fit this fantasy, too; the simplicity of a single-speed combined with the this-thing-can-roll-over-strollers-and-babies toughness.

But remembering this time last year when all I wanted was another bike, I stopped back home after a morning doctor’s appointment to switch out ponies. Because I can. Because I have two bikes. And I’ve been neglecting the other one for way too long.
And the Dolan is fun. Like the first time I jumped up on a Thoroughbred, it’s fast, light, and streamlined, but also twitchy and skitterish. It has personality you can feel at the first turn of the cranks; it wants to burst out of a gate like a tightly wound spring and accelerate. Gripping the top of the bare track drops, I remembered pulling leather reins desperately as something much larger than me bucked once before taking off, my hands tangled in its mane, clinging on, trying not to vomit out my heart in fear.

Good thing I tend to putter around on my bikes. I do feel guilty about it, though. And it’s not just about how slow I’m traveling. Like that feeling you get when you stand next to someone clearly more attractive than you, riding it sort of makes me feel apologetic for not being as hot as the bike between my legs.
I suppose I can just learn to ride faster. That way people will just end up seeing a blur of black, pink, and some massive thighs.
Admit it. That would be hot.
[Note: My modem has officially died so posting might be sparse until Monday...Sorry!]

this isn't working

It's funny how on some of the most beautiful days, you end up in the foulest mood.
The ride in yesterday was fine, the day at school was fine, the ride home [the long way] was fine...
...until, getting reckless because I wasn't willing to accept that a guy bombing down Mass Ave was, in fact, faster than me, I threw my chain chasing him. There was an ugly snappy crackling sound and then I found myself pedaling...but nothing was working. My back wheel didn't lock up which meant that I was pedaling air for about 5 whole seconds until I figured out, oh, I have brakes [and now might be a good time to use them]!
I flipped my bike over, pulled out the wrench and started untangling the mess. I was planning on stopping into Cambridge Bikes anyway, so after getting my bike operational, I slowly gimped my way there.

I arrived with a stunningly attractive mix of dirt, brake dust, and chain lube covering half of my face. Of course, I didn't know this until I walked into the uber cool, hip shop that is CB. But, as regular readers may know, I've pretty much lost all sense of dignity by this point, so I almost didn't care that I looked like I had just made out with my filthy chain.
The only thing keeping me from throwing my bike into the river on the way home was trying to keep pace with Pete [I managed to scoot into CB right before closing, so we headed home together]. Dragging a 20lbs+ fixed 'cross bike, plus an overstuffed bag, plus all my extra weight...I was hating life.
Seriously, my bike's a tank. Utilitarian, but a tank. I made up my mind today to sell her when the new bike's done. My friends are sort of right...I should be looking into road bikes so I can do decent rides. And while the tractorino's been good to me so far, I just don't see the point of having two fixed gears. And come on...am I really going to ride the tractorino once the dapper Brit's up and running?
So...anyone want her?
[Just kidding. I wouldn't sell her for the world...but it is April Fool's Day :D]

tractorino

Meaning "little tractor" in Italian, it's also a label you stick on a certain type of girl [according to a friend's Italian boyfriend]. You know, the kind that probably can lift as much as the guys and likes to play rugby. The kind that's usually really nice and down to earth but you'd sort of think twice before inviting her out to anything that might require her to wear a dress.
Ever since I learned about the term, I've applied it to others, and avoided the obvious.
And then someone pointed in my general direction and said "tank."
I laughed, awkwardly [while thinking "thanks, now please stfu"]. Okay, granted it wasn't directed at me, per se, but more at the [coincidental] Italian I ride. The tractorino. I mean, it's true, she is a tank/tractor, but she's always been straight, clean lines and sexy curves in my eyes. Being able to ride her over babies, mounds of snow, and most of Boston's potholes without feeling a thing doesn't categorize her as a tank; at least not for me.

But in weather and snow like this, I'm almost glad to be riding a tractorino, rather than the foppishly dandy Brit I'm working on building up. She's tough and reliable, with the added plus of balancing me out. And as the sheer number of fat people with those tiny network laptops at my school has taught me, balance is an important thing.
I think most people passing Cambridge Bikes would also agree. A few weeks ago, Natalya of Pedal Power Photography approached me in the shop and asked if she could take pictures of me "commuting." This involved me pedaling on ice-covered snow [hence why one foot isn't in the toe clip], slowly. I actually stumbled off my bike about 3 seconds after the picture was taken, although Natalya's photo skills make me look a lot more competent than I really am.

I still look ridiculous in my knee high wool socks and shants, but that tractorino's working overtime dealing with ice, snow, and my winter pudge, while simultaneously not looking that ridiculous underneath me.
I call that an impressive feat.

constants

It's good to know that some things remain consistent. Like the schizophrenic weather.
Oh, New England, why is the weather here as fickle as a slightly overweight BC undergrad in unfashionable Uggs and leggings? It was in the 40s a day ago - and now this. More snow.
I stubbornly rode in today, and rode home, patting myself on the back the whole way about how foolishly lucky I was to buy the first single-speed bike that came in my size which just so happened to be a 'cross bike. Seriously, the bitch can take anything.

Well, almost anything. When my tires got clotted with too much snow, I ended up having to walk some of the way. A nice gentleman even rolled down his window and slowed down his minivan as he approached me, and asked,
"Which way to BC main campus?"
...
Yeah I guess some things - like Boston drivers - remain consistent too.