hunting for gears

Last Thursday spelled the end of law school classes, but I was still sweating out of stress and completely sober a few hours after class let out. Rummaging around my fridge for whatever was for dinner, I found a few ice cold bottles of beer from forever ago, because when drinking just the neck of a beer can get you floored, a six pack tends to last a while. I thought about it a little, picking up one of the bottles that was lying on its side, putting it back upright before thinking eh, probably not, and finding that spinach that had to be polished off.
I’m thinking more about that beer now that I’m back in Boston and a broken water pipe means that no one in the city should be drinking the water. I was even a little afraid to drink that Americano I got at Cafe Fixe, and I’m definitely questioning if showering in that water is actually going to end up with me being cleaner than the alternative. But back to the beer, and why I wasn’t drinking it.

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It had nothing to do with my confidence in my ability to cite a paper while mostly hammered, and more to do with the fact that I had to be up by 6, out the door by 7, and on a bus to NYC by 8. Four hours, lunch, and a few minutes of prepping later, I was back on a borrowed bike that’s too big for me but has gears, and has that adorable tendency to make the seat feel like a pitbull that’s jumped up, bit onto my lady parts and refused to let go. It’s probably the junky seat I have on there [the famed leopard print stripe stock saddle that used to come on the Bianchi San Jose], rather than the bike which rides and shifts like air, but either way I learned my lesson the last time I rode it, and this time, it didn’t hurt to pee for five hours after the ride.
TMI, right? Probably. But hey, it has gears, and like my 8 year old self who didn’t used to care how nasty a pony was as long as it had four legs and a tail, dream bikes with gears - even not so comfortable ones that don’t exactly fit - have been on my mind lately. Which might be old news to some, but of course, I’m the last to admit these kinds of things to myself. Because when you’re stuck with two gears between two bikes, and limited funds, it seems like I shouldn’t be allowed to dream so much. That maybe it’s easier to trick myself into believing that I won’t have shifting paddles for a while, so I should make the best out of what I’ve currently got.
But dreaming is free, and in an attempt to avoid the kind of rash decision-making that puts me into forever-single-speed-track-bike-land, I’ve been doing a little investigating. If I’m honest with myself, I’m irresistibly drawn to lighter frames but might not be so enamored with how aluminum rides. I haven’t tried my hand [seat?] at carbon, which is so deliciously airy but inevitably weighed down by that whole “it feels like it’s going to fall apart” feeling. Then, there’s the old standby of steel; much heavier but cushy and comfortable and unlikely to shatter, but difficult to finance if you’re looking for a frame that isn’t made out of water piping. [That's Andy of NYC Velo's IF and Coach DS's Parlee.]

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The tyranny of choice. Sometimes I wish someone would push a bike into my hands and tell me this is the only bike that will ever fit me so I better ride it into the ground. Which I happily would do, instead of wavering over websites, frames, and magazines, judging components and wheels to see if this bike is actually worth it, or if it fits any one of my ridiculously arbitrary requirements like “it doesn’t come with Sora” and “I refuse to ride something that is women’s specific and therefore only comes in baby blue.”
I suspended all that, though, when Bicycling came in the mail the other day. “Editor’s Choice Bikes of the Year,” it said, and I was sure it would be filled with good stuff. With a female Editor in Chief, Bicycling’s been doing a fair bit of stuff for the fairer sex, so I naturally expected to see a women’s specific section, which there was. Awesome, I thought, this might lead me to the dream bike of my dreams that comes in size tiny...!

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Um...yeah...
When I flipped to the women’s section, for some reason I guess I expected a women’s entry level bike too. Instead, all three bikes listed are over $3k. Great carbon fiber bikes with solid components [the Giant TCR Advanced 1 W comes with Ultegra 6700], but way out of my budget, not to mention a price tag at which I’d rather go custom. But then again, I’m not a competitive cyclist by any means, and maybe CF gets some people’s juices going. That’s not to say I didn’t see a few interesting not-quite-entry-level stuff [the Jamis Xenith Comp priced at $1950 and the BH Speedrom 105 at $2399], but of course, they don’t come in my size.
There’s good stuff in there, just not THE ONE for me. Which, I suppose, is a blessing in a way. Because this whole frustrating, headache-inducing, sometimes disappointing, other times extremely satisfying hunt for the perfect bicycle is what makes it all worth it in the end, right?

centerfold champions

When significant others fail become less significant, I do what [I'd like to think] most others do: stuff all objects/memories/gifts/pictures associated with said person into some kind of receptacle [not the trash, though, apparently newly broken hearts like to cling not purge] and place it somewhere it can be easily forgotten.
Months later, I'll come upon it [I'm really good at forgetting where I put things], and heart fully healed and going strong, that receptacle of stuff is consistently greeted with a feeling of mild annoyance. What the hell am I supposed to do with this now?
That's the feeling that greeted me this past weekend. Fresh out of the MPRE [and somewhat grateful that I didn't go on the IF ride that was done at the "leisurely" pace of 29mph] and finally managing to do my laundry, the state of my dresser drawers was shameful to say the least. What am I doing with all these t-shirts? Where did they come from? When did this drawer become overstuffed with so much stuff?

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So it was time for the annual spring/summer to fall/winter switch. More New England-appropriate clothing was pulled out and [folded neatly, I might add] replaced the gazillion t-shirts I own. But I'm a sucker for soft, short-sleeved things so while winter is right around the corner, I have to admit, a few key shirts will linger in my dresser until next spring. Right next to the Underarmour that I've been wearing religiously.
Of course, much like that feeling of "oh shit, did I throw away that awesome mix CD that hottie-cyclist gave me in that ex-boyfriend-schwag-bag by mistake?!" I started having doubts about so many long-sleeved items taking up valuable dresser drawer real estate. Because upon opening the December issue of Bicycling Magazine, even if snow wouldn't be out of the question in a few weeks, t-shirts are still very, very in.

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Okay, fine, I admit, I'm completely biased. BECAUSE CASSETTE IS IN BICYCLING MAGAZINE!!!!!!!!!!1111111111!!!1111!111!!! Featured prominently in teal is none other than our "I heart Cassette" shirt. The first cassette shirt I claimed as soon as printing was complete, the original drawing of the derailleur [and the Campy-esque Cassette logo] is tacked up on my wall [along with the original drawing for the "Breakfast of Champions" shirt]. It was actually the first ever cassette design as well; and one that turned out to be an unexpected favorite. I initially feared that its simplicity would work against it; then it showed up...in print.
Ahem. I mean, not just any print publication, but BICYCLING MAGAZINE. One word of advice, though: don't be fooled by the model's rendition of "Blue Steel." This t-shirt is not only made for the super-hip, beautiful people in cycling. I mean, the people wearing cassette shirts right now are super-hip and beautiful, but it's not an exclusive group. Well, you know, as long as you can ride a bicycle.

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The December issue of Bicycling isn't just worth checking out BECAUSE CASSETTE IS IN IT. The "I heart Cassette" shirt is paired with none other than Outlier's Climber pants [and that's a huge compliment in itself]. There's the NYC Velo espresso machine shirt on the facing page [you can go see that beauty in person at the shop], and a few pages later, on the page facing the male model with more eyeliner than all the band members of My Chemical Romance combined, is the infamous Greg Lemond shirt by Gage & Desoto. There's even a multi-page ad by Rapha - beautifully done with that distinctive finesse as per the usual - and a mention by Editor-in-Chief Loren Mooney about "bike lusting at NYC Velo."
I'm excited. Stoked, actually. I might even be proud of myself. And while the weather here in Boston gets increasingly suckier, I mentally patted myself on the back for keeping my cassette shirts in my dresser. Because unlike memories contained in ex-boyfriend-schwag bags, this summer and all the things that came with it, are worth remembering - and keeping - for a lifetime.

slowing down [with snob]

Like most people, I can't stand people that are like me.
It's not because I see all of my own personality faults in them [I wisely choose not to acknowledge that], it's actually far more basic. I just can't stand people who are obsessed with multi-tasking; thinking about 20,000 things at a million miles a minute. If I'm honest with myself, though, I'm equally as irritating as the people who drive me insane.
No surprise then, that I start my day off with a cup of rocket fuel. Strong enough to keep the gears spinning for the next four hours or so, it's sipped after a quick warm up on the rollers, while I check my inbox, pack a lunch, do my hair, and compile the day's to-do list in my head. Bold, strong, and hot, it definitely makes this girl's morning worth waking up for.

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Then chugging the slowly cooling liquid, the bike ride to school is done while rummaging around my brain for lectures, events, rides, and errands that have to get done. People to email back, posts to publish, pictures to take. Climb four flights of stairs and change out of my shoes and sweaty clothes before sitting in class, taking notes, checking the NY Times, looking up the weather for the following week, deleting emails, jotting down random ideas, etc., etc., etc.
It's not like I can't sit still. I can. Quite well, in fact. It's just - like most people my age - I'm addicted to multi-tasking. And when you add law school and cycling to the mix, it seems like it all has to be done at breakneck speed. Get to school fast, get reading done fast, get journal stuff done fast, get home fast. Sleep for a little while and get up fast tomorrow.

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Rushing home yesterday for another cup of caffeinated diesel because the thin, watery stuff at school just wasn't cutting it, I plopped down on my couch to fly through a few articles in the October issue of Bicycling Magazine. Even though really good writing seems extremely hard to find these days, I was still ready to read the thing from cover to cover in some ridiculously short amount of time.
Chance dictated that I would open the page to Bike Snob's column, and despite the steaming cup of coffee in my left hand, I finally managed to slow down. And think. And relax just a tiny bit.

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Because according to BSNYC, I've been doing the equivalent of "shotgunning" my life, when it really should be "sipped" and "savored." Okay, he was talking about bike rides, but when you're spinning your way through life like you're racing on 2:1 gearing, the analogy is appropriate. At least my ADD thinks so.
I read just a few articles, slowly drinking my coffee, actually tasting the stuff instead of trying to directly inject it into my bloodstream ASAP. I left most of the magazine unread, for later.
And then I got on my rollers and tried to make the time fly faster while watching an episode of CSI and allotting out sections of my night for whatever long list of things I had to do. Such is life.
[And here's a Rapha Scarf Friday for you, complete with caffeine...]

ten points

Even as a Cancer, my maternal instincts are limited to the point of being nonexistent. Sure, I'm about to reach that age where my biological clock starts going "ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!!!!!!1111" and I'll want to bone everything that moves, but the fact remains: children simply terrify me.
Add to that the fact that I am incredibly Dude, and it's a little alarming when male friends think that I'd actually make a good mother. Really? Me? Kids? Huh? ...No.
Because we're talking about a girl who just managed to lube her chain for the first time in about 4 weeks [4 weeks, people] a few days ago. A stunningly simple task, it was made infinitely more complicated by my sheer laziness. It involved things like turning over both my bikes, getting out some rags, shaking up the [dry] lube [because I kept forgetting to buy the wet stuff], and applying it to my chain. It was exhausting just thinking about it [seriously, how would I be able to take care of children?].

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But mustering up the energy to finally bite the bullet, I carefully flipped over both bikes in my small apartment. And in doing so, I moved aside a book I had just finished the night before: "Ten Points," by [Bicycling Magazine editor] Bill Strickland.

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You have to read it. A memoir of Strickland's promise to his daughter that he would score ten points in one season [despite his status as a "decidedly average bicyclist"], it's more than just a book about bicycles. Between the furious pedaling, Strickland - with the kind of stark, naked honesty that doesn't tuck away the blemishes and disappointments of reality - interweaves his inner fight with a demon born of child abuse and his struggles with parenting. A slim book of heartcrushing proportions, it had me pulling back tears after the first chapter [and for what it's worth, it wasn't that hormonal time of month].
It's the kind of book you immediately want to talk about. The kind that tends to turn me into a walking spoiler alert for the book, despite the fact that I want everyone I know to read it. And I mean that; because unlike most things I fanatically advocate, no obsessive love of bicycles is really required for this one. Just a heart. And maybe some tissues.

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Back in my apartment, I managed to uncover the silver metal underneath the black much coating my chain. Tires got pumped and brake pads checked. A mental note made of new bar tape and the desire for another pair of clipless pedals before climbing back on a track bike perched precariously on a pair of rollers. When I get around to it, I might not be such a bad bike mom.
Which, along with "Ten Points," gives me a little hope. For, you know, when children stop terrifying me.
[And yup, it's Rapha Scarf Friday.]