travelocity

I don’t like to say that I hate to travel. The statement seems to immediately make you a smaller, closed-minded person who is only capable of being comfortable in familiar surroundings. It seems to kill off any ideas that you might have a sense of curiosity or adventure, or that you are in any way cultured. And that kind of sucks.
So I say, yeah, I love to travel. Gimme Europe, I’ve never been, and southeast Asia too. Dying to go to India, even if the water might kill me, and Machu Picchu is definitely on the list.
If only all that traveling wasn’t involved...!

I’ll be honest. I’ve traveled enough times that the process just isn’t that exciting to me anymore. Unlike those who get excited at simply being inside an airport, the fluorescent lights and dry air characteristic of airplane terminals give me an instant exhaustion headache. I get cranky, thirsty, and bloated. Despite the countless times I’ve flown from Tokyo to New York or Philadelphia or Boston, I still haven’t shaken that feeling of wanting to just lie horizontally for at least 8 hours after a 12 hour flight. But of course there’s customs, immigration, baggage claim. And that headache.
So even if I tell myself that I have more friends in the city than in Boston, that it’s warmer down there, and that there are more vegan-friendly cafes in the Lower East Side alone than in all of Boston including Metro West, it’s strange that I’m making the trek out to NYC yet again. I got that headache [it’s not exclusive to airports], and I was also cranky, thirsty, and bloated, but this time it wasn’t family, home cooked meals, or the desire to simply get away that had me making the trip. It was a bicycle.

It’s not new - pictures of it abound on this blog - and it’s not even mine. But the aluminum Cyfac that I can somehow manage to stand over presents the perfect solution to my current lack of gears, exasperation at the cold weather in Boston, and desire to spend time with good friends. It has me spending more time sleeping in a weirdly vertical position than I really should be, typing out posts furiously to match the speed at which the bus tumbles down the Connecticut highway, all so I can clip in today and try my hand[s] at the whole gears thing yet again. True, the whole ordeal was slightly terrifying when I first tried it, but just like a girl’s persistent pursuit of a man can break his stubborn desire to stay an eternal bachelor, perseverance can pay off. And when we’re talking bicycles, not boys, it doesn’t really matter that you’ll probably embarrass yourself repeatedly in the process.
So I’m off - ready to suffer, fall, and/or bonk! If you’re in the NYC area and see a girl on a blue and silver Cyfac with a NYC Velo cap, give a holler [or even a wave!]. If I happen to be plastered on the street, feel free to pick me up and dust me off. Oh, but make sure to save the bike, first. That thing has C-Record on it.
[And the first Rapha Scarf Friday of the year...!]

almond croissant disaster

Despite how addicting it was to watch le Tour over the weekend, I was grateful yesterday was a rest day. It was one less thing to miss, and simultaneously, one less thing to sigh and roll my eyes about.
Don't get me wrong, I love watching the Tour. It was what came afterwards that has me shaking my head in remembered misery.
In fact, Sunday started out in a picture perfect way. A quick bike ride up to the East Village, beverages acquired at Think Coffee, then a jaunt into Soho to pick up pastries at Balthazar. Then, strolling back east on mostly-still-sleepy Sunday morning streets, walking within mere feet of Terry Richardson. Because a weekend in New York always requires some sort of celebrity sighting.

And then, of course, the Tour. With orange brioche, galette aux pommes, and an almond croissant that I'm still thinking about. Grabbing the last flaky half of the galette, I was half lying on the couch, feet supported by the trusty ottoman, plate resting on my chest, pastry shards flying as I shrieked and cheered on Pierrick Fedrigo and Franco Pellizotti over the soothing cadence of Phil Liggett. All, fortunately, with company that [hopefully] wasn't noticing what a complete slob I can be.
Still humming on the tdf high, I reluctantly boarded a bus back to Boston at 1pm, leaving behind a city that's quickly becoming a favorite. And two hours later, I was on the side of the highway.

In Connecticut. The middle of Connecticut. With a broken down bus and not enough seats to take us all home on the next two buses passing through. A random taxi pulled through and offered to take some of us to South Station for $250. It was tempting but none of us took him up on the offer. About two hours later, I threw my bike under yet another bus, and lulled into a sense of reassurance, passed out for a few hours in a jam-packed bus.
7 hours after I left NYC, we finally lurched into South Station. Grateful for the calories consumed earlier that day, I made it home by 8.30pm, then it was back to work until too late, and up too early for another Monday at the office.
I'm already planning another trip down to the city in a few weeks. And while Sundays in New York can start off decadently sweet with almond croissants and cycling, fearful of jinxing myself, I'm more than a little hesitant to indulge in both again.
But, you know, I can be persuaded otherwise...

city slicker

I fell asleep in my Sidis today.
With my bike under me.
No, I wasn't on some insane 24 hour bike race [unfortunately]. I was on a bus, heading down to a once more familiar city, but one I've never biked in. Groggy from a four hour bus ride punctuated with fits of sleep, I climbed onto my bike for the first time in New York, NY.

In Chinatown, to be exact. Which was, predictably, crawling with pedestrians. Clipped in on a freewheel, I just managed to dodge some old ladies dragging groceries and middle aged men who have to be involved in less than legal business.
This is like Boston...on meth. Or pure PCP. While Boston may be sleepy and nearly deserted at 7am, I can't imagine biking in NYC can ever be as lethargic as my morning ride into South Station this morning. Even navigating the few short blocks from Chinatown to my sister's apartment was more fast-paced than anything in Boston.

My sister told me that I would probably feel stifled if I ever lived in NYC after seeing pictures of Lexington. An NYC bike virgin, I had agreed.
Stifled? Here? That would definitely take a few years.