geared epiphany

You guys.
I had an amazing epiphany yesterday. I now understand why most bicycles have gears.
Wait, wait. I know you’re rolling your eyes, muttering “she’s realizing this NOW?”, shaking your head, clicking onto the next blog in your reader, or all of the above. But it takes a while for things to sink in, okay?
When everyone told me I “needed” a geared road bike, a part of me agreed because, hey, can you really have too many bikes? But there’s a learning curve with those things...I just didn’t get why there was so much shifting back and forth involved. When I said that I could mash up the hills just fine, people just said something like “well, you want to be able to walk when you’re 40, don’t you?” or “what about your knees?”

Okay, fine. Apparently you can go longer and faster, when you can shift up and down and all around. I understood the concept, but not really how it was going to change my life.
But then, yesterday. Out on the usual 2hr ride, I was hauling ass to get a negative split for the entire ride, not just part of it. When I wasn’t fighting wind, I got a really good pace going; my thighs were aching, but nothing unmanageable. And then, just when the wind died down for a bit, I hit a flat stretch of road. Hunkered down in the drops, neatly clipped in, I was spinning out.
My initial thought was to knock off a tooth in the back...and then I realized that I wouldn’t be able to climb all the hills if I did that. AND THEN BECAUSE I’M AN IDIOT AND KNOW NOTHING BUT A SINGLE-SPEED, MY NEXT IDEA INVOLVED GETTING A SMALLER COG, PUTTING IT ON THE OTHER SIDE OF MY REAR WHEEL, THEN FLIPPING MY WHEEL [TO THE FREEWHEEL SIDE] EVERY TIME I HIT A HILL.
Do you want to know my next thought? It was: ...but that would be such a pain in the ass...I wish there was an easier way to switch between the two---OHHHHHHHHH...!!!!
Cue light bulb turning on [finally] over my head.
Yes, I am a dumbass.

Hours later, my face in my third coffee of the day at [my favorite] Cafe Fixe [yes, I can drink my weight in coffee. Don’t judge.], I revealed my life-changing realization to Matt. He snorted, rolled his eyes, and laughed, saying:
“I like how you do everything in reverse.”
As if I would do it any other way.
[But for those of you who want to follow by example, for less than the cost of my saddle, Walmart is now selling a "fixed-speed" bike for $150.]

covert ops

Despite the hundreds of words I can write, the numerous sites I can read about bicycles, and the fact that my words stumble over themselves when I try to talk about bikes, I find it hard to explain my weekends to friends who don't ride. There's no drama in doing power intervals on my new gearing. No gossip involved in getting my hands greasy tensioning my chain or washing my shorts in my bathtub. So when the polite inquiry into what exactly I did this weekend comes up, I take the easier path. I lie.
It's not a ploy to sound coy or mysterious. I've just sat through enough conversations debating the intricacies of certain sports and the background stats of so-and-so athletes to understand that gushing about gear ratios can border on the annoyingly boring. So I just say, well, I hung out a bit, studied a bit, the usual, nothing special. Unless, of course, they ride a bicycle.

Then, like it or not, I just may babble on for hours. And that's exactly what I did when one of my favorites blew through town from Portland, on a mysterious mission that even I didn't quite fully understand.
I'm talking about the man behind not only Embrocation Cycling Journal, but also Rapha Scarf Fridays [among other ideas cooking in that brain of his]: Mr. Jeremy Dunn. He hooked me into Embrocation over Americanos last spring and while his current residence in Portland makes meeting up slightly difficult, we've managed to stay in touch and even hang out in Vegas. And because of Rapha Scarf Fridays, we had to meet up on Friday morning [at Cafe Fixe!] with a promise to bring our respective scarves.

And over Americanos, I gushed, questioned, laughed, and was completely at ease. Because while I feel cozy around people who ride bikes, I respect, admire, and look up to people who write about bikes. Sometimes they get excited about what I write too [although even I'll admit that it's not very pro], and that passion is infectious enough to have me submitting things for publication in print and chattering about ideas and all those slightly insecure dreams that I still have difficulty articulating.
It was over almost too soon and we headed our separate ways; me to NYC, Jeremy to execute some covert ops. But with identical caps! From his Rapha Fixed Backpack, Jeremy had pulled out a Rapha Oregon Manifest cap, which fits like no other cap I've owned [even mine]. It was met with jealous cries in NYC to which I responded with mock smugness and victorious laughter.

And just when I'm wondering when we'll get to hang out next, I found a package from the UK sitting in my mailbox. Ripping it open, completely confused, I found the newest Rapha catalog and a slim booklet filled with the kind of Rapha bike ride porn [photographed by Ben Ingham] that makes you think that bike rides are never painful and always stylish. Which, I suppose if you're geared up head to toe in Rapha, is probably not inaccurate.
Until we meet again, Mr. Dunn. And maybe, just maybe, I'll even have a road bike by then...
[And speaking of totally awesome bike writers, check out this video of Bill Strickland on FSX.]

superstitious americanos

Like most girls, I secretly love checking my horoscope. I am inclined to believe in compatibility between certain astrological signs but will freely disregard the day's predicted fortunes if it is clearly not in my favor. The next day, I'll get just a tiny bit excited if "flirtatious encounters" are included in the day's fate.
Granted, horoscopes tend to be as hit or miss as my blind stabs at concepts of Corporate Taxation, but that doesn't mean that superstition has no value. Because when things consistently line up and bring good things with it, that's enough to have me convinced that luck might just exist [and doesn't hate me].

You're dying to know this lucky correlation, aren't you? It's actually fairly old news, but one that, I believe, somehow creates this awesome situation where great minds come together to form and execute some fairly incredible ideas. Take one serious cyclist, mix with one part Asian-sensation-cyclist-blogger, brew with two good Americanos, and you have a winning combination. Great ideas will flow. I promise.
It's consistently yielded results; t-shirts, designs, a crew of friends in NYC, and more written words than I can remember typing. How else can you explain the moka pot logo of Embrocation Cycling Journal, their uber secret Mad Alchemy coffee embrocation, the Giro d'Italia espresso machine at NYC Velo, and the beginnings of Outlier [they met at a coffee shop]? It's like a ritual that has to be done between pedalstrokes for amazing to result. Offer me an Americano, while I'm still slightly sweaty from a ride and there's a good chance something awesome will happen [and I'm talking platonically, people].

So it's a little hard for me to turn down an offer to bike over to a reputable cafe that can pull good shots of rich, dark brown inspiration. Cafe Fixe serves up Americanos that, with one sip, will nearly blow your face off, but when M1 comes up to Boston to use my apartment as a base camp for rides to Dover visit and offers to meet up after class, something out west was a little more appropriate. Good thing the Boston Globe did an article on good coffee shops a few weeks ago and mentioned Taste Coffee House in Newtonville.
A plan was formed and duly executed. And while I hesitated over a latte or a regular coffee or the go-to Americano, the last won out as usual. Sipping the dark liquid in shorts due to the incredible weather, the stage was set for some prime scheming. Caffeine making my brain buzz, we chattered and came up with new designs, ideas, and between sentences, commented on the perfectly balanced Americanos.

That cup fueled me through a ride amped up by the persistent buzzing of M1's freewheel behind me. I was breathless when I got home [I had casebooks on my back!], but still humming off the adrenaline and caffeine, even took the Dolan for a quick spin.
I have more plans later this week for coffee. Regardless of my daily horoscope, though, I know this one's going to be equally awesome. Call me superstitious, but I plan to get an Americano. That means good things are gonna happen. Trust.

halloween realities

A tad chilly but sunny and bright, I made it my mission to properly slack off yesterday afternoon. The day was too perfect to spend inside; coffee and lazy reading at Cafe Fixe were in order.
Rolling home in the late afternoon, caffeinated and fully pleased with my slacking off, I passed a few carved pumpkins on doorsteps. Oh yeah, Saturday is Halloween. I totally forgot about that.

It's no surprise, really. I have ambivalent feelings about Halloween. Candy is great [even if I hardly eat it anymore], and little kids dressed up as superheros or princesses are downright adorable. It gives me an excuse to eat a few kernels of candy corn [come on, it's not that gross], munch on a few handfuls of pumpkin seeds, and contemplate trying to buy a pumpkin before deciding that there's no way I could get it home on my bike.
On the other hand, I can't bring myself to dress up. Or, more accurately, use Halloween as an excuse to take most of my clothes off and scamper around in public in less than what I sleep in. The obvious question of at what age Halloween becomes a fetishized sex fest aside, I don't particularly enjoy seeing classmates in overpriced porn star gear. It's not so much the less than perfect physiques of students who spend too much time poring over casebooks as much as the total lack of originality in sexy nurse outfits. Come on, guys. That shit is so played out.

And when your primary mode of transportation is a bicycle, that severely limits your dressing up/dressing off options, anyway. So while friends made plans to dress up and party downtown, the only thing I was looking forward to was how warm it's supposed to be on Saturday. And how that's perfect for bike rides.
Which is probably for the best as last year, someone dressed up as me in a totally non-ironic "look, I'm that crazy bike girl in knee highs" kind of way. But such social deterrents aside, I'd really just rather spend Halloween getting my legs wrecked on my track bike, or bonking on the Bianchi. That almost sounds like I think I have better things to do than be a normal, social person, doesn't it?

It's not that, really. Halloween's a great holiday; it lets you live a different reality for a night. It's just that, unlike the scantily clad one-night-stands that Halloween at my age should lead to, my different reality is one I'd like to live for longer than a single night.
So I'm not dressing up as a cyclist, as easy as that would be, for Halloween. I'm just going to be one.
[Happy Halloween! And here's a Rapha Scarf Friday for you, even.]

high off handlebars

I've always been skeptical of out of body experiences and the people that "experience" them. I remember, back in high school, a girl once told me how she got so high [off weed] that she felt like she had become the glass of water on her desk.
Somehow I restrained myself from telling her that she was fucking insane. Or just incredibly dramatic. Because while I've been fucked up enough to stare intently into a glass of water for about 5 minutes, I've never actually become one.
But yesterday, I sort of came close to an out of body experience. Or, I understood how weird events can sort of make one part of your brain pause and pose a logical question ["what the fuck am I doing?"] while the other part of your brain is like "holy shit, this is awesome!"
You'll laugh, but it's because I rode no-handed for more than 2 seconds yesterday.

Cursed with the ability to knock down glasses, spill any open containers, fall out of my bed, and crash while not even moving on my bike, balancing on two wheels takes a lot of effort. Add five crashes and hideously scarred up knees to show for it, and I'm not so keen on taking both hands off the handlebars unless at least one foot is firmly planted on solid ground. This results in overcompensation on my part; when friends ride no handed, I'll stubbornly stay in my drops, pretending as if I prefer that position, anyway.
But time on the rollers on a track bike makes you learn how to stay motionless while pedaling and gives you a new appreciation for how to use those hips to control the bike. And bored enough on my ride yesterday to throw caution to the wind, I tried it. And stared. And blinked. Because I was pedaling but there were these empty handlebars in front of me.
It was the weirdest thing. But so cool! I kept trying it, regardless of the fact that I was riding down Beacon and there were actually cars on the road. And like staring into that glass of water back in college, it gave me a strange sort of high.

Hours later, I even found myself staring into a glass of [the best] iced coffee [in Boston] at Cafe Fixe. While actually taking time to read a book for pleasure - something I haven't done in I-can't-remember-how-long. The irony being that the book ["Under the Banner of Heaven" by Jon Krakauer] is about Mormon fundamentalists. Which means it's a total fucking trip.
Of course, for every high, there's that sobering up period. So don't be surprised if I crash spectacularly today, somewhere along Beacon or Comm Ave. Here's to hoping it's more like a weed high though, and that the worst thing I'll do is end up eating 20 cookies, a bag of pretzels, and passing out on my floor.
Which would be a good thing. Because with NACCC starting tomorrow, I'd like to keep my injuries confined to those acquired on a bicycle.

monsoon in mass

I firmly believe there are three kinds of sweat: the hot, dry kind of casual summer rides around town, the squeamishly humid kind that won't ever seem to abate, and last but not least [and possibly the best], the drenching, dripping, addicting kind that can only be a product of a decent training ride.
I've been experiencing too much of the second kind these days.

And even if I've spent the past few days running around NYC, then Boston, with someone who's already seen me sweaty and eyeliner-less, it's still bothering me. The sweat, that is. Or, more accurately, the sweat/rainwater mix that necessitates cycling in a soft shell jacket which can never ventilate fast enough and instead wraps me up in its suffocating, sauna-like grip. By the time I get to work, I'm almost dizzy with dehydration.
Okay, it's not that bad. But when you have a friend visiting, the rain tends to really kill your plans. Thank God, though, that M1 loves good coffee, because other than my favorite bike shops [IBC and CB], I'm only capable of hanging out at places where I can cradle a good Americano.

So after a [too early] Sunday morning bus ride back to Boston, that's exactly what I was doing at Cafe Fixe, savoring an intensely dark Americano in small sips until I felt my heart pumping that rich brown liquid through my veins. Caffeine buzzing in my brain, I wondered what I would do without promises of coffee waiting for me before, after, and in between rides [the answer being "be more of a complete raging psycho-bitch"].

Especially when the weather outside makes you simultaneously shiver and sweat; the rain sticking to your skin and mixing with that humid steam that won't stop pouring out of your pores. And especially when, in typical New England style, you finally jump back onto your bike after taking shelter under some scaffolding because you think the rain's let up, only to be caught in a mini hurricane on your way across the Mass Ave bridge.
At least there were more friends and a piping hot Americano waiting for me on the other side.
If I keep this up, stock prices for espresso beans is going to skyrocket.