twilight zone

I thought it was hilarious when Representative Barney Frank asked a woman, who compared planned health care reforms to Nazi policies, "on what planet do you spend most of your time?"
In a way, that's not such a rhetorical question when you're in Massachusetts.
I was hoping the crazy was limited to the rare isolated instance that I was just unlucky enough to observe. But unlocking my bike today, I realized how very, very wrong I was. Either that or I'm in some twilight zone or simply going insane. It's getting hard to tell.
Someone please confirm that it's actually 2009. Because when I saw this helmet, I sort of looked around feeling slightly displaced, then had to look at the date stamped onto it one more time. I mean, I know vintage is in, but...really?

I was sort of still trying to remember what I was doing back in '94 when I ended up stumbling upon the laziest lock-up job I've seen in the past week. It actually made me do a double-take as I initially thought that the cable lock on the left was only looped around the brake cable [it was looped around the handlebars]. Granted, neither bike looked like it was worth stealing, but come on! I feel like I'm taking crazy pills, or something [+100 points if you got that movie reference]!

And while I'm really loving that stem on the left, that doesn't mean I'm not a different planet. Because the other day, I also parked right next to what had to be E.T.'s new bike. With a seat that low, and upright positioning, the owner of this bike has the shortest legs and the longest torso currently known to man. I was tempted to wait around to see who owned it, but images of a glowing finger pointing at me were sufficient to scare me away [I never liked aliens, even friendly ones].

It could be the schoolwork, and the hours spent in front of a glowing laptop screen. It could also be the copious amounts of hot water flavored with essence of coffee that I've been voluntarily buying and consuming at school. But this strikes normal, non-Bostonians as slightly fucking insane, right? I'm not the only one who thinks this...right???
Someone please let me know if I'm in some "I am Legend"-esque situation here. And yes I'm dead serious.

tannery

I hate it when people ask me whether I prefer hot or cold weather. If I had to absolutely choose one over the other, which one would I pick? Like if all year long, it was either really hot or extremely cold, and you couldn't ever move again. It's kind of asking someone, if forced into this unrealistic hypothetical situation, whether they would rather choke themselves with a spoon or a fork. Both options have their pros and cons; but is this really going to happen?
Wait, I take that back. It actually might [the choking part]. Mostly because this heat is making me do some ridiculous things.
Like how I thought that time on the rollers would be a good idea at 8am, then decided after a pathetic 20 minutes that it wasn't a great idea and that I should really just lie down. And then falling out of my bed when I attempted to actually get up. And then heading to school on underinflated tires, thighs still twitching in protest, to stare at a few books without so much as a sip of coffee to power me through.

All of which resulted in me coming back to my apartment in the scorching afternoon heat, drenched in my own salt water [you might not be able to see it, but that is sweat from my face on my hand]. And to top it all off, I even got to experience exactly what sunblock, sweat, and eyeliner feels like when it drips directly into your eye.
Yeah, yesterday was fucking awesome.
Don't get me wrong, I love the summer. And with temperatures peaking at around 30C [or 90F], and having lived in Tokyo, I really shouldn't be complaining. It's just that I'm starting to look downright ridiculous.
The tan lines, I mean. I'm considering slathering on the fake tanning lotion. Because it's spreading.

Mid-checking-out-my-own-ass-and-weighing-exactly-how-unhappy-I-am-with-its-massive-proportions, I caught a glimpse of the back of my shoulder. Ah, the bane of sleeveless jerseys. Keep in mind that only the back of my shoulder is that tan. The front has some t-shirt tan going on that's a noticeably lighter shade. All exacerbated by the fact that I don't wear tank tops enough because the whole mess is so embarrassing.
Which makes me wonder why I'm actually smiling in that picture. The only plausible explanation is that the heat was going to my brain, again. Because after that picture was taken, I actually considered getting back on the rollers. Without coffee. Again.

The sheer amount of sweat in my hair made me think twice, and after scheduling a haircut, I ended up doing lots and lots of stretching instead [for once]. Weak, I know. But today, I'm out to a ride that might end at the gym, before I attempt to resist the temptation to cut all my hair off. Then, of course, time on the rollers.
Crazy, right?

polo madness

Did I really write a half-sentimental, verging on fuzzy-wuzzy post on bike polo yesterday?
Yeah, yeah I did.
Wow. That's kind of embarrassing. I mean, sure everyone who plays in Boston is incredibly laid-back, but the reality of playing polo is more "Fight Club" than "Sister Act." More "Kill Bill" than "Snow White."
It involves squeaky skidding, the loud thud of the ball bouncing off wheel covers and the clatter of the door hatch as players tap out. The occasional heckle and the cheers when bikes tangle and crash, players get shoved aside, or make kamikaze-like sacrifices.

Because when the best from around the country [plus Canada!] get together in possibly the biggest polo event, ever [35 teams showed!], things get fast, bloody, and broken. I arrived at the Allston court in the early afternoon and got to watch some of the best players in the country unleashed upon each other for the 4th East Side Polo Invitational.

I knew it was going to a complete sausage party [aren't all bike events?] but I was unprepared for the frothing-at-the-mouth-testosterone-fueled competitiveness. With Boston locals clearly in the minority, it was like stepping into a different world. I actually stood in the middle of the crowd for about a full minute, searching for familiar faces, rummaging in my bag like I would somehow find my friends in there.

Not that these strangers didn't look interesting. There were enough mallets, tats, tight jeans, and bikes to make me swoon. Fortunately, being dressed in spandex and knee highs and arriving on my vanity track bike made the situation sufficiently awkward so that swooning would have been out of the question. Fortunately, I shoved aside the awkwardness for a few hours to watch some amazing games. And, fortunately, the players I did end up meeting didn't seem nearly as crazy off the court.

Although, once mounted on bikes with mallets ready, all the teams were fueled by something more than just the desire to win those Volume frames. Pride is on the line, and apparently that makes for some spectacular games. I snapped pictures furiously, leaning over the door, watching the game through the small screen of my digital camera.
Impending final exams [and the need to study for them] forced me to leave early. But ESPI finals are today. You know where to find me.
[Pictures from yesterday here.]
[Edit: and more pictures by Croth from Saturday and Sunday.]

fearless

Last summer, I encountered my first pack of roadies.
Plodding home from work, mostly zoned out, a male voice behind my ear called out:
"On your left."
As those words hit my brain, I instantly found myself floating in a sea of matching spandex. Six or seven cyclists drew up alongside me before passing by effortlessly, as I struggled to hold a decent line. Oblivious to everything but the goal [wherever that was], they swept by in perfect coordination and cadence. The proximity to the adrenaline, pure abundance of power, and muscle leaving me positively dizzy.
It's true what they say. Roadies are fearless. A "me and my team" mentality that can verge on the obsessive, and one that takes a kind of neurotic commitment that I respect and admire. It seems like a mentality that forces you to build character, or at least learn how to Shut the Fuck Up and Deal. Because, as a friend once put it:
"Cycling's different...your heart won't give out before your legs do."

And it's so true. In cycling - any kind of cycling - you'll always hit that point where you're tired and panting, but there's just a little bit more hill to conquer, and while your heart's still functioning, the only thing that's not listening to you are your legs.
That's when my heart really wants to explode. The desire to do well/conquer/go faster...and finding myself with no go. I was useless last night, and these aren't days to be useless. I need to stop cutting out of the library before 10pm, stop desiring sleep, stop feeling the pain in my knee and the stiffness in my sciatic nerve. And, in a sad way, stop thinking about pretty much the only that makes me happy: bicycles.

These days are kind of like riding fixed, but brakeless, clipless, and helmetless, all that's keeping me from an ugly crash right now is a hope and a prayer. But as I attempted [in vain] to keep up with two cyclists this morning - a Ridley and a Guru that looked like it lacked a third dimension - I spotted a hawk clutching a dead squirrel. It was sort of oddly comforting, and changed my mood for the better as I coasted [freewheels are ah-mazing] into the library.
I still might need a big dose of fearless from Team Shut the Fuck Up and Study...but I have a feeling [or at least a hope] that I'm going to make it through finals in one piece.

tessie

Every Bostonian that reads this blog will probably understand the title reference. Or they should, if they consider themselves true Bostonians. Especially when it's coupled with this:

Yeah I know, I said I wouldn't make another one. But I owe Jeremy this kind of maddening, eye-straining, muffled-scream inducing embroidery work, mostly because my bike almost bit off his finger a few weeks ago.
Okay, so it didn't cut it off [it resulted in a puncture-wound-plus-laceration combo, according to Jeremy], but it still weighed on my conscience. I mean, he could have lost his finger over my bike. A bike that, despite how much I love it, really isn't worthy of fingers!

As I blinked and gaped in shock, Jeremy actually smiled and wished me a good afternoon if he didn't see me before I left as he stepped outside for a few minutes. Everyone else just went about their business. I felt like I was taking crazy pills...!
When he came back:
Chris: How deep did it go in?
Jeremy: Only a few millimeters.
Chris: That's what she said.
...Boys [especially in bike shops] will be boys.
Note: The Heartbreaker contest is still going on until the end of the week!

a method in this madness

My OCD's back.
Despite my crazy [see: Asian ethnicity, astrological sign, and gender], unorganized mess is currently taking over my life. And because of my crazy [see: Asian ethnicity, astrological sign, and gender], I'm convinced I'll always remember where things are and which hat I owe to whomever, even though history has consistently proven me wrong.
It doesn't help that you people have similar names or even the same first name! Yes, I am blaming you all for my disorganized mess of a desk and lack of any structured system to keep tabs on what I need to do for whom, because, hello, how can anything be my fault [see: my gender]?
Okay that was a total lie [see: my gender]. I finally did get some sort of system together last night. It's rudimentary but it works. As pretty as excel spreadsheets are, I need to be able to draw and write stuff out, and this way I can easily deprioritize people [just kidding!].

I also did some solid sweatshop labor last night and got some linings done. They even got labeled so I know I won't forget who they're for, and where they're going. I mean, I'm convinced that I won't forget even if I didn't label them, but you know, just in case [see: Asian propensity to be overly-prepared winning out over female convictions of always being right].

As a result, my OCD's feeling a little bit better. Although, let's be honest, my list of names on index cards is going to bother me until it's actually gone. Like it's already bothering me in that toe-curling-I-need-to-get-my-work-done-so-I-can-work-on-hats-so-I-can-clean-up-that-list-of-names kind of way.
Did I mention I have the crazy?