rolling through shit

When I said I was good at creating disasters, I was only half serious. I mean, I can make a pretty mean mess in the kitchen, have gotten myself into some spectacularly stupid situations, and have somehow managed to permanently scar my knees within 6 months of starting to ride. Despite all that, I haven’t endo-ed, broken my collarbone, or lost any fingers. This lulled me into being comfortable on my rides. I had a routine down, and it seemed to work.
That doesn’t mean I wasn’t prepared on those rides. I love being prepared. Not being prepared and armed with several alternative plans and to do lists exponentially increases the likelihood that I will turn into a crankopotamus. Diving straight into disastrous situations due to lack of preparation turns me into a giant bitch bomb. So I try to avoid that.
I said “try.”

Because when you’re doped up on sunshine and bike rides, sometimes, shit happens before you even realize it’s happening. And that’s exactly what happened on Friday.
With plenty of good weather outside, Mike and I planned a super easy 3 hour coffee ride. The planned route was the full 40 mile Dover loop; nothing new or special about it. Just a lazy, relaxing ride with a lot of Vitamin D thrown in. We fueled up on oatmeal and coffee beforehand, stuffed our pockets with all the essentials, and headed out in the late morning.
Even with a relaxed pace, we made good time, but an hour in, and my stomach started to growl and whine. The coffee and shared slice of banana bread were more than welcome by the time we rolled up to the Charles River Coffee House and quieted my rumbling tummy. Amped up on caffeine, we climbed back onto our bikes and headed west.

Half an hour later, I was suddenly fucking starving. Famished, I was looking at another hour and a half in the saddle with hills that kill me even on my good days. My legs felt more wrung out than painful. Welcome to bonks-ville.
The power turned down and the bitchery turned up. I was hurting and cranky and frustrated and that voice in my head started to ask all the discouraging rhetorical questions about what in the world I was actually doing. Meanwhile, I was barely able to keep my bike upright. Of course, I refused to stop, take a break, or touch the Larabar in my pocket. I felt like a failure. I just wanted to get home.
We pushed through the hills, mostly in silence as I was completely devoid of humor. Finally on flatter ground, I pushed away thoughts of a juicy [turkey] burger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake and gave it all I got. Almost, almost home.
Then Mike got a double flat.

By this point, the ride had edged itself out of “terrible” and into “ridiculous.” Mike flipped his bike over and with only one spare tube on him, we ended up stuffing my 700x28 tube into his 23 tires. Somehow we managed not to release all the CO2 from the cartridges before attaching it to the valve [I’m a master of wasting those things], which is a good thing because we only had two between us. In the middle of peeling off his rear tire, I mentioned how the ride was devolving into a disaster.
“What are you talking about?,” Mike asked, “This is fun!”
He wasn’t being sarcastic. And he was right. Well, we both were. It was slightly disastrous but in the end, nothing I couldn’t handle. Which was a kind of cool thing to learn.
We did get home in one piece. And once through the door, we even came up with a really good meat snack. I heart me my meat snacks.
Shit happens [to everyone], I guess. You just have to learn how to roll through it.

wind allergies

I admit it, I looked [read?] like a total idiot yesterday when several hours after my dramatic whine-fest, the weather turned out to be pretty frickin’ gorgeous.
Other than that whole giant gusts of wind that made it feel like I was running through water thing.
Yesterday was actually the first time I did that Dover ride in winds that strong. That’s saying a lot, given my wind allergy. But after more than two days off the bike, I was getting impatient, and worse, feeling really lazy and lethargic. Vitamin D was calling my name late yesterday morning, between a 8.30 class, a small pile of art law reading, and a blitzkrieg of cite checking. I also really wanted to start putting the DS plan into action. Never mind that the wind kept trying to tear the bike out from under me on the way to and from school. Headwind ain’t a thanggggg.

Or so I thought. Until my thighs started burning within the first 30 minutes into my ride and it really didn’t seem like I was moving forward. At all.
You know how when you’re riding with other people and you’re fighting a decent headwind and someone says, “well, at least we’ll get a good tailwind on the way back!”? I always want to slap those people. Mostly because that headwind consistently turns into another headwind as soon as I turn around. Wind and I do not have an amicable relationship.
And that’s exactly what happened. I felt like I was cheating a little bit, trying for a negative split on the way back, almost believing that the wind would be on my side. Not true. I mean, I did get a negative split [yay!], but I had to book it; and at a certain point, I’m pretty sure I was going about 8mph. I was trying really hard to maintain that speed, too.
One perk, though: I had nothing on my back this time, proper shoes, gloves, and a slightly windproof jacket. I felt so weightless...until, of course, that wind tried to push my bike over, smother me, make me actually pedal down the hills, and otherwise make me cry my ride slightly miserable.

The short ride done, I rewarded my legs with a new snack combo: Fig Newmans broken up into Fage nonfat greek yogurt. Sounds gross but was actually really delicious. It even kept me conscious through cite checking 214 footnotes later that night [okay, that Americano might have had something to do with it, too]. As usual, I was unjustifiably proud of myself. Happily exhausted, I came home late last night to find an email from the faux-ch with about 10 million links to possibly affordable frame sets [isn’t he nice?]. That made me even happier, even if most wouldn’t really fit.
And it’s made me more motivated, too, in a weird way. So I’m off again to make the faux-ch proud [or try]. Because it’s gorgeous out, again.
Go get you on a bicycle!
[Thanks for the jersey recommendations, guys! Keep them coming!]

fighting cars and hamstrings

Andddd it’s back to being gorgeous out, which means it’s back to riding to Dover every chance I get, even with my gimp leg.
I even I got up at 5.30am to ride before class yesterday, checked the temperature, decided it was too cold, and promptly went back to sleep. I stretched between class and meetings, then hustled home as fast as I could to get my ride on.
I chopped up a Clif bar into bite size pieces, threw them in a plastic bag, packed an emergency Larabar, and was out the door with a solid ride planned. With three days off the bike, I was sorely tempted to do a good 3 hours. But the rational side of me kicking in for once, I compromised on doing at least 2.5 hours in the saddle.

Once I got going, I predictably didn’t want to stop. I felt like I was flying. Even with stronger winds and that leg, I barely got out of my saddle on the climbs and rocketed down the flat stretches. There’s no way I’ve gotten stronger in the past week alone, but it felt like it. Smoothly dodging the by-now familiar potholes and stretches of sand on the shoulder, I took the lane at one point to avoid a giant puddle. I glanced back before I did and assumed that the car behind me would slow down.
It didn’t. I felt the metal of the side door nick my elbow as it sped past, way faster that it should have and way too close for comfort. I yelled, tried to get a plate number, wished I had my U-lock so I could throw it at the driver, and slowed down a little bit. I thanked my rollers for beating into me the ability to hold a steady line, then proceeded to forget all about my little auto encounter because, hell, I had hills to climb.
I resumed my trajectory to Dover; whipping through now-familiar streets and scenery; with the bright sun on my back, I forgot all about taking pictures. But when snot started to flood my nose, I did remember everyone’s advice: I held down one nostril and snorted shamelessly. Success! I did that two more times and only once did a small splatter of nose goo get on my thigh.

I forced myself to turn back after 1 hour 15minutes, just in case it got dark too quickly. Back home, though completely immersed in that priceless feeling of utter exhaustion, I forced myself to take a quick walk to Trader Joe’s to stretch my hamstrings. With running shoes on my feet, but still in cycling mode, I completed the otherwise boring outfit with my new vintage cap, courtesy of Mike.
I may not be able to fight quite like the Badger [yet!], or demolish everything in my path a la Merckx, but hey, a girl can pretend! Next step: getting a power meter heart rate monitor like Team La Vie Claire in the 80s...?

sunny unpreparedness

Sorry for the radio silence, peeps! There just really wasn’t much going on last week; I had planned a [geared] ride while I was down in the city, and then it rained. Which sounds like the lamest excuse on the planet but a) Mike only has one set of fenders and b) I lack the proper gear to ride in wet conditions. I did push-ups and Pilates instead.
And then I came back to Boston, fully prepared to hole up in my apartment until cabin fever had me running around my block, screaming a la Linda on Intervention [a.k.a. that Asian woman that was addicted to those painkiller lollipops and who was absolutely insane...did anyone else see that episode? BECAUSE IT WAS INSANE]. I pretended I wanted to be on the rollers again. I tried really hard to act like a law student and get work done. I sighed a lot.
But then...but then...it got warm...!

Like warm enough that I’ll have to quit trying to even call myself a “cyclist” if I didn’t ride. Even if the whole concept of riding outdoors for more than 30min has, by this point, become completely foreign to me, it seemed like the right thing to do. Besides, there wasn’t going to be much wind. Which meant I could probably survive riding some short distance and then pat myself on the back for not wanting to die afterwards. Perfect!
And then I realized I left my shoes, only light windproof jacket, and only light pair of gloves in NYC. Oops.
But realizing that that is the most ridiculous excuse that I’ve come up with thus far, I made up my mind: I was going to go on that damn ride, regardless of whether I looked like a poor hipster or not. Lack of a proper jersey meant that all my tools went into my Baileyworks bag, which went over a black fleece zip up, layered over my long sleeve Underarmour. Shorts went on under Underarmour leggings, paired with Sidi socks, sneakers [um...yeah...don't hate], and my NYC Velo cap. And I was like damnnn, yo, this is like the most pro thing I’ve ever worn, in my life...!

Pro-ed out, I pointed the front wheel southwest towards Dover and did a super easy 2 hours. I waved at some peeps, got some nods and sunglass-ed smiles from other peeps, and still got my ass handed to me on the easy hills. It was refreshing, though, if only in that it wasn’t freezing out and I was perfectly fine in my completely unprepared state.
Of course, I forgot about bringing food. I was starving by the time I got home but a smoothie craving demanded I run to Trader Joe’s to stock up on yogurt. Actually I was starving 1hr30min into my ride but I just really wanted that smoothie. Yes, I thought about the potential embarrassment of walking into a grocery store in the most revealing outfit I own, but somehow I found the idea of spending most of my morning without underwear on mildly appealing.

So 5 hours after I ate breakfast, I blended the shit out of some nonfat greek yogurt [yeah, I'm not vegan anymore], almond milk, hemp protein powder [the unflavored kind that sort of tastes like ground up rope from Bob’s Red Mill...don’t worry, you can’t really taste it], half a banana, and some frozen peach slices. It was delicious, regardless of how disgusting it looks in that picture. And then I inhaled lunch.
I spent the rest of the day rolling out my IT bands and trying not to fall over from sheer exhaustion. Just so I could do it all over again on Sunday, a little more prepared that time around. But more on that tomorrow...
[Please tell me all you Boston people rode this weekend?!]

eat to compete

"Why do straight girls always try to one-up their friends? It's so weird," my sister once said.
It's true, and something that also baffles me. It seems irrational and disingenuous to claim friendship, then turn around and compare, or worse, compete. The thing is, I'm not sure it's confined to the heterosexual female friendship sphere; we all compete with each other at certain things. Maybe not to the snarky extent that straight girls do, but in a way it's human nature to be just a little bit competitive.
So when the Salahis crashed President Obama's first state dinner last Tuesday night, I pretty much turned around and did the same.
Okay, it wasn't the White House. And it was Thanksgiving. And politics weren't involved. And there was at least an oral invite...so I didn't really crash it a la wannabe celebrities in hot pursuit of relevancy...does it count if I was the only minority...?

Yeah, didn't think so. But it was awesomely fun regardless; an invitation to M1's parents's place in Marshfield resulted in absolute turkey-and-pie coma. Organic, incredibly moist turkey, bright orange winter squash, creamy mashed potatoes, unbelievable stuffing, just-right gravy, amazing apple-cranberry pie, chocolate-pecan pie [yes, that's right, chocolate and pecan], richy frothy eggnog, and, of course, really good coffee. That all went into my stomach. In one sitting. Oh my God, I love America.
Yeah, I know what you're thinking: I'm a total glutton, right? Whatever happened to moderation?
The thing is, when you do on a decent ride on your 25 pounder of a 'cross bike the day before, the only thing you can really do when that voice of moderation pipes up is to tell it to go fuck itself. You know what I mean, we've all been there; legs dead after a ride with a brain caught between hazy sleep and adrenaline fueled alertness. The last thing you want to hear as you cram your mouth full of whatever's in your fridge is that you really need to practice moderation.

And when you do the ride in shitty, cold weather, with gloved fingers alternating between freezing and sweaty, you get a free ticket to stuff yourself silly at your favorite person's parents's house that you almost invited yourself to for Thanksgiving. And free license to polish off the mountain of leftovers you're sent home with as well.
Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm going to be working off that feast well into this month [can you believe it's December?]. But let's be honest, it was totally worth it; and while Thanksgiving might not exist to fuel off-season training, it's still a pretty good motivator.

dovering in

I hate to admit it but I've reached that all too familiar impasse with my usual ride to Arlington. Like that feeling of slight disappointment mixed with guilt you feel when you're hanging out with a really nice person and you try to make a sarcastic joke and they respond with a small frown and the statement, "aww, that's not nice." So to avoid sounding evil and mean you shut the hell up but end up bored out of your mind because walking on eggshells is as socially pleasant as choking on a fork. And eventually you end up avoiding the friend - or in this case, the ride - because they just make you feel bad about yourself and how "not nice" you are.
Truly nice people tend to be extremely boring, but that's not the point here.
The point is that I needed something different. Something interesting that would stroke my ego a bit. Kind of like the gay bitchy queen friend that every girl really should have. And I found it this past weekend. In, of all places, Dover, MA.

The route I took was given to me by a Rapha Conti rider months ago, but slightly intimidated by it all, I sat on it for a while. Back then, I was still hopeful that the ride to Arlington could keep me interested; people always say how nice it is to ride out there. There was no way - I thought - that this ride and I wouldn't get along.
But my interest started to fizzle and fade, and when M1 offered to recon a new ride with me last weekend, I dove in.
Being immediately suspicious of the hype that tends to surround extremely charismatic people, I braced myself for a bit of disappointment. Cyclists in Boston always talk about Dover and how awesome it is to ride out there. But like attractive people with little inner content, maybe, I thought, it was a boring ride with pretty scenery. Maybe it'll only keep my attention for a few weekends, and it'll be back to sweating over rollers because the whole outdoor cycling thing just wasn't doing it for me.

For once, though, I was elated to be wrong. The thing about Dover is that it's actually interesting. A good mix of flat terrain broken up with the occasional hill or two, and streets that are to Boston asphalt what Belvedere is to the stuff that comes exclusively in plastic handles. It's the boy you're staying up too late talking to about how awesome Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go is, not the one you just sort of like to look at but can't talk to because he just doesn't get your jokes.

Don't get me wrong. That doesn't mean that the ride isn't absolutely stunning. It's gorgeous, and then some. The narrow road is surrounded by incredible skies, fields, and farms [we passed Chickering Farm with a sign that stated it was established in 1690!]. A beekeeper was tending to his buzzing workers as we slid by, and horses looked at us curiously. It was amazing.
And because a ride is never complete without some kind of sugar-laden something, we stopped by Abbott's in Needham for frozen custard. Deliciously cold and gooey, it was like frozen yogurt and ice cream had a love child and offered it up to my growling stomach. It hit the spot, and was just sweet enough to power us through the brief rain shower on the way back home.

If my Dover ride was a real person, I'd be swooning over its sheer perfection. Just my luck that it isn't, because I really hate to share.