holiday nothings

It wasn't New York, it wasn't Christmas eve, and it didn't end in the drunk tank. But it was as carefree as a "Fairytale of New York."
You know the Pogues song. With those charming lyrics ["you're a bum, you're a punk/you're an old slut on junk"], it's the song that'll run laps around my head during this season. It flittered through my head a few weeks ago, just as it got cold, then vanished as final exams hit and cabin fever settled in. But after the corporate tax exam that was akin to Chernobyl, I was free to live like a normal person. To sleep in when I didn't have class, to ride my rollers endlessly, and even to do nothing at all.
I almost freaked out. I have no idea how to do nothing. It scares me.

But I had a whole day to myself, before flying off back home to Tokyo for two weeks - where, admittedly, posts might again be sparse as I intend to perfect this whole "doing nothing" thing - and with exams and school done for the semester, I no longer had the "sorry, I'm busy" excuse. To be honest, I probably would have stayed in my apartment, alternating between my bed and my rollers if it hadn't been for Mike and an email telling me about the Downtown Crossing Holiday Market. With clear skies and not-so-unforgiving temperatures, it was worth getting out of my apartment for.
Okay, so I didn't ride down there; Mike didn't bring his bike and we figured having him ride on my bars probably wasn't a good idea. The T actually proved to be relatively painless and crazy-people-free, and warm - something of a novelty when you ride around in Boston winters. Back out on Park Street, anywhere that wasn't soaked in sunlight was bordering on freezing, but the Holiday Market was enclosed in a tent. We slipped inside to find jewelry, baked goods, and even a small farmer's market section. And then we stumbled on perhaps one of the coolest things ever: dessert hummus.

Coming in different flavors like pumpkin pie, toasted almond, chocolate mousse, maple walnut, caramel apple, and peanut butter, it's made with chickpeas but flavored and sweetened, and completely vegan. We tested a few flavors, then both shelled out for a container of the stuff [Mike got the almond, I wavered between pumpkin pie and peanut butter, then ended up with the latter]. And to fuel our trek through town to Newbury Street and the Pru, Mike grabbed a Berliner/beignet covered in cinnamon-y sugar from Swiss Bakers.

Then we walked. Yes, walked. Through the Public Garden [across the frozen pond], down Newbury and Boylston. It could have been done faster by bike, I know, and it's insanity that I'll choose to spend the last day I'll be within 10 feet of a bicycle [for the next two weeks] on my feet and not the pedals. There might be something to be said for slowing down though, for trying to spend the day like a normal person might. To stop striving - if it can really be called that - to achieve some elusive cycling goal.
But like the oxymoron that is the recovery ride, I couldn't stay away. Symptoms of bike withdrawal emerged here and there as I pointed at displays and suggested ideas ["Hey, [NYC] Velo should do that..."], between stories of what the guys were up to while I was chained to a desk. I was even already planning my next trip to see my crew after I get back from Tokyo.
Plans which didn't involve taking the bike along; I will be loaded down with presents, after all. But, a long, narrow box came my way, wrapped adorably, and from the kind of present giver you almost don't want presents from because they pick such good ones and then you're like oh shit, now what do I buy them? I peeked inside, my eye bulged, and then I tried to be genuinely exasperated even though it's something I honestly wanted. It's made for women, it's wider than most, and yeah, it's going to look sick on the track bike.

So it wasn't Christmas eve. And it wasn't New York. But I still got a feeling...this year's for me and [my friends, bikes, all the awesome people who read this, and, of course,] you.
Happy holidays!

a celebration of taste

I'm actually not that much of a party girl.
Notwithstanding the complete lack of rack that is required to look good in backless club wear, a glass of beer can make the room spin for me. Chimay will absolutely floor me. Dancing in heels all night is a skill I never bothered to perfect. I'd just really rather stay in and lube my chains.
But when something's been talked about for weeks - yup, that's right, weeks - in advance, I'll promise myself that I won't "accidentally" fall asleep or "get sick" that night [okay, I did fall asleep after dinner but I was working on 4 hours of sleep!].

Of course, I'm talking about the "Celebration of Sport a.k.a. Tastemaker's Party." Sponsored by Rapha, Ridley, Fizik, Embrocation Cycling Journal, IF, and Knog, I had received an invite long enough ago that I couldn't remember if I'd actually been invited [M1 informed me that I had been]. Which is a good thing, because I had promised Jason [a.k.a. DJ Mayhem for the night] that I would be attending. And when Jason spins, well, it's a guaranteed fun time.
So I was looking forward to it as soon as I landed in Vegas, groggy and gimpy from a broken IT band. I then proceeded to promptly forget about any stabbing pain in my knee in the excitement of Interbike; and any complaints of being completely exhausted vanished when James produced, from his magical pocket full of goodies, yet another party invite in the form of a pin [plus an Embrocation Cycling Journal pin!].

When I was finally roused from my death-like post-dinner nap, we squeezed into a taxi and headed to the Artisan Hotel. Dimly lit, with faux masterpieces plastered on the walls and ceilings, the Artisan is to the rest of Vegas what a chilled-out jazz lounge is to a warehouse rave. And in the center of the bar, lit up by bright Knog lights, was the new IF grass track bike. You could almost imagine it cooing great jazz.
Until, of course, Jason took the wheels and turned up the happy notch, mixing 80s hits in a suit [with suspenders!]. People flowed in and out, casually chatting, somehow forgetting that the male:female ratio would have been considered downright pathetic in any regular bar.

Still, they were all tastemakers. Scanning the room, I saw a tall redhead and attempted to wave to get his attention, then squeezed past some people to say hi. It was Tyler, and next to him, Abe, of Outlier. As I excitedly said hi, picking up the conversation from the first time we met a month or so ago, a man turned to me:
"Excuse me, are you Kaiko?"
It was none other than Velodramatic! It was my first time speaking to him face-to-face, and he is as awesome as I imagined. With Velodramatic to my left, Outlier on my right, Jason DJing, Marty at the bar, M1 representing cassette and Gage & Desoto...all surrounded by Rapha...When you add up the names of everyone I knew there - a small minority - you get a sense of how many heavy-hitters were in attendance.

We escaped to the hotel lobby as the temperature in the bar started to noticeably rise, and after talking about the next day's planned events, the ridiculousness of Vegas, and whether we should go to a strip club, we found ourselves completely cracked. Saying our goodbyes, we left the quirky Artisan and headed back to the glitz of the Strip.
My legs weren't wobbly, but I felt as if I had spent the night dancing my feet off at overpriced clubs in downtown Tokyo. I passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow, dreaming of custom invites in the form of pins, an awesome 80s soundtrack, high-end cycling apparel, and, of course, bicycles.
[More tomorrow on some hot pants, new addictions, and cell phone sound systems...]