on getting dressed and the rapha continental

This whole thing is starting to get slightly dangerous.
I’m actually beginning to get used to being a completely useless slacker. I’ve spent more afternoons than I’d like to admit watching so-bad-it’s-good true crime shows and back-to-back Law & Order anything. If I’m going to be honest, the only reason I manage to get dressed before 11am every day is because Mike’s espresso machine has been collecting dust since the Rapha Cycle Club opened. I’m currently forced to put something on, walk down too many stairs and over two blocks to collect my morning Americano. Ridiculous, I know.

When the sense that I should be doing something with some semblance of productivity creeps up on me - “guilt” is too strong of a word to use here, I think - I’ve sought solace in my computer screen, attempting to find employment, catch up on blogs, or form my own densely muddied thoughts into words, sentences, or paragraphs. On one particular effort to re-educate myself on what the hell has been going on all summer while I was living under a rock, I found out that Velodramatic has been in France for most of July. In response, I kept my head perfectly still, glanced to my left and right, minimized Chrome and closed my laptop. Mental note made to read that later; sometime soon, I promise, just not now because the concept of Paris [Paris?...PARIS...?!] is a little overwhelming right now.
But despite the promise of vicarious vacays via Velodramatic, and the escape provided by the stacks of blogs and books to consume aside, I’ve still managed to spend most of last week watching and not so much doing. I watched as bags of gravel were shuttled into the Cycle Club, power tools taken out and new pictures hung in the gallery space. I spectated as graphics were laid out for the Rapha Continental gallery opening event Thursday night, and bikes were neatly positioned against each other. Rapha Continental riders themselves were in and out of the space from early Wednesday morning, and a little envious of all the activity buzzing around me, I offered to walk Rich Bravo’s IF - whose saddle comes up to just under my bra - from NYC Velo to the Rapha Cycle Club.

A few hours and a nap later - the latter is quickly becoming part of my everyday routine - I surprised myself by actually getting dressed in more than the Lululemon yoga pants that have turned into my version of what dirty sweatpants are to morbidly obese people. Jeans came out, plus a button down shirt, even a Rapha scarf...! I was pretty impressed.

Anyway, what was probably more impressive was the turn out and the presence of nearly all the framebuilders whose bikes were on display. IF, Igleheart, Seven, Bilenky...it was pretty cool to see the bikes and the people that made them, plus the guys who rode them, and people who are just into bikes in general. Though still in Step 2 of post-bar resocialization, which involves slowly learning how to interact with people on some sort of socially acceptable level, even I found the atmosphere totally chill and fun. And NO, I WASN’T COMPLETELY BLIZTED OFF THAT 40, THANKS.

Straight up sober, I still had lots of fun. I got to watch [among other things] Carey of Rapha [and Director of the Continental] climb into Kansas’ giant bag, met Skull Krusher [more on that later], and observed Cassidy’s attempts at pitching game. All of which made for a pretty solid Thursday evening. After closing up, we headed home where I finally peeled off sweaty jeans and shirt and passed out into the kind of sleep where you wake up feeling so rested it would be downright weird if you weren’t snoring the entire night.
And then I got up, clipped in on an amazing bike and went on a real road ride. More on that, though, later.

drowsy downtown

When I first arrived in Boston, with no friends or knowledge of the city, my best friend directed me to Newbury Street. It's no New York, she cautioned, but it would at least be something to do/see.
She was right. On both points. The long stretch of Newbury Street made for good people watching and a lazy afternoon spent outside. It was distracting enough, but given the long stretch of storefronts, there wasn't much to discover. Side streets didn't lead to the kind of stores you only tell your closest girl friends about. They mostly just led to shittier streets.

It wasn't until I got on a bike and rode down Newbury for the first time that I realized exactly how distracting it is. Because when you're searching for a store [on the lower level of a building, nonetheless], it makes it that much difficult to dodge doors, avoid pedestrians, and impatient wealthy people who would rather run you over and settle the subsequent wrongful death suit than actually slow down. Given that other than strolls around the Public Garden or the Boston Common, I don't find hanging out or cycling in the city very exciting or entertaining, I actually try to avoid the city. Besides, it's flat. Just thinking about it makes me yawn.
But lest readers think that all I do is push the pedals indoors, I ventured outside yesterday. And taking the familiar yet still foreign path downtown and onto Newbury Street, I was slightly optimistic. Cities are supposed to be fun! Shopping is fun [even if it doesn't involve bicycles]! Boston can be fun!

I kept chanting that to myself as I passed unremarkable scenery, boring buildings, and didn't even get to experience the excitement of trying not to get run over. If it wasn't for the wind, it almost felt like my morning roller session where my legs are on autopilot after 15minutes and my mind is off in other universe.
Newbury delivered, however, in the form of double-parked cars, unpredictable drivers, and doors popping open left and right. But too used to the usual suspects, it still wasn't very exciting. Nearly asleep at the handlebars, I suppressed a yawn as I pedaled away from the city towards a place that, while more familiar than downtown Boston, was guaranteed to be a lot more interesting.

It involves bicycles, but you knew that already. But Superb is worth ogling at every opportunity; especially when they're carrying some delicious-looking Igleheart track frames. Emblazoned with both the Igleheart logo on the fork and the Superb logo on the frame, it's a good thing that the smallest size available - which comes in a beautiful purple that I'm pretty sure will complement my existing stable of single-speed ponies - is a 48 [and therefore too big for Asian Short Legs over here].

But it's not just the bicycles. Catching up with Wei Wei is always entertaining to say the least, and I even got to see the new shop clock, made by Tom himself [yes, that is a Campy chainring]. Apparently he plans to make another one to hang from his neck. I think that's a brilliant idea.
Boston can be boring and predictable. But it's the things like Superb that make me glad I started cycling in this city.
[Special edition Rapha Scarf Friday with the man who started it himself!]

a superb elite [party]

It's Friday night, and there's a hand sneaking in between my legs. Fingers brush my inner thigh as I squeal and giggle.
I wasn't tipsy at all. Just a little drunk off adrenaline from the Superb Grand Opening party.
I had cleared my schedule weeks in advance for this party [and not only because cassette was a sponsor]. With a Fuji Feather being given away, who wouldn't? But there was also the promise of "fraternaliz[ing] with Boston's cycling elite." And knowing Superb was going to fully deliver on that promise, it's a party I wasn't going to miss.

Arriving close to an hour after the doors opened, the place was already packed. Bikes lined both sides of the new shop, and people had spilled out onto the sidewalk. Squeezing our bikes into a narrow open space and locking them up, M1 and I ran into none other than Mr. Igleheart, the awesomely friendly framebuilder behind those delicious bikes that "ride like butter" [I wasn't kidding when I told him that I was saving up for one of his frames]. And as I turned around, ready to elbow my way into the shop, I waved hello to Marty of Geekhouse. This was going to be a really good party.
Inside, people swirled around the central display of bikes underneath the chandelier. There was a wave and thumbs up exchange between myself and Tyler of IF, an introduction to James of Revolution Bicycle Repair [he and M1 worked downtown together back in the day], and quick hellos to Croth and Kip. Lucas Brunelle was sighted, as was Joe of Sugar Coat and Geekhouse, and of course, all the hot Asian girls of Cambridge Bikes. Jason, the mastermind behind Superb, clearly delivered on his promise, and more.

Good beats streamed from the speakers as people moved around the room. Stepping outside to check on our bikes and cool off, another Boston cycling persona, Natasha of Pedal Power Photography, rolled up. In great company, we checked out the array of bicycles entered into the "Hot Bike Contest." The contestants varied from a slick Specialized to a swoon-worthy vintage Pinarello pursuit frame with a tri-color, glittery paint job. While I regretted not riding the Dolan in, even with its new fall/winter 2009 look [coming soon!], a part of me knew that it probably wouldn't have stood a chance with this kind of competition.
But I did take part in another kind of contest: $3 got Team Cassette 5 tickets into the raffle. With fingers crossed that we'd win something a Fuji Feather, we checked out the rest of the prizes and ate up some of Jason's time before we reluctantly headed out the door for a friend's birthday party. It was early, the party was still in full swing, but I didn't feel lame leaving. Superb tends to have that effect; there's no insecure pre-judgment of those who walk in the door, but you better be prepared to walk out feeling not only cooler but also like you've just managed to infiltrate Boston's decidedly unpretentious cycling elite.

Which would explain the big smile on my face as I rolled away from 842 Beacon Street, despite my early departure. Thighs even pumped harder as we sped around taxis in Friday night traffic, spinning wheels and pedals to the next scheduled event of the night. And on the way, that hand. My palms seared with cold nervous sweat in response.
"Got it," M1 said as he drew up next to me.
I relaxed as we surged up a hill - no longer needing to hold a motionless line - mashing en danseuse on the pedals, secure in the knowledge that the Knog Beetle on my seatpost was now diligently blinking red.
[More pictures of the event here.]