pimp pampering

It's one of those prerequisites to life. One of those experiences that everyone goes through and hopefully comes out a better person for it. Kind of like how you should date a total asshole at some point in your life. It's not something you're going to enjoy, but you'll learn a thing or two, ponder it for a few days, then mature and grow as a result.
It's never not disappointing, though. Sometimes it's sort of heartbreaking, really. Because when you've been crushing on someone for so long, hyping them up in your head, and you finally get drunk brave enough to lock lips...the realization that the crush cannot, for the life of them, decently make out, will always break your heart a little.
I mean, maybe the panic and desire to escape hits first ["oh, um, well...goodnight!"]. But afterwards, you're left weighing if the crush is cute enough to really merit make out sessions that are more akin to your dog attacking the ice cream smeared on your face rather than the sultry lip tangling you previously imagined.

That heavy feeling of resignation is kind of what the past few days have been like. After a weekend and then some of NACCC, things have been starkly normal and incredibly mundane. Sure, the sun's shining out and it's scorching hot; perfect weather for some crazy rides. Instead I have to force myself to get on the rollers before spending too much time putzing around my apartment, half-heartedly looking around for someone something to do.
Meanwhile my chain sounds like a two-pack-a-day smoker, my gearing is a bit spinny, and I have no idea where my No. 4 hex wrench is. Awesome.
But like the feeling of utter guilt and self-disgust after a night of binging on ice cream, chocolate, and peanut butter filled pretzels post-break-up, I knew I had to get my shit together while the summer was still extant. And pampering is always a great way to get over something less-than-perfect-and-bordering-on-downright-disappointment. So it was off to a place I can comfortably go to without perfectly tweezed eyebrows, bombshell hair, or even a slightly coordinated outfit: IBC.
And hey, I left feeling pimp.

My seat raised just a tiny bit, my gearing changed a little bit, and my bottom bracket changed a lot a bit, the Bianchi now rides like omg-holy-shit-i-can't-believe-it's-not-buttah. Which has the obvious effect of not only making me want to go on rides, but had me smugly cruising down Beacon, without a hand on the bars.

And with still-mostly-pristinely white Vans to complement the mostly-white bartape, white pedals, and white toe straps, I even felt a little pro[seur]. Excitement going to my head, I even did two sessions on the rollers yesterday, the pro high only fading when - yet again - sweat poured into my eye, leaving me nearly skidding to a stop, one eye squeezed shut, trying to mentally deal with the pain while trying to figure out how to get off my bike in one piece.
Yeah, I got a long way to go. But hopefully I'll [at least] look good doing it.

axle agony

Newly single after my first ever break-up, discussing boys and dating, my best friend asked a seemingly rhetorical question:
“Don’t you like to be taken care of?”
I remember giving some ambivalent answer. Never having been comfortable batting my eyelashes, I still find it hard to expect to be taken care of. It’s too lady-like. Too La Dama Bianca. And with a passion for drop bars and mostly horizontal top tubes, I’d like to think I look better in a kit than a white dress.
Besides, white is so not slimming.
And when you’re handling bikes - or even just one - nothing stays white for long. Which is why you won’t find a Dama Bianca dress in my closet, much less anything very lady-like; things like tensioning my chain, wiping down my bike, and scrubbing my rims bring me too much joy.

Well, when I can actually do them.
Skipping home last night with a newly purchased pedal wrench [yes, I didn’t own one until now], I gleefully flipped over my Bianchi to switch back to single-speed-ness. With the ghetto lack-of-bike-stand set-up, I fitted the equally ghetto 6” adjustable wrench on the axle nut. And pushed. And pulled. And leveraged. And gritted my teeth. And seethed. And threw a temper tantrum.
The thing wouldn’t move. I know the adjustable is probably at least half the problem, but nothing feels more lonely than helplessness. The worst part being that when I do bring it in to IBC today, the guys are going to loosen it with a quick flick of their wrist, oblivious to the sheer misery and pain it brought me hours earlier.

I love those guys, but today, I hate the idea of going back to the shop. I don’t ever want to be seen as “the girl that uses her lack of a package to get bike mechanics to do things and consequently doesn’t know how to work on her bike.” Because I’m not. I wanted to flip that wheel and switch out my pedals, by myself. I wanted to know that I could still do it, even if it was the most simple of bike maintenance tasks.
Maybe that’s why it was so disappointingly frustrating. I’m going to buy a new wrench today though, and insisting on tightening those axel nuts by myself.
But just for the record, I’m not breaking up with IBC. I just need some independence...and room to wrench.

choo choo train

So it ends up that I did have a reason to go to IBC this weekend. I needed to purchase and get new pedals installed because - gasp! - I'm flipping that wheel over and going fixed.
Not that I haven't been riding fixed on the track bike. But the Bianchi and the Dolan are such different rides that switching ponies was never a problem. I could rock the freewheel for a longer ride in the morning, then skitter around town later fixed. True, I almost tore my leg off once or twice, but the Dolan's stiff, twitchiness was a constant reminder to keep the cranks turning [or else momentum would].
The Bianchi's relaxed geometry and natural propensity to roll over everything in its path pairs perfectly with a freewheel. Which is why I almost expected to have both legs lurching around yesterday, propelled forward by my rear wheel when I attempted to coast.

It wasn't so bad. In fact, my legs stayed attached to my body. Mostly because my drivetrain sounds like...a train.
Dan M. took a look and jumped on my bike to make sure it was just the shark-finned cog. And as his 6ft+ frame weaved around the store on a 44cm bike, he jokingly squeezed the squealing front brake like a train whistle. It screamed, as usual, like a puppy being run over. It also sounded exactly like a train.

Assured that it wouldn't do anything except sound like I don't actually take care of my bike, I left debating changing my gearing or just purchasing another cog. For now, it's actually a nice reminder that I'm not on that wondrous freewheel anymore. I miss it already; especially being able to clip in and climb hills without that built in assist that fixed gears give you. And coasting. Oh, coasting.
Pedaling [the whole entire way] home, my feet naturally pushed back on the pedals, slowing down, creeping between cars, and allowing for a much greater amount of control - the kind that requires a level of skill that I haven't yet achieved on a freewheel. I remembered how fun it was to maneuver around piles of snow on a fixed gear, even if my knees weren't so happy later on in the day. This might be temporary, but it's definitely still fun.

Grinding to a slightly screechy halt in front of my apartment, I winced a little at the noise. And then remembered Dan's goodbye to me a few hours ago:
"See ya, K Train."
At least I'm still faster than the Green Line.

mechanical gastronomy

Summers in bike shops are, obviously, as busy as the winters are slow.
Any weekend day with relatively clear weather means that all the shops in the area are flooded with customers and their respective bikes. Mechanical issues, flat repairs, sales of bikes, tune-ups...and within the resulting deluge of regular customers, I barely get to talk to the people I love.
It's selfish, I know, to pout over lack of attention. I'll have the shop nearly all to myself come winter. And I usually only stop by to hang out and say hello, and sneak behind the counter to watch a repair or two, or get a closer look at a pretty [expensive] bike. Meanwhile, my friends are on their feet for nearly 12 hours a day, battling dirty bikes, bending derailleur hangers back into shape, or running around to satisfy a customer's every whim. "Lunch" is consumed around 5pm, if they're lucky, and if you've noticed, there's a conspicuous lack of chairs in every bike shop.

And if you look closely, you'll notice, too, that every bike shop has some food behind the counter. Placed within easy reach of the mechanic's bike stand, or in a tool box drawer, are cups of coffee, bags of chips, and this past weekend, even fried chicken. But it's not every day that a customer owns a Popeye's franchise and delivers about three tons of deep fried golden deliciousness to the shop as a gesture of thanks...which is why I brought some [of Chris's] favorite cookies along when I poked my head through the door of IBC this past weekend.
Because, you know, I like to take care of my own. Never mind that I need those guys to stay healthy and on their feet from a purely self-interested perspective...I mean, I'm doing this for the good of everyone involved. Ever tried to fix something when you were starving? Ever tried to politely reason with someone around 4pm when the last time you ate solid food was about 7 hours ago?

Yeah, it sucks. And when summers mean more riding, more broken down everythings, and more customers demanding attention, well, the least I can do is make sure there's something being digested in certain stomachs. Granted, my charity was a bit ill-timed and arrived in the aftermath of battered chicken, but apparently was still appreciated.
You are what you eat, I suppose. Or, I hope. Because then I can at least try to keep my mechanics sweet, despite the summer workload.

farmer's tans

"Nice tan you got going on there," Chris said as I casually walked into the mechanic's floor of IBC.
I knew the tank top was a mistake. You can clearly see how pale my shoulders are in comparison to my arms, and then that arm tan gets cut off into the glove tan around my wrists. As if the thigh-calf tri-tan wasn't enough. Now I'm starting to just look splotchy.
I was trying to nip the problem in the bud by going downtown in a sleeveless top that day. And sporting a clear farmer's tan, I obviously had to stop by the Copley Square Farmer's Market. From May to October, on Tuesdays and Fridays, vendors pitch tents and sell yummy, fresh produce, baked goods, and jams, meats, and cheese. Fridays last summer meant hopping on my bike to stuff my bag full of zucchini, corn, juicy tomatoes, and crisp bell peppers.

And it's not just the produce. I remembered a loaf of just-sweet-enough banana bread purchased last summer. It was huge, and took days to polish off; but it never dried out. I almost expected it to be too sweet, something that i'll eat in skinny slivers with several glasses of water. Instead, I nom nom nom-ed away at it in thick slices, consciously resisting its pleading to be eaten before, after, and in between meals.
Spotting that same banana bread, I remembered some people who would be on their feet all day, fixing bikes. People who will undoubtedly appreciate banana bread. Propping my bike up with a hip, I squeezed myself into Breadsong booth, I grabbed two - yes, two - loaves, and nestled them on top of all the other junk in my bag before I biked back out west. Biked towards my homes. All three.

The smaller loaf went to Pete and JT at Boston Bikes, then I made a brief stop at home [as in the place where I sleep] before heading to IBC. The nice weather meant that everyone there was working and swamped with customers. The bread was slipped on a side counter; nutrition for when busy friends can sneak in a mouthful of food between customers.

I almost regret not cutting a piece off for myself, but those loaves will be on display every Friday. And this year I'm rocking a Baileyworks that's way bigger than the small Chrome bag I was using last summer. Take that to its logical conclusion and you'll know where to find me on Friday evenings, between 5pm and 6pm.

impatient voyages

Remember the "ipod nod"? Back when only a select few had ipods and they were far from touch screen? And those white earbuds would qualify you for that so-geeky-it's-chic, sage nod from another ipod owner? That secret, shared understanding of owning something...superior?
I like how that died within a year as ipods and Apple just continued to take over the world. Now everyone has one, it's just another gadget attesting to your status [or lack thereof]. There's nothing special about owning one anymore. No more of that exclusiveness. No more of that excitement that comes with belonging in a special group of the select few who really, truly understand.
Bikes are different though. Proof? I saw two pairs of excited eyes yesterday that seemed to hum with elation. I nearly nodded.
After a [miserable] run and then a bike ride downtown, I showered then hopped back on the bike to get drenched in my own sweat all over again. Because Marcus was putting the finishing touches on his new 'cross bike, and invited me on its maiden voyage. Like I could ever miss this. I skipped into IBC, dumped my bike next to Wes's Merckx [hottt!] and clopped my cleated feet over to 2nd Cup for some coffee.

Picking my way back to the shop, I saw a guy who had just purchased a Trek. And just before he pushed off onto the street, I asked him if it was New Bike Day. He happily answered in the affirmative and, with bright, happy eyes, jumped onto his new steed. It never gets old, that feeling. Even when it's not your own bike...because you know. You understand.
Back at IBC, I climbed the stairs with caffeine in one hand and a camera in the other, and paparazzi-ed Marcus as he put the finishing touches on his new baby. I seemed to be the most impatient person there; I couldn't wait until it was ready to be ridden, and I literally jumped up and down with excitement when I first saw it, it was so so so close to being complete.

Bars wrapped perfectly [by Chris], cables adjusted, chain measured out, and pedals finally installed, we headed out for a quick ride down Comm Ave. And wow, is that bike hot. In the light of the setting sun, the silver frame looks almost white, and seemed to shift like butter. My knee was being stupid but with vicarious excitement coursing through my muscles and fueled by adrenaline, I was springing up the hills, alternating between following Marcus and leading.
We parted ways after babbling about practicing dismounts, jogging, and how good his frame is going to look with mud splattered all over it. Plans are in the works for practicing and falling over our bikes in dark fields when no one else is around. It's going to hurt and probably be slightly miserable.
As usual, I can't wait.