superstitious americanos

Like most girls, I secretly love checking my horoscope. I am inclined to believe in compatibility between certain astrological signs but will freely disregard the day's predicted fortunes if it is clearly not in my favor. The next day, I'll get just a tiny bit excited if "flirtatious encounters" are included in the day's fate.
Granted, horoscopes tend to be as hit or miss as my blind stabs at concepts of Corporate Taxation, but that doesn't mean that superstition has no value. Because when things consistently line up and bring good things with it, that's enough to have me convinced that luck might just exist [and doesn't hate me].

You're dying to know this lucky correlation, aren't you? It's actually fairly old news, but one that, I believe, somehow creates this awesome situation where great minds come together to form and execute some fairly incredible ideas. Take one serious cyclist, mix with one part Asian-sensation-cyclist-blogger, brew with two good Americanos, and you have a winning combination. Great ideas will flow. I promise.
It's consistently yielded results; t-shirts, designs, a crew of friends in NYC, and more written words than I can remember typing. How else can you explain the moka pot logo of Embrocation Cycling Journal, their uber secret Mad Alchemy coffee embrocation, the Giro d'Italia espresso machine at NYC Velo, and the beginnings of Outlier [they met at a coffee shop]? It's like a ritual that has to be done between pedalstrokes for amazing to result. Offer me an Americano, while I'm still slightly sweaty from a ride and there's a good chance something awesome will happen [and I'm talking platonically, people].

So it's a little hard for me to turn down an offer to bike over to a reputable cafe that can pull good shots of rich, dark brown inspiration. Cafe Fixe serves up Americanos that, with one sip, will nearly blow your face off, but when M1 comes up to Boston to use my apartment as a base camp for rides to Dover visit and offers to meet up after class, something out west was a little more appropriate. Good thing the Boston Globe did an article on good coffee shops a few weeks ago and mentioned Taste Coffee House in Newtonville.
A plan was formed and duly executed. And while I hesitated over a latte or a regular coffee or the go-to Americano, the last won out as usual. Sipping the dark liquid in shorts due to the incredible weather, the stage was set for some prime scheming. Caffeine making my brain buzz, we chattered and came up with new designs, ideas, and between sentences, commented on the perfectly balanced Americanos.

That cup fueled me through a ride amped up by the persistent buzzing of M1's freewheel behind me. I was breathless when I got home [I had casebooks on my back!], but still humming off the adrenaline and caffeine, even took the Dolan for a quick spin.
I have more plans later this week for coffee. Regardless of my daily horoscope, though, I know this one's going to be equally awesome. Call me superstitious, but I plan to get an Americano. That means good things are gonna happen. Trust.

project interbike

[The last in the series, I promise!]
I never really got into Sex and the City, but I did get into Project Runway.
Lack of TV meant that I would watch it whenever I could with my best friend; hanging out at her place always meant a PR DVD viewing. And for someone actually enjoys staying up until 3am battling drafting paper and French curves, it was awesomely fun.
But when the bike entered my life, fashion sort of fell away. Comfort and the ability to pedal efficiently became a priority. Jeans were traded for shorts or leggings, collared shirts for something I wouldn't mind destroying, and necklaces got neglected as I was sure they would get caught on my bag and break to pieces.

The irony being that even before I got to Interbike, I was obsessed with what the hell I was going to wear. Even if I was assured that it was a convention full of bike nerds in t-shirts.
But come on, this is Vegas! So my little fingers got to work, embellishing an otherwise ordinary white t-shirt into a sequined, Vegas-appropriate, Interbike-appropriate, champion-stripe adorned number. It took a few nights of painful stitching, but once it was done, I was so proud of myself. I was like this is going to be the best t-shirt ever and I totally cannot wait to show my NYC Velo crew!

Of course, when I finally met up with them, their sole excitement stemmed from the opportunity to stand a 5-foot-4-inch short me next to Tyson, a 6-foot-6-inch tall former employee of NYC Velo and current Portland-based Civilian Bikes framebuilder [have you noticed how NYC Velo seems to be the go-to place for talented bike people?]. But yes, the resulting picture [taken by M1] is hilarious [also, my shoes were killing me].

What's also funny is that while I had mentally scrunched my nose at wearing t-shirts throughout Interbike, I did exactly that, like every other bike nerd in attendance. But, unlike every other bike nerd, NYC Velo and M1 kept it very interesting.
First, there was the NYC Velo x Jeremy Fish shirt worn by Brett. Then there was the new stem-cap design shirt worn by none other than Mr. A. Crooks. And in a stroke of creative genius [paired with some late-night printing] was the Shimura shirt.

I'm actually not as flat as that picture makes me look. Really. But regardless, that shirt had people actually staring at my chest and doing double-takes. People came up to talk to me about it. I even felt like a mini celebrity when I showed the guys at Shimano, and about three people pulled out their phones to take a picture.
You know when people say dressing the part is half the battle? It totally is.
Because armed with the confidence this shirt was giving me, I managed to drop my dignity and say hello to Garrett Chow of Mash SF...who, despite the fact that we're Facebook friends, I had never met before. You don't need me to tell you this but he's super nice and was somehow not completely creeped out by my stalkerish behavior.

But dressing well and looking good can be exhausting. By the time I boarded my flight back to cold, chilly Boston, I felt just like Brett [and his PRO tanlines]. Still, I promised myself that if I make it out there next year, I'll be sure to try and channel a little more Gary Fisher into my wardrobe...

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.

labored breathing

Freshman year of college, my neighbor used to get it on with his girlfriend at the weirdest time of day. In the early afternoon hours, my room mate would point to the wall and we would hear labored grunting. From him. His girlfriend remained ominously silent.
It was sort of creepy. Too bad I make those same grunting noises, peppered with gasping sighs, when climbing hills on my preferred ride route. That plus all the sweating and the whole one gear thing and it's easy to see why I opt to suffer alone.
But when a best friend is in town - the kind that will not bat an eye at the sight of me pushing the pedals on the rollers at 7am and instead offer to make coffee - well, I'll make exceptions.

So for the first time in forever, I actually didn't sit in front of a computer or a book on Labor Day. I planted my ass on my Brooks instead and pedaled a little over 40 miles [the first time I've done over 30 in about two months...the shame, I know] with the kind of company that won't drop me.
And, of course, the kind of company I'm totally comfortable grunting and gasping in front of. Out of the saddle on the climb that tends to kill me, I was inevitably making those kinds of noises that are completely acceptable when you're torturing yourself alone but are slightly inappropriate when you're with company. And just when I was in no shape to tell him to fuck off:
"Wow. You're either having a really good time or a really bad time," M1 commented.

My retort ended in a laugh/cough combo as he literally pushed me - sputtering and gasping for him to cut it out because that was cheating - the last five feet of the climb. A few more hills, a dead sprint at the slow-for-anyone-but-me speed of 22mph, and we were at Arlington in record time. I was ready to pass the fuck out.

Famished but reluctant to let the beautifully perfect weather slip away, we made a quick detour to a place that didn't look like anything Boston or New York City. And winding our way around part of the Minute Man National Historic Park, I also managed to forget how dead tired I was.
Hours later, slowly savoring espresso bean ice cream from 3 Scoops, I realized that I had forgotten all about the grunting, too. Which is not only testament to the strength of my short-term memory, but also how I couldn't care less. At least not with the company I was with.
Because when I quoted the last line of Casablanca to M1 way back in May, I really meant it.

kinky or kissena

Call me a creature of habit [or just lazy], but I tend to get stuck in the same mundane routine. Getting up at the same time every morning, going through the same motions at work, doing the same rides. Ironically I sort of like it when someone will pull me out of my rut, give me something to do, and unleash me on something new. Even if it totally messes up that same comfortable daily song and dance.
Especially when it comes in the form of a declaratory statement accompanied with crossed arms, from the mouth of a person who can actually be a little scary if you piss him off enough. So when the words Kissena, track, and Dolan were uttered in the same sentence...I may have uttered my habitual "yeah, but..." but I knew M1 had a point.

Because quite honestly, riding track bikes on the street is sort of like, well, anal sex. It looks hot and kinky, and the concept behind it is forbiddingly tempting: the skill involved in being able to ride a rigid, aggressively stiff bike that was made to only go fast and turn left on city streets is really fucking pimp. Too bad in actuality, it's actually pretty uncomfortable and slightly painful.
But you try it because of all the hype. And then you try it again after you sort of pop your cherry, hoping it's going to be somewhat enjoyable. But then you end up running into the safe harbor that is straight up Vanilla sex. Or just your beater/commuter/road bike/hybrid/whatever. You know, something that was actually made for the road.

That's not to say that people who can ride track bikes on the street aren't hot shit. Just that I'm not that kinky. Kind of like how I'm fully comfortable with only hooking up on floors and beds, as opposed to public beaches and cathedrals. So heeding M1's advice, I'm going to put that Dolan where it belongs, and not sweat the boring factor that might come from only riding it on a track.

Judge at will. But I have enough sweat pouring out of my pores these past few days, sprinting in intervals on rollers as I blast pop or country or whatever so-bad-it's-good playlist I have going on, to really worry about what scensters might be thinking. Besides, I'm getting faster, pedaling in more efficient circles and at least whipping a few things with gears up the hills.
It might be sticky-sweaty-hot outside, and thus perfect weather for rides to Concord, Dover, or just a park for a picnic. But I'm sort of dreaming of late fall, when I'll have the window wide open, a kitchen timer [hopefully] set for an hour, gritting my teeth in agony, churning pink cranks as fast as my short legs possibly can.

cassette.

You know that feeling when you wake up at some absurd hour from passing out somewhere that is not in your own bed after a kind of long night and you realize it's probably a good idea to leave wherever you are even if you don't really want because, hey, there's always tomorrow?
That sort of defines the weekends I've been spending in NYC with M1.
But that's how it goes, right? One thing sort of leads to another and before you know it, it's 3am and you're like fuck, maybe I should go home, but this is really good, but I really should go home, so hold that thought and I'll see you tomorrow, oh brunch? sure, and...plans tomorrow night?
Wait, wait, back up. It's not what you're thinking. Really.

Because even if the late-night scheming, trips to the city, and hours-long daily phone conversations got me to paint my nails [something I haven't done in ages], it's really not like that. Sure we've both made huge commitments - emotionally and physically - but it's not like we're getting married. Still, we did sort of have a baby together.
Her name? Cassette.

A product of six weeks of nonstop work - three of which were entirely devoted to thinking up of a name [and no, I can't even imagine what it's like to have real children] - it's finally finished. There was the proposal, a few days after we initially met, of designing a single t-shirt together, which then sort of blew up into something organic with a will of its own. Then the honeymoon period of thinking that everything was going to just fall into place. Then the little fights, frustrated rampages, tempter tantrums, and tearful anxiety attacks [yup, that was all me]. Then finally, finally, a functioning site, and the possibility of a decent night's sleep.

And so, despite the panicked terror I secretly felt as I hugged M1 a little past midnight last night in celebratory congrats, here it is. Our baby. And while we sort of pulled out the main parts of this thing out of thin air, apparently having kids isn't just between two people. Because without supportive friends who posed, critiqued, pulled shots of espresso and told the obligatory "that's what she said"s, this project would have been as productive as...well, protected sex.
Of course, I'm not condoning unprotected sex. Or having children. Because if cassette felt like a mini dry run of pregnancy and [immaculate] conception, having real kids must be a complete fucking trip.
I have to admit, though, that I'm sort of hoping cassette will last for a while. I actually wouldn't really mind 18 more years of this. Of course, that all depends on how cassette grows up. Still, as a proud mother, I'm going to let myself gloat. At least a tiny little bit.
[Oh, and I almost forgot. It's Rapha Scarf Friday.]