beating bikes

School's officially starting on Monday
I use the term "starting" loosely, because I've been going to school almost every day this week. Mostly to hunch over a computer, hand poised over my mouse, cite-checking and making sure things are in correct Bluebook form. At least I'm not alone, though. A journal mate occupying the desk next to mine turned to look out the window, saying:
"Man, it's such a nice day out today too...Well, judging from the walk from my car to the school."
He turned to me when I laughed in response, adding,
"At least you bike here; you get to enjoy being outside a little."

True, but for how much longer? With the prospect of bike rides limited mostly to my pathetic commute to school, and concerns of what exactly I could write about every single day, by the end of the day, I was feeling as crumpled as the drain that I park in front of. And while the rollers are keeping my thighs on the firmer side of flabby, winter always seems to turn me into a mushy, stiff mess.

But climbing that hill on Comm Ave, and slowing to a crawl on my new-ish gearing, I almost laughed. A year and half ago, I was walking up this thing, with gearing that was significantly spinny-er. And I just rode down this same street no-handed. Something I couldn't do even two months ago.
Hopeful that the sun bathing the backs of my calves will somehow even out my ridiculous tan, I ran some errands around town in the last hours of daylight. And my bike luck turning, I ran into Boston's Cutest Messenger, riding, as usual, on the insane side of dangerous: clipless, brakeless, and helmetless.

Trying to keep my inner cougar from pouncing on him [he's 19. sigh. SIGH.], we rode for a few blocks together, me just a little ahead of him. And turning my head when he called out goodbye, I heard a bro-dude shout:
"You can beat him!"
Actually, I couldn't even if I tried. I was also furiously winded after trying to actually stay ahead of Boston's Cutest. The planned attack on the following hills were done with half-hearted enthusiasm between slightly uncomfortable gulps of air. Man, I'm slow and weak.
School's only going to make all this worse. But surprisingly, I think I'm okay with that. At least for [right] now.
I'm a busy girl. And perfection's tough, you know?
[And yes, it is Rapha Scarf Friday...]

rolling addiction

Despite a calf that's wound up so tight my heel actually hurts, I'm pushing, thrusting, alternatively gritting my teeth and biting my lower lip. Eyes closed, head tilted back, hissing in air and letting it out in trembling exhalations. Moving my hips just a little bit to the left, a little forward...right there. Right right there. Don't stop; keep still.
Ohhhh, yeah. That's the sweet spot.
Thighs burning, trying to savor that feeling of perfection...then my front wheel's veering left, my rear wheel almost skidding before I can straighten the bars. But holy shit, I had it. That narrow slice of motionless, rolling perfection.

It's an addiction. The one thing I hungered for on visits to NYC. The one thing that had me hopping on a bus back to Boston, to an apartment with no AC. The one thing that I know is going to keep me sane this fall.
Which is ironic, given how Sisyphean it is to actually ride rollers. Unlike trainers, these things require some semblance of balance, and assurances that "well, when you fall off, you kind of just stop and tip over" are actually more terrifying in real life than it sounds. Especially when that actually involves bashing into the doorway first. It doesn't not hurt.
Then again, it's sort of like law school. Studying endlessly, trying to stretch the days and hours that are never enough, just to stay right where I've always been on the sliding scale of competency [as always, measured by grades]. The only obviously tangible reward being the glimmer of a degree and the hope of a bar card.

But maybe it does all make sense. Because physical pain - from my heinous saddle or otherwise - is much easier to understand and work through than the kind that law school will hand you. That mental crushing and breaking that feels like a bomb went off in your head while your heart and brain free-fall into empty panic and you can't even feel your face. An inexplicable feeling of desperation that can only be described as "fuck my life," despite the fact that that might be the biggest understatement made.

So while unemployment stares me in the face, I'm staring down that spot on the wall right under my Embrocation Cycling Journal Volume 3 poster [go get yourself a copy of Volume 4, seriously], pedaling, sweating, and making things hurt while other things go numb. My priorities are clearly a mess.
But hey, at least constantly trying to balance on those rollers means I'm also doing some power kegels. That's productive...right?