tokyo time out

I am slightly embarrassed to say, that three years in, I have yet to find the perfect cure to a semester plus of law school. A day, a week, a few months, I can do. Any time on the rollers - from fifteen minutes to forever - can usually keep the insanity at bay. But a semester plus two years? It takes a lot of cycling to erase that kind of pain.
Take bikes away from the equation and I’m not sure what the normal law student is left with in terms of options as to how to resocialize. I have a feeling that it might involve a lot of sex. Or whatever the gastronomic equivalent is. On the other hand, that might just be my way of explaining the unnervingly large number of fat creepers which populate your typical law school. I like to think that it’s the inevitable result of too many hours scouring too many cases. You eventually end up fat and desperate.
In any case, left without my bicycles for the duration of 13 days, in another country no less, I’ve been at a complete loss. Roller-less, recovery is slow, and unsurprisingly involves staying far away from anything with a keyboard and a screen. And yes, that involves the internet.

I understand how that might sound. Like I’ve too easily turned my back on a best friend. Taken the proverbial shit on the guy who has always been there by my side. Kicked a fiance to the curb right as the limo to the wedding pulled up, so to speak. And the worst part? I’m sort of getting used to this.
Despite my mother’s fussing, I can get used to rolling out of bed and not really having much to do. Nothing about not putting on a bra until 3pm bothers me. It’s okay that the farthest I might travel in a day might be the distance from the kitchen to the bathroom, because it’s twice as far as the bathroom is from my desk back in Boston. And the fact that I’m riding shotgun in my mom’s car? Please. Since when was I an eco-freak that rode my bike around for environmental reasons?

So other than the invisible, ever-changing itinerary of “preparing for stuff we’re going to do just because tradition dictates that we should do it” which I’m told about approximately 5 minutes before we’re all supposed to leave the house, I’m flexing my lazy like The Situation tightens his abs in a club full of guidette hoochies. But like how nights at the same clubs [even on the Jersey Shore] can get old, I would be lying if I said that a part of me wasn’t itching to get back to my bicycles. Stuffing myself full of decidedly non-vegan goodies is pretty awesome, but I miss the messy, sweaty sessions on the track bike, or the freezing cold commutes on the Bianchi.

I’ve been missing the empty staring at blank Word documents as well. Who knew that laziness could be so...boring. But without bicycles, it seems a little silly to write about my life sans velos. Even if - and I’m being honest when I say this - the guilt of my silence is hovering over my shoulder like the stranger drafting behind you that you just can’t seem to shake off.
But just like that drafting stranger, there’s a new year [too] quickly approaching, and I’ll be back to bikes, Boston, blogs, and my boys before I know it. So let me savor this “doing nothing” thing for just a little bit longer. Because, come on, you know you’re doing the exact same thing, too.
Happy New Year, guys!

interbike buffet

Las Vegas is, as everyone knows, very full of sex, strippers, casinos, and buffets.
And for one week in late September, bicycles.
I want to analogize Interbike to sex or strippers, really, I do. But entering into the Sands Convention Center and finding yourself surrounded by fellow bike nerds in t-shirts, shorts, and Tevas is actually not that sexy. The harsh fluorescent light - unlike the dimly lit casinos that seem to whisper and hint at lucky fortunes to be made - kills any sense of mystique. Interbike is not really sexy or enigmatic.

But it is kind of like a Las Vegas buffet.
The spread of booths sprawled under glowing lights, offering a different little something to the people that pass by, is, at first, incredibly overwhelming. And like that initial pause when presented with a plate and 30 different kinds of food, I had no idea where to start. So for the first five minutes I was there, I did the equivalent of gripping my plate to my chest and standing there. And gaping.

Just holding the multi-page map booklet was a little much. I probably would have been paralyzed by confusion if not for the realization that I had to keep pace with Interbike-veteran friends or risk losing them for the rest of the day. It took about 10 minutes for me to dig out my camera and finally start taking pictures. I had no idea what I was doing there.
But I dove in anyway, sampling this and that, peeking and peering into booths and even going so far as to touch an unaffordable bicycle or two. Self-consciousness slowly slipped away and energy boosted by some Clif Shot Roks [the peanut butter ones are incredibly yummy], I was feeling shameless enough to squeal and coo excitedly over Phil Wood's display of cogs, hubs, and bottom brackets. Days later, I'm still trying to digest how incredibly cute their 12T cog is [half of me is attempting to convince the other half that a 46/12 gearing is perfectly reasonable].

And then there were the bicycles. Single-speed Pinarellos, jaw-dropping Pegorettis, latte-like Bianchis, and candy-apple red De Rosas. Colnagos of every shape and size. Monochromatic Kuotas [Floyd Landis included!]. And an eye-popping Geekhouse 'cross bike.

Mixed in between gluttonous inhalations of everything bike, friends were also sought out. Tracking down Jason at the Shimano booth, we managed to bump into James who emptied the contents of his pockets into my eager hands [more on that later] before winding our way to where Marty was hanging out. And as far as I could tell, we were all shamelessly indulging in everything Interbike had to offer.

But like the curse of buffets, Interbike can really only be fully appreciated in hindsight. Even with two full days in Vegas, I jetted away towards my colder city on Friday with lingering thoughts of "Man, I wish I had spent more time at..." and "Crap, I forgot to go to..."

Until next year, maybe. And while I'll miss it in the interim, I'm slightly grateful for the year-long wait. Because like the buffet I shamelessly ate on Wednesday night, it's going to take a little while to fully recover from Interbike.
[Pictures here...and more on Interbike later...]