bar review: bonk breakers

My mother has imposed a recent rule in the house which forbids me from drinking tap water.
“Here,” she said, as she shoved a giant bottle of water towards me, “make your coffee with this from now on. And stop drinking water from the tap. There might be radiation in it.”
Since March 11th, my family has stopped buying domestic beef, everyone is currently avoiding vegetables, dairy, and rice from northeastern Japan, and half the lights in every building are turned off as Japan rushes to shut down every nuclear power plant in the country. And as someone who might still be alive in 30 years, my homecoming has forced my mother to throw more caution in the wind: buying crates of bottled water and giving me livid stares of outrage when I refused to use an umbrella to run an errand in misty showers.

This has resulted in regular thirst, and the odd feeling that I am wasting money whenever I consume bottled water. It’s a vicious cycle that has also affected when and how often I get on the bike. Like a dealer stepping on his supply, I cut my water with electrolyte sports drinks, squeezing out the value of every bottled drop. And holding out on my thirst, I like to tell myself that attaining that state of exhausted dehydration will make whatever I’m stuffing into my mouth taste that much better.
If you’ve ridden to the point of thirst on a bike before, you’ll know what I’m referring to. It’s that point at which Nuun-ed water tastes sweet, despite the fact that when you try to drink it when properly hydrated, it tastes sort of gross. Because we all lower the bar when it comes to food consumed on the bike. Tucked into a jersey pocket and exposed to 100+F heat for over three hours, even Clif bars soften and become somewhat more palatable. Ride long enough and the disturbing softness of Clif shot blocks turns into something to be grateful for - because, let’s face it: no Haribo gummi product can be chewed twice and then simply swallowed.

Which is why when Dave N. pulled out an orange package from his jersey pocket a few months ago, I was skeptical. “These are really, really good,” he said; those same words used to inaccurately describe Clif bars to me a few years ago. “They taste like real food,” Dave went on, as I politely nodded, reminding myself that even shot blocks can taste good when one is deprived of enough calories. “You can get them at REI,” he continued, as my interest waned further, my desire to walk the two extra blocks from Superb to REI quickly becoming a convenient excuse never to try these new bars.
But curiosity and the need for chamois cream got the better of me as I ended up at REI a few weeks later. By then inclined to believe Dave’s taste in most things [especially the gastronomical kind], and looking for a gluten-free alternative to Larabars, I grabbed a few Bonk Breakers on my way out: [Dave’s favorite] Peanut Butter and Jelly, and [my current favorite] the Almond Butter and Honey flavors.

Oh. My. YUM.
Made primarily of oats, rice flour, and nuts, the most welcome thing about Bonk Breakers is that they’re soft. They’re softer to bite into than your typical slate-like Clif bar, and because they’re not dried-fruit based like Larabars, Bonk Breaker residue doesn’t tend to get stuck in your teeth. All the bars are also free of gluten, dairy, and soy, and perfectly sized to fit into jersey pockets. Not to mention how the Peanut Butter and Jelly flavor actually looks like a PB&J sandwich, and is actually delicious enough to eat off the bike.

When I had a few packaging problems with one of their bars, Jason Winn, the founder of Bonk Breakers was kind enough to not only send me a few replacement bars, but also their newest Blueberry Oat flavor. More oat-y than the previous Bonk Breakers I’ve tried, it tasted like those muffins I'd been lusting after since cutting out wheat from my diet. Except with Bonk Breakers, you can tuck this one into your jersey without worrying about the crumbs and inevitable mid-ride muffin implosions.
Unfortunately, I’ve only found one bike store that keeps these bars in stock here in Tokyo. Good thing I’m headed stateside in a week for my best friend’s wedding…because a few boxes of these are definitely coming back with me.
[Now available at RSC!]

deer flies, childbirth, and the century that wasn't

A few days ago, I walked into my aunt’s house to pick up a French press pot. Someone was vacuuming in the kitchen, but oddly, my aunt’s voice came from upstairs. She hurried down and squeezed past the mostly closed kitchen door behind which the vacuumer lurked. “Kaiko’s here, but don’t come out like that,” she said, before returning into view with both a Bodum French press pot and a Chemex.
“It’s, you know, that person,” she said to me and my mother. She was referring to, of course, her husband, my uncle. In response, my mother prepared her sympathetic face as my aunt sighed and shook her head. The game had begun.

Perhaps a uniquely Asian sport, and a particularly popular one among women over 50, my mother and my aunts play this game of spousal complaint often. The consistent nature of the complaints doesn’t seem to detract from the fun, only to add to the vigor of the match itself. No one person wins, unless, of course, someone’s spouse has done something particularly bad. This makes the sport not so much a sparring contest between the female members of my family, but more akin to competitive jabbing of an allegedly ineffective and often [though not always] absent target. And the jabbing is done with unforgiving enthusiasm; perhaps under the irrational hope that these complaints, voiced enough, might spark karma into abolishing incompetent spouses. Or, at the very least, enable them to vacuum more efficiently.
“At least you have someone willing to vacuum the house,” my mother said, throwing down the gauntlet. An invitation to include ungrateful children into the verbal exchange, my aunt gamely replied in kind: “but if Kaiko did it for you, at least she’d do it right.” Too familiar with this game, and unwilling to get sucked into choosing sides or presenting a modicum of reason into the debate, I clutched the Chemex and stared at my feet, making noncommittal guttural sounds when appropriate, waiting it out.
And though half a world away, those same actions reminded me of staring at something else – a sparklingly clean cassette that time – as I made the same somewhat noncommittal guttural sounds and waited that out, too. All 116 miles of it.

A ride that was presented in characteristically vague terms as “a century,” or “a century plus a little more,” it was my last chance to check off a triple digit ride before I left for Japan. Dave N., fully knowing this, laid a fail-proof trap, accompanying the description of the ride with phrases like “it’ll be fun!” and “if you can do 70 miles [my longest ride until two Wednesdays ago], you can do 100…and the rest is, you know, just a little bit more.” It’s true that I knew what I was getting into [to some extent], but there was a lot of voluntary blindness involved, too. When Geoff sent us the ride route, I briefly glanced at it before buying a few extra Bonk Breakers. Dave had said I would get through it. That I would “be fine.” I found faith in the fact that he had faith in me, and so we agreed to meet at Ride Studio Café on a Wednesday morning to ride to Mount Wachusett and back.
The equivalent of a charity ride, but one in which contributions came in the form of pain inflicted on the charity at hand, Dave N., Geoff, Jeremy, and I headed out on the ride on which, Dave N. clarified, I would “do fine,” but perhaps not “be fine.” The loop headed out towards Harvard before picking up the Charles River Wheelmen Climb to the Clouds century route, and included a few “gratuitous climbs” on the way back, courtesy of Geoff. Instructed to stay on Geoff’s wheel, I took an Aleve, stuffed my pockets full of food, and tried to hang on.

My naïve belief that Nagog Hill and Oak Hill were going to be the worst of it [excluding Mount Wachusett] was, simply put, stupid. “Didn’t you look at the ride route?,” Dave said, “you do know it said 8,000 feet of climbing, right?” “I don’t even know what that means,” I gasped, spinning with aching legs. Geoff mashed up the climbs in his big ring while Dave stayed behind my lagging wheel, both barely breaking a sweat. Slogging up to the visitor’s center of Mount Wachusett [we didn’t go all the way to the top, although Geoff tried] at the stunning speed of 6mph, I stared at dizzy disbelief at my sweaty forearms. I considered clipping out and stopping to say “I’m just going to lie down here and die,” but each time deferred that decision for just a little bit longer. Geoff asked if I was still alive. I made my noncommittal guttural sound.

As long as the ride was, it can only accurately be described [as Dave put it] as comparable to childbirth: a painful process but one in which all is forgotten at the end. Well, almost all. Because while I generally did fine, some higher power determined that our ride required a little more epic. So when we hit the gravel-y path through Assabet River Park, a horde of deer files was released, congregating oh-so-conveniently on our asses.

If you are a cyclist with a paint job you might sacrifice your entire epidermis and a few bones for, and also lack most bike-handling skills, the combination of gravel and flies sinking their teeth into the flesh of your backside is close to the 9th circle of Hell. Geoff accelerated, trying to lose the cloud of flies drafting off of him, and I tried to follow without eating sand, aware that should I do so, death by deer flies was certain. They stayed on us the entire way through the park, though, tattoo-ing me with unsightly red slotches all over my butt. A couple marks for the road back to Tokyo.
But I also came back with 116 miles with 7000 feet of climbing in 7.5 hours of riding under my belt, too. A few hours post-century-plus, at a celebratory get-together organized by Dave, I got something else; something as awesome as knowing I could throw down 116 miles: a necklace designed by Rob and crafted out of Seven titanium. A reminder of good friends, good rides, and accomplishments.

Hopefully with more to come…