a vicious cycle

Everyone know the one dude in college [hopefully only in college] who took pride in being the laziest fucker around. Usually he was perpetually enveloped in a cloud of pot smoke, had some sort of reclining chair in his dorm room, and while he’ll travel any distance to score an 1/8th, he couldn’t be bothered to get up early enough to go to his 1pm class. He considered sleeping and smoking his primary jobs. If he bothered to do anything else, he felt entitled to some sort of extra credit from God.
Those types of dudes always fascinate me. And secretly, sometimes, I wish I could be like that. I wish I could kick back and forget about responsibilities and obligations and everything on the ever-growing “to do” list. I like to tell myself that I could get good at the whole slacking off thing. I could roll out of bed past noon, smoke a joint, and then piss away the rest of the day doing pretty much nothing. And I’d enjoy it.

Unfortunately, I have the unusual ability to place myself in exactly the sort of situations that I’m trying to blow off. Officially on spring break [perhaps my very, very last...of my life...eeppp!], I planned to spend most of the week on a particular couch, in front of a particular TV, forsaking a particular laptop and without a particular bike. I had extensive plans to be completely lazy.
Because while I usually revel in any opportunity to put in quality time on my bike, the past few weeks have delivered enough unnecessary school drama, last-minute meetings, and buttloads of work to transform otherwise relaxing bike time into yet another tedious activity that just had to get done. I managed to avoid the rollers in retaliation, but the guilt of doing so stressed me out even more. It was a vicious cycle [pun intended].

So when spring break rolled around last Friday, I had high hopes to be like That Lazy Dude in College. Those plans - predictably - went the way of Lazy Dude Resolutions To Go To Class. The hope was there, but the execution was slightly totally lacking. My plans essentially died yesterday when I ended up at a small table at The Smile, surrounded by a bunch of bicycle people who were talking, thinking, and writing about bicycles.
Last week, even the idea of sitting around discussing bicycles for about an hour would have had me screaming out of frantic stress and running away while ripping my hair out. Yesterday, though, I avoided the embarrassment and permanent label of “absolutely, completely, without a doubt, batshit crazy” [for the most part] by staying seated and civil. Maybe it was just the incredibly yummy granola with yogurt, or the densely dark Americano, but being enclosed in a small space with bicycle people engaged in bicycle talk wasn’t as terrifyingly stressful as I initially feared. In fact, it was almost kind of normal in a fun kind of way.
I’m far from finding that perfect balance [both literally and figuratively], but I have this hopeful feeling I might not spend the season swinging between two extremes when it comes to bikes. Now I just have to work on pedaling faster than 8mph...

sequins and stress levels

What's a girl to do when a law journal implodes in her face, dragging friendships down the drain with it, and mashing on the rollers in frustration just isn't cutting it?
She gets out every sequined whatever out of her closet, tries them all on with every high-heeled shoe she owns, then sits on her bed, clothes strewn about, reading On Writing by Stephen King or re-reading bits and pieces of Ten Points [by Bill Strickland] or perusing through the November issue of Bicycling Magazine [again]. And when that doesn't do the trick, it's time for a makeover.
Not the kind involving a perm or manicured nails, but a bike-over. The bar tape has been slowly unraveling on my Bianchi, but in true scatter-brained fashion, I decided to concentrate my efforts on the kept woman that is the Dolan.

Because the Dolan might be flashy, but she prefers to stay indoors and fan herself in front of the TV [or, in my case, Hulu]. The deep track drops were sexy but inhibited outdoor ventures, and like most trophy wives/girlfriends scantily clad boobs bars can only get you so far. The white saddle was [literally] an intolerable pain in the ass. So I put my foot down.
I was going to fully wrap those bars and smack on some hood brakes and switch out that stupid saddle even if it ended up looking like me wearing mismatched sequined clothes and too much eyeliner after a stressful day. Because while it might not be kosher, if that was going to get me riding more, and longer, then I didn't care about breaking THE RULES. I'd rather get run over by another cyclist on the track, rather than get hit by a bus on the way to the track because I couldn't properly maneuver that skitterish Dolan with track drops on it. Besides, the track drops can be strapped to my back, and road drops would open up the possibility of riding the Dolan in places where this concept of "wind" was less forgiving than in my apartment.

The saddle went first, replaced by the [totally awesome] leopard-print, porn-star saddle that came stock on the Bianchi [as Kanye would say, "they don't make 'em like this anymore,"...jealous?]. The bars got pulled off, and with the aid of a bestie [a.k.a. M1], the road drops got the full bar wrap treatment.

I know, I know. You're all scrutinizing and judging just how those bars got wrapped. I actually debated writing about it because it's the one thing that can elicit volatile displays of emotion from the most stony-faced of mechanics. The thing is, while I do care about how my bars look and feel [and I think they turned out pretty slick], I realized that in the process, half of me really didn't. It wasn't sheer laziness [okay, there might have been some of that], but as long as it stayed on my bars until spring, and as long as I could ride the damn thing hard and long, and, okay, as long as it didn't look heinous, I didn't really care. I could try to find the perfect white women's saddle [why are those so hard to find?!], and I could wipe down my rims and buy whiter tires. I could even switch out those cheap black toe straps for white leather ones. Or, I could forget about how it should look and ride it.
Because like the sequined ensembles I throw together on a stressful whim, how good my bike looks [or not] won't do me an ounce of goddamn good if I can't pull my shit together. Which, as applied to the bike, means being able to pedal that thing fast and hard. So that's what I'm doing - riding - and, of course, hoping the slightly confused mishmash of parts, patterns, and colors will get my legs to Chris Hoy proportions by spring.

rim friction

Inexplicably, I get less sleep on the weekends than during the week.
Well, "inexplicably" to the ordinary person. Usually asleep by 1am, up by 6am the following morning, I try to be out the door and on the bike by 7. Anyone who goes out on training rides knows the deal. Besides, riding early means less traffic and having the planned route all to yourself. And riding alone means I can sometimes sleep in until 7, without worrying about scrambling to meet a friend.
Even on 5 hours of sleep, the freedom of flying down wherever on a bicycle is totally worth it.
After a long week, I was aching to go on a ride Saturday. I got up and did the usual routine of not stretching enough and forcing myself to eat before jumping on my newly-freewheeled bike. I had a shorter ride planned and my bag stuffed with gym clothes and running shoes to force myself to head directly to the gym afterwards. And coasting down Beacon, I was on the fringes of zoning out. Finally.

Still searching for that happily numb flat-lining my brain does when I'm out on a ride, I pulled on the brakes at a red light. And as I attempted to hop back on, I felt resistance.
Confused, I looked back at my rear wheel and saw something I am [unfortunately] all too familiar with. A misaligned wheel [from when the hub was flipped over on Friday] was rubbing up against one of the brake pads. I was only about 7 miles in.
My slowly forming bubble of happiness popped. In fact, it shattered into a million sharp pieces which then dug into a rapidly reviving stress monster. My adjustable wrench was lying on the floor of my apartment. I was somewhere in Waltham. Total suck fail.

I refused to turn back and just pulled at the brake pad to loosen it whenever I stopped. Each tug was coupled with a sigh that was also fueling an exploding sense of bitchery. This was the worst day for this to happen.
Ironically, I was only able to zone out much later as I ran on a treadmill. The wheel got realigned after my scheduled time in purgatory [read: the gym] and the promise of a better ride the next day alleviated the panicked sense of bike hypochondria.
Yeah, I know, another [preferably geared] bike I can use for training rides would be [more than] useful. I'm working on it. Really.
[I know, I didn't post this weekend...but if you're really curious about what I'm up to, I just may be on twitter...]

puff, puff, [or] pass

Section 280E of the Federal Income Tax Code says that drug dealers can't deduct any expenses related to the drug trade from their tax returns. Well, that doesn't apply to the cost of the drugs though, you get to sort of make back that investment.
It was almost painful reading that on Monday. Monday. Marathon Monday. 4/20 Monday.
I should have expected it, too, the inevitable IM from a college friend. Something along the lines of "can't wait to get out of work...sad for you if you're not celebrating." I sighed, wishing that sigh was an exhalation of sweet, powdery, swirls of smoke, snaking out of my lungs and throat, ending with the rattled cough and the declaration, "wow...wow..."

I haven't done that in too long, and that may be for the best. Even if only for financial reasons, I couldn't afford such a habit. That's not to say I'm not fighting an internal battle against carcinogens these days. It happens the last few weeks of every semester when too many hours in the library, not enough riding, and guilt for not working hard enough combine and my brain tells me that something's gotta give.
And when that happens, I make up some excuse to get outside, get grabbed by a good friend I haven't spoken to in weeks, and find a cigarette in my hand, smoke between my lips. Inhale. Exhale. I'll feel like shit later, and that's when I'll crave another.

I thought about it last night as I passed the Store24. I had a few bucks in my pocket, a lighter at home. Add coffee to that and it would be my college breakfast all over again. I sighed, thinking, "maybe, maybe."
Instead I stretched, laid out on my floor, and looked up at a bike built to go fast. It looked like it wanted to pounce and break out of my bare apartment under a pair of strong legs and a set of reasonably workable lungs.
"Okay," I said, defeated, feeling even more guilty, "I won't. Not tonight."
And hopefully, not tonight either.