pink baby doll

Apparently, no matter how hard I try, it’s not going to go away. And everyone’s buzzing about it anyway. So, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right?
Yeah, that’s right Valentine’s Day; you’re getting an undeserved shout-out. Happy now you fucked up, poor excuse for a holiday?
Now, now, don’t say I’m bitter, BECAUSE I’M NOT. No, really, I’m not. But judging by the sheer number of newspaper articles [whether this is really newsworthy is a completely different question, of course] advising the masochistic boyfriend on how to appease the Valentine-zilla that girlfriends tend to morph into come February 14th, the “holiday” consistently degenerates into the absurd well in advance of its celebration. Attached girls scramble to buy lace contraptions that will simultaenously push up and together while their single counterparts buy gallons of ice cream and too many cheesy movies on-demand. Meanwhile boyfriends try to devise ways not to get the life squeezed out of their balls, knowing full well that most things they do won’t cut it.

Why can’t this weekend be like any other? More importantly, why in God’s name did I have to choose this cursed holiday as the day I put down payment on my track bike frame almost a year ago?
And then I had to go with the pink cranks and rims. As if I needed another reminder of that one Valentine’s Day when - armed with courage that can only be derived from a persuasive best friend - I somehow ended up in a Victoria’s Secret dressing room in a pink, lacy babydoll. Patches of reason and logic did seep through from time to time [“what in the world am I doing?”], but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Yeah, I know. How many bad frat boy stories have you heard that started with that line?

I suppose it applies quite well to my track bike, too. It seemed a good idea at the time to choose one gear over 21. It seemed a good idea at the time to spend too much on pink anchors for rims and a powdercoated front brake that’s just going to come off when the bike hits the track. It all seemed like a good idea at the time. Which is just another way of saying now that I think about it, what kind of drugs was I on?
Maybe a little bit of stupid, and a little bit of crazy. Or a lot of both, given the fact that I’m probably looking at a good year - two, if I stick to what I want - until I can afford to buy a solid road bike. But it was Valentine’s Day, and while I might think it’s ridiculous, no one said I was immune.
Besides, unlike that pink babydoll, I'm going to keep squeezing every drop of my investment out of that track bike. At least until knee failure.

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.

paris-roubaix, boston-style

Always having been the less talented of my parents' two daughters, I was constantly presented with two choices: excel in something different or be content and find value in being, well, inferior. It's easier to be the latter...but my parents didn't raise me that way.
Unfortunately this can usually results in me doing things just to prove that I can do them. Like biking year-round in ridiculous temperatures. Or sort of training for a fixed century. Or deciding that doing a longer ride on a track bike I can barely ride with increased gearing would be a fantastic idea.
Which is exactly what I did yesterday. Planning out a simple 20 mile route, Pete and his extremely pale yet freshly shaven legs assured me that my jump in gear inches was fine, and that we could do 20 miles easy. I blindly believed him and failed to factor in the whole twitchy lightness that seems to be characteristics of a true track bike, as well as mostly unwrapped bars and gloves with no padding.

My hands and arms absorbed the shock of every crevice and bump we went over...and quite frankly, my ass didn't fare much better. I mentally told myself to toughen up and keep plowing through. Concentrating a little too much on actually planning out and holding a line [my 'cross bike lets me truck through anything and everything], we got lost and had to backtrack a few times. Spotting the river, we decided to ride down River Street in Waltham towards Watertown and Cambridge.
It was the worst road I've ever ridden on. About a mile in, Pete yelled that it was like riding the Paris-Roubaix...and it certainly was. His superior bike skills allowed him to deftly dodge obstacles while maintaining a constant speed. Already nervous about being perched on something that felt like air compared to my 'cross monster, I was a stressed mess. Brake with my legs, cautiously roll over uneven layers of asphalt, skitter around unexpected potholes, attempt to maintain enough speed not to piss off the drivers speeding by, try not to lose Pete. It was like that "don't step on the cracks in the sidewalk" game I used to play as a kid, except my teeth were clattering, I was developing carpal tunnel, and it was way more painful.

While half tempted to stop and take pictures, the desire to get to the end of this ass-beater of a road had us riding as fast as we could. The worst part? It didn't seem to end for a really, really, really long time. When we got back to civilization, normal Boston roads - despite all the cracks and potholes - felt like sliding on butter. The people milling about in Harvard Square looked at us oddly as I [finally] lurched into Cambridge. Maybe we let our guards down a little too much as an older model Volvo cut off Pete on Mass Ave without signaling, causing him to slam into it as he maneuvered between the curb and the car [he's okay, though]. The driver claimed her signal had "fallen off," which had us giggling on our way through Cambridge.

We inhaled bagels [sorry Eric] before heading home. I wasn't sure my legs and arms were still attached to me but Pete assures me that they were the last time he saw me. Normally, I wouldn't be adverse to go back and take pictures of River Street. Normally. Because unless you give me a full-suspension mountain bike, I'm not ever riding Boston's Paris-Roubaix, again.
Unless, of course, you challenge me to do it...