at your service

“Water safe for consumption,” the subject line of the email read. So Boston’s back to being a normal city in an otherwise developed country, and I can finally wash my hands with unboiled water. Which is nice, because my hands have felt like they did on Sunday when I spent most of my morning behind the service counter at a bike shop in NYC.
Yeah, you read that right. A girl who doesn’t know which way is up when it comes to derailleurs and cassettes was keeping busy in a service area. With tools, even.
With the 5 Borough Bike Ride last weekend [I have plans to do it next year on a mtb tandem in full Lycra with a teardrop helmet], NYC Velo needed some help so I figured it would be interesting to pretend to work at a bike shop for realz. For some reason, instead of manning the cash register - a more appropriate activity that I could probably pull off fairly competently - I ended up talking to Coach DS while he worked a wrench, which then meant I was behind the counter when a girl showed up with newly purchased shoes and Speedplay cleats.

Okay, cleats, I can do. Never mind that I’ve never installed Speedplays before. And the skirt and white tank top that I was wearing which are both completely inappropriate for a bike shop is no thang. So I end up installing one of the plates and cleats with some [read: a lot of] help from Andy, and while I’m struggling with screwdrivers, another girl shows up with a pair of spinning shoes and weird spinning cleats that need to get tightened, too.
A touch of locktite and a few new screws later [the ones on her shoes were mostly useless...and by that I mean they were a pain in the ass to get out], and my hands had a thin film of grease on them. Not visible, but enough to give me that oily tacky feeling that gets my OCD going.
“Can I put gloves on so I can feel like a real but fake mechanic?”
“If you want to feel like a real mechanic, you won’t put gloves on,” came the ever witty reply courtesy of DS.

I went to grab a pair anyway, then dropped them when a bike came wheeling in for a bottle cage and pedal install. Things even I am capable of doing. By that time it was close to 2pm; the last time I had eaten was over 5 hours ago, but I was hardly hungry. There was really no time to be; even if I can’t tell a brake cable from one that keeps things shifting, sunny, beautiful weekend days mean busy times at bike shops.

Mike sold another bike, I helped DS out a little more, then we both snuck out an hour later for lunch. Ish had come by so we weren’t really needed, and there was a Sunday afternoon to enjoy. There was a stop at a bookstore, followed by Stumptown at the Ace Hotel, then later that night, a chance encounter with the best chicken taco I have ever had. I’m still dreaming of you, Pinche.
And while I’m back in Boston to finish up those pesky final exams, if you missed me standing awkwardly behind a service counter in a bike shop last weekend, I’ll be back there in a few weeks. Maybe by the cash register next time, though.

hunting for gears

Last Thursday spelled the end of law school classes, but I was still sweating out of stress and completely sober a few hours after class let out. Rummaging around my fridge for whatever was for dinner, I found a few ice cold bottles of beer from forever ago, because when drinking just the neck of a beer can get you floored, a six pack tends to last a while. I thought about it a little, picking up one of the bottles that was lying on its side, putting it back upright before thinking eh, probably not, and finding that spinach that had to be polished off.
I’m thinking more about that beer now that I’m back in Boston and a broken water pipe means that no one in the city should be drinking the water. I was even a little afraid to drink that Americano I got at Cafe Fixe, and I’m definitely questioning if showering in that water is actually going to end up with me being cleaner than the alternative. But back to the beer, and why I wasn’t drinking it.

It had nothing to do with my confidence in my ability to cite a paper while mostly hammered, and more to do with the fact that I had to be up by 6, out the door by 7, and on a bus to NYC by 8. Four hours, lunch, and a few minutes of prepping later, I was back on a borrowed bike that’s too big for me but has gears, and has that adorable tendency to make the seat feel like a pitbull that’s jumped up, bit onto my lady parts and refused to let go. It’s probably the junky seat I have on there [the famed leopard print stripe stock saddle that used to come on the Bianchi San Jose], rather than the bike which rides and shifts like air, but either way I learned my lesson the last time I rode it, and this time, it didn’t hurt to pee for five hours after the ride.
TMI, right? Probably. But hey, it has gears, and like my 8 year old self who didn’t used to care how nasty a pony was as long as it had four legs and a tail, dream bikes with gears - even not so comfortable ones that don’t exactly fit - have been on my mind lately. Which might be old news to some, but of course, I’m the last to admit these kinds of things to myself. Because when you’re stuck with two gears between two bikes, and limited funds, it seems like I shouldn’t be allowed to dream so much. That maybe it’s easier to trick myself into believing that I won’t have shifting paddles for a while, so I should make the best out of what I’ve currently got.
But dreaming is free, and in an attempt to avoid the kind of rash decision-making that puts me into forever-single-speed-track-bike-land, I’ve been doing a little investigating. If I’m honest with myself, I’m irresistibly drawn to lighter frames but might not be so enamored with how aluminum rides. I haven’t tried my hand [seat?] at carbon, which is so deliciously airy but inevitably weighed down by that whole “it feels like it’s going to fall apart” feeling. Then, there’s the old standby of steel; much heavier but cushy and comfortable and unlikely to shatter, but difficult to finance if you’re looking for a frame that isn’t made out of water piping. [That's Andy of NYC Velo's IF and Coach DS's Parlee.]

The tyranny of choice. Sometimes I wish someone would push a bike into my hands and tell me this is the only bike that will ever fit me so I better ride it into the ground. Which I happily would do, instead of wavering over websites, frames, and magazines, judging components and wheels to see if this bike is actually worth it, or if it fits any one of my ridiculously arbitrary requirements like “it doesn’t come with Sora” and “I refuse to ride something that is women’s specific and therefore only comes in baby blue.”
I suspended all that, though, when Bicycling came in the mail the other day. “Editor’s Choice Bikes of the Year,” it said, and I was sure it would be filled with good stuff. With a female Editor in Chief, Bicycling’s been doing a fair bit of stuff for the fairer sex, so I naturally expected to see a women’s specific section, which there was. Awesome, I thought, this might lead me to the dream bike of my dreams that comes in size tiny...!

Um...yeah...
When I flipped to the women’s section, for some reason I guess I expected a women’s entry level bike too. Instead, all three bikes listed are over $3k. Great carbon fiber bikes with solid components [the Giant TCR Advanced 1 W comes with Ultegra 6700], but way out of my budget, not to mention a price tag at which I’d rather go custom. But then again, I’m not a competitive cyclist by any means, and maybe CF gets some people’s juices going. That’s not to say I didn’t see a few interesting not-quite-entry-level stuff [the Jamis Xenith Comp priced at $1950 and the BH Speedrom 105 at $2399], but of course, they don’t come in my size.
There’s good stuff in there, just not THE ONE for me. Which, I suppose, is a blessing in a way. Because this whole frustrating, headache-inducing, sometimes disappointing, other times extremely satisfying hunt for the perfect bicycle is what makes it all worth it in the end, right?

not entirely mia

Hey all,
Apologies for being somewhat MIA, but I've been working my butt off trying to finish up school. Not much bike stuff was going on last week but this week is looking up. Well, except for that whole finals exams thing.

More tomorrow, I promise.

grooved pavement

Yesterday, I learned that riding on "grooved pavement" for more than 10 seconds feels like straddling a giant vibrator. Not in a good way.

I can't imagine what riding real pave feels like. Avoid Comm Ave for a while if you don't enjoy the sensation of clutching a dryer while someone violently shakes you.

oh, rest days

We’re sitting, as usual, side by side, at mostly the same place where we’ve sat for the past four days or so, although I guess we were a few seats down this time. There was a half-finished, forgotten murky cup of milky sweetness that smelled like a chai latte, the cold cup making the milk form patterns in the brown liquid. I pushed it away, trying to touch as little of the cup as possible, and set down my laptop.
“Do you mind?”
Matt feigned offense as I spread my papers out, taking up more space than was really necessary. His laptop hovered in the air, book bag on his lap, and I spread my arm across the table in front of him, pretending to nap.

“And you wonder why people think you’re such a bitch.”
I laughed, popped the plastic top off of my cup and blew on my scorching Americano. We made faces at each other, until, the teasing ritual done, we both seemed to sink into our chairs to work - for real, this time - on papers that spelled the end of our careers as law students. I should probably be enjoying it more than I am, but fully burnt out on academia, what sets my fingers typing is the desire to just be done. Put a fork in it. Call it a day. Bring on the next thing that’ll have me terrified and probably miserable. At least it won’t be boring.
We’re tapping away, and I’m staring at the article in my lap. We’re here to work, after all. But then little holes are being torn in my thin paper screen of concentration as a girl hisses at her boyfriend.
“You’re going home? Why are you going home? Why do you have to do that...go home when I’m struggling with something and not having a good day and you can’t understand that.”
I’m staring at Matt’s knee and leg, trying to calculate if she’ll notice if I kick him ever so slightly. I’ll probably have to shift my weight and that’ll be obvious. I stare harder, then sneak a glance at his face. He’s looking at me and biting his lower lip like he’s chewing on it but that really just means he thinks the girl’s nuts. I bite my lip too, scrunching up my chin to hold back the giggling and end up smirking instead. It’s over, whatever.

“I love how we find ourselves in close proximity to really volatile situations,” I whisper.
And I know she noticed, but I know I don’t care. I’m actually a little embarrassed for her, and a lot embarrassed for her boyfriend. She shoots us a death glare that I pointedly ignore.
And I wonder why people think I’m such a bitch.
We giggle a little before putting serious faces on and getting back to our work. I swing my legs and shuffle my feet because I can. Because I’m still in the Underarmour leggings and knee highs I was riding around in earlier today, and that’s kind of weird because it was a rest day. But it’s comfortable, and I’m lazy, and Matt couldn’t care less. Besides, that guy at the table we sat at a few days ago is looking at me and he’s kind of cute. Maybe a touch too young for me to sink my vampire cougar teeth into, though.
I work until my computer battery dies, and then I scribble ideas down in my notebook while I stare out at Beacon Street, my concentration on other things broken up by the bicycles going up and down, up and down. And I can’t resist checking them out but it’s still kind of annoying because I feel guilty for not riding and guiltier for not being able to come up with much to write except for, “well, yesterday was a rest day.” Part of me is wondering why I spend so much time doing this, too.

“What am I good at? Seriously. I suck at cycling...and law school. I’m not really good at anything.”
“You’re good at writing,” Mike will say, and of course I don’t believe him because no one else has ever said that except for maybe my sister but that was when I was bawling uncontrollably.
“That doesn’t count,” I’ll say.
“Then why would Embrocation ask you to write for them?”
“Because I’m the only girl they knew who rode bikes and had a blog.” So the argument goes.

But I still do it. Even if I can be a bitch about it. And even if there’s the guilt because people at school actually think I’m some hardcore cyclist when I’m the farthest thing from.
The cute guy gets up to leave and looks right at me before pushing open the door with the back of his shoulder. I feel a little guilty, again, even if it’s just harmless checking out, not like full blown eye sex. And an hour later, I do the same; I walk home, sit down in front of my recharged computer, and write.
Oh, rest days.

where are the girls?

Matt was telling me about the cigar bar he was going to later that night:
“Yeah, it’s really cool; the only people there are basically guys...and the waitresses are all women, you know. It feels like what life was probably like in the 50s. But I think it’s important, you know, to have a social space that’s reserved for men.”
I could see it. Dark, polished wood and leather armchairs that were just comfortable enough. Waitresses in black dresses and that richly sweet smell of cigars mingled with testosterone and tasteful cologne.
“Total boy’s club,” I said, rolling my eyes a bit.

And while we laughed at the semi-ridiculousness of it, I wondered again where the girls were. My aching calves and twitching thighs told me that it wouldn’t really matter where they were because I’d never be able to keep up, but I still wondered. And wracking my brain for a social space that might only belong to the women [other than the kitchen], I couldn’t come up with anything.
“I don’t think we have that,” I said, “I don’t think women have a space that’s just for them.”
And in a way, why should they? It isn’t the 50s anymore; there’s really no need for groups of women to gather together to commiserate over cheating husbands. Nowadays, you just kick that asshole to the curb and file for divorce. I mean, sure, we couldn’t get our shit together to get the ERA passed, but that doesn’t mean that women aren’t climbing social, political, and economic ladders. We’re on bicycles, too. Racing them, even.

So yes, in a way, it’s ludicrous to think that women would need to huddle together when they voluntarily signed themselves up for this sport in the first place. In fact, it borders on the insulting to think that women would. I’ve met enough women in cycling to know that they are - for lack of a better word - tough. And why wouldn’t they be? Unlike running, where you probably can’t go 10 feet without meeting some fun, completely you-compatible potential best friend material who will accept you for who you are, slow pace and all, cycling is one of the more isolating sports I’ve participated in. I could ride miles and miles, day after day, without spotting even one woman on a bike in my age group. Which, given my consistently pained expression, gasping breaths, and twitching leg muscles, is probably a blessing in disguise...I’m pretty sure I’d scare off more potential friends than draw them in with the ridiculousness of my current set-up. But the men? Yeah, they’re out there in droves. They’re fricking everywhere, in fact.
Which explains all the penis jokes, plus my complete lack of female friends, but not really where all the girls are at. I’m not talking so much about the hardcore ones...I can easily hit up Cambridge and Natasha for some introductions of that variety if I ever get anything with gears. But you know, something more middle of the road. Do they congregate anywhere? Or are we all just in limbo until we either get way better or decide to just stick to skirts on step-throughs?

On the other hand, maybe it’s all a bit contrived, anyway. Maybe the mutual interest in that generally vague category of “bicycles” would be the only common denominator. Maybe wanting a social space reserved for girls just because the boys have one is sort of silly. And maybe it’s not really worth worrying about, anyway. Because those boys really keep me riding.
Matt and I parted ways later that afternoon. And I knew deep down that if I asked to come with, he wouldn’t mind the female company, even if it was to a pretty much all male cigar bar. I didn’t though, because cigars aren’t really my thing. Who knows if competitive cycling ever will be? Maybe in a few years, maybe never. I think, though, I might prefer riding alone.
At least for now, anyway.