River Road + Autumn = Pretty Gorgeous Ride
...Annnnd I'm even getting better at the whole falling thing!
tour des livres
The thing I miss most about taking public transport - other than the oversized handbags digging into my side or being pushed next to guys who have B.O. strong enough to kill a horse - is that there is really no safe way to read on a bicycle. I’ve thought about audio books but have noticed on the rollers that, if I’m trying to intently listen to something while on the bike, my pedaling slows and I am definitely not paying attention to the things that are going on outside the space between my ears. This means that while I’ve gotten better at maneuvering around traffic since starting cycling, my literary prowess has as much spunk as an anemic anorexic.
Enter the end of academia and the re-introduction [commencing last summer with Strickland’s Ten Points] of books into my life. You know, the fun kind that aren’t just filled with cases and case notes. Though the “reading for fun” thing tapered off when school started last fall, a month or so ago, I felt the textured pages of a book. And I was hooked again.
At first it was magazines, then books and books and more books. Picking up a habit of Mike’s, I started to stockpile books. I’ll read this one after I read that one, I thought, justifying the purchase of two books because they were used and only $8.50 a piece and hardcover, even. They took up a small corner of Mike’s apartment, waiting for me to rifle through their pages. Then, passing a bookstore the next day, I picked up a paperback because, well, hardcovers are a bit bulky to carry back and forth on a bus. I’d need something to read between Boston and New York.
All of which has conspired to persuade me that taking the T in to work might not be so bad. The precious reading time might outweigh the mere 4 miles it takes to bike to Park Street, even if that means I have to leave my apartment earlier to get jostled around in an unstable, overcrowded, absurdly slow trolley car. I was already leaning this way when I received the new Kindle as a gift. Addicted to reading a screen that actually looks like a printed page, I read more than wrote, and spent precious time I should be on the rollers, curling up with my brain’s new love.
But then within that stockpile of physical books that I had amassed earlier, I picked up one that I had started weeks ago before being interrupted by the slim sexiness that is my Kindle. And that book - Bill Strickland’s Tour de Lance - had me consciously choosing to take the T, and stuffing that large hardcover into my bag, squished between my lunch, water bottle, and change of clothes.
For those that watched the 2009 TDF, the book may not be on their short list. Having missed most of it, and only catching a stage or two here and there, the book was an awesome stage by stage of the first TDF I attempted to follow. Being surrounded by cycling enthusiasts who just know a shit ton more than I do about pro cycling [see here], it was a little intimidating trying to understand what the hell was going on last summer. My brain caught little glimpses, but never the entire picture. I still don’t really get what’s going on, and rely heavily on friends to explain who is likely to win a stage, who might win the yellow [or pink or red] jersey, and what lies in store for each stage. I ask questions until it seems to annoy, then I stop and bide my time until I feel I can ask more.
Strickland’s book was like taking a few very well informed friends and tying them to a chair and extracting information from them at gunpoint about the 2009 TDF. Actually it’s better because, though its full title is Tour De Lance: The Extraordinary Story of Lance Armstrong’s Fight to Reclaim the Tour de France, Strickland gives a glimpse into not only Armstrong’s comeback, but into the characters that make the TDF so interesting. There are the charming Schlecks, the super domestiques that carry the yellow jersey to victory, and even in the shadow of the whole “it might be doping plastic residue in his blood” thing, the shyly adorable [at least to me] Alberto Contador. And it’s these personalities that bring the 2009 TDF to life.
Armstrong’s commitment to the Livestrong cancer foundation and his stated motivation for returning to pro cycling aside [can you really argue against cancer? Can you? Really???], it seems a gross understatement to say that he is a polarizing figure. Between honest insights into Armstrong’s personality, Strickland leaves the reader to make an independent decision on whether to actually like the guy or not, which is refreshing given Armstrong’s deathlike grip on reinforcing a positive public image at nearly any cost. And even if one might end up believing that Armstrong might want to reconsider his snippy Tweeting, there’s a lot more to the book than just Armstrong. Because while to the average American, the TDF may be reduced into the image of the infamous Texan, in reality, his teammates, fellow pros, and rivals are what make the three week stage race so compelling. Cadel Evans, Jens Voigt, and Fabian Cancellara all grace the pages and the stages of the book, and while Armstrong’s athletic ability and drive are as impressive as ever, in the end, it was the wheel of Cuddles, Voigt, or FabCan that I wanted to jump onto, to hang on breathless and follow.
Part of that is due to personal bias, but [unsurprisingly, if you read Strickland’s Sitting In] it’s also due to what Strickland does best: telling the “smaller” story of the characters that are necessary for any Tour. The characters without which Armstrong’s victories would be at best, boring, and at worst, meaningless. And though it could be argued that Armstrong has forgotten this fact himself, Strickland certainly has not. Though pros like Tommy Voeckler and [American] Christian Vande Velde are admittedly limited to the sidelines of the story, Strickland manages to squeeze enough of their essence onto the pages to spark a curiosity and interest that could solidify into an addiction of pro cycling as a whole, from Paris-Roubaix to the Vuelta a Espana. Personally, Boy Racer about Mark Cavendish, In Pursuit of Glory about Bradley Wiggins, Rough Ride by Paul Kimmage, and [you saw this coming, didn’t you?] From Lance to Landis: Inside the American Doping Controversy at the Tour de France by David Walsh ended up on my short list before my eyes ate up the last few words of Tour de Lance.
Appropriately so, perhaps, because what shines in Strickland’s book isn’t so much Armstrong as the TDF itself. While that may be an unintended outcome, it actually might be the better one. Because Strickland’s book is more than enough to convert a pro peloton newbie into a true fan of the TDF, even after Armstrong stops racing.
And you know, I’m all for committed, long-term relationships.
the sunday breakaway streak
Yup, true to my predictably unreasonable and stubborn nature, I did that Chinese Bakery Ride again this past weekend and DID NOT GO TO THE CHINESE BAKERY. It’s a work in progress okay? [And by “it” I mean “trying new things and being more sane.”]
My excuse - like Mike’s last time - was that I needed some good coffee. Sunday morning, having left around 10am, I put myself in that stupid situation where I was battling joggers, bike commuters, and [the worst of them all] rental bike pelotons up the Westside Highway to the GW Bridge. My initial giddiness acceleration turned first into careful maneuvering around joggers deaf to the world around them courtesy of their iPods, then gradually into crawling along at 5mph behind three chubby tourists who clearly haven’t been on a bicycle since 1995. A third of the way up the Westside Highway, I, as usual, gave up. Though always hopeful that it wouldn’t take me over an hour to get over the bridge on a weekend morning, I again accepted that this would never happen.
Tired of weaving around things, I hung a left when I crossed the bridge, towards River Road, the nemesis to my flimsy thighs. 9W is awesome for relaxing, long rides, but like Derrick and Cassidy informed me, I wasn’t going to get any better or faster without experiencing some pain. And frustrated at getting dropped so easily on any climb, I had mentally resolved to climb those two motherfucking hills this weekend. So I can eventually not be such a pussy [I mean that figuratively].
I did it. I mean, it wasn’t pretty, but I did it. And by “wasn’t pretty,” I mean that my jaw was sagging, I was wheezing, and the only thing that got me up that mile long climb was the fact that there was a woman in front of me in a red jersey and armwarmers, who I resolved to keep, if not within three bike lengths of me, at least within sight. Weaving through the potholes, we both edged our way up the hill, almost at the same speed. I stayed behind her, and though I was convinced she would drop me, I miraculously maintained the same distance behind her for the entire climb. We both spun in our saddles and climbed out of the saddle and avoided the gaping holes in the pockmarked road. And before I knew it, we were done.
Maybe it was that red-jersey-ed woman, or maybe the it was the exercise-induced dopamine jumping around in my brain, but the climb seemed shorter this time, and I didn’t feel like I was going to die within the next 5 minutes. I even had this ridiculous thought like maybe I could climb some more. I ate a banana, wondered what I would do next, and then the peloton caught up.
Mike, Doug, and Francesco had met up with a few others the past two Sundays or so to do some faster rides. The first time, Mike and I had left at the same time, but riding solo, I had gotten a faster and earlier start. Pollo, who bumped into me first at the bridge, then into the guys sometime later, joked when he saw me later that day that I was in the breakaway. I had hoped for a repeat performance this week, but given my crawl up to the bridge, assumed that Mike and Co. [this time joined by David, who races for FGX Racing] were way ahead of me. Not so. My breakaway streak continues...!
I stuck around chatting to them for a while, and feeling ridiculously proud that I was able to do River Road solo, felt adventurous enough to try the Chinese Bakery Ride on the way back. The guys headed to Piermont [...then Nyack, and College Hills, and out into some alternate universe somewhere which translated into 7 hours of riding], and I headed west to Tenafly. Feeling drowsy, I figured coffee and a second breakfast was in order at Cafe Angelique.
It hit the spot. Then I hit a climb. And halfway up the first hill, I started to realize what a stupid thing I had done.
Coming off of a week of no riding, I was doing the hardest ride that I’ve ever done. River Road remains a challenge that I’m determined to conquer, but there was really no need to torture myself and do the Chinese Bakery climb on top of all that. While mentally I felt great, my muscles were just barely keeping pace. In fact, they were pretty much ready to call it quits, and I had a longer climb waiting for me.
Yeah, I considered it. I considered the shame involved in getting off and walking up. I weighed how no one would probably see me or know, and then thought about how embarrassed I would feel afterwards. I tried to cheer myself up that hill, and when that didn’t work so well, tried playing pop songs in my head. I thought about how I’d never done this much climbing on a ride before, ever, and how even if I had to walk the last few feet, it would be enough. But by then, there were only 10 feet left of the climb and though the grade was steeper, it felt more stupid to get off at that point. I remembered what Fritz said once, about the climb on River Road: “Just don’t ever get off your bike.”
When I got to the top, I wanted to almost cheer, or do Contador’s victory pistol thing, or even Andy Schleck’s cheerleader thing. I danced a little in my head, then coasted back onto 9W, over the bridge, and through the city. I was dead tired, but hadn’t bonked or otherwise tipped over in sheer exhaustion. All signs of a bike ride done well [although some might argue that a bike ride done well should always include vomiting mid-climb and legs so sore you can’t move after you get off the bike].
I came home, plopped down on the bed after my post-ride-shower-that-will-always-feel-better-than-even-the-most-awesome-bubble-bath, and fell asleep after reading the last few sentences of Bill Strickland’s newest book, Tour de Lance. Though I don’t remember it, I’m sure I dreamed of bikes and the Schlecks, Contador on the Col du Tourmalet, and a road bike that just might fit.
the chinese bakery ride
I am an expert at not doing things that one is supposed to do. I don't mean things like getting to work on time [although sometimes I have trouble with that], brushing my teeth on a regular basis, or showering more than once a week. I'm talking about that rack full of awesome designer stuff you're supposed to ask for at that hidden, hole-in-the-wall thrift shop, or the espresso beverage that's not on the menu but is the thing to get at that hip cafe. The little things that aren't so much found on the Internet as are transmitted by word of mouth among the super cool and in the know. Instead I tend to march to my own somewhat oblivious drummer, resolute in my determination to remain, as ever, not hip.
Which I'm perfectly content with, mostly because being "hip" lends itself to a predictability that I find boring. Hip-ness teeters all too often on the brink of unsubstantiated hype, consequently devolving into an "Emperor's new clothes" scenario where the food isn't that great, the drinks too expensive, the clothes really sort of meh, but you hang out there because you're supposed to until the next hip spot draws you away. Perhaps a little too suspicious for my own good, I watch and wait out the hype. I order what I want to because one secret, menu item shouldn't carry a cafe, or browse the displayed clothing because the semi-secret stash in the back isn't a fair measure of a store's worth. So [perhaps predictably in its own way] at Bunbury's for the first time a few weeks ago, I chose the blueberry muffin over the Bunbury bun [my choice later met with howls from Mike], and continued the stream of "shit you're just not supposed to do," this past Sunday on the much-talked-about Chinese Bakery Ride.
A route that Brett, Andy, and Mike discovered last summer, it's a path that turns off 9W and heads west to Tenafly, NJ. The pit stop of choice being, obviously, a Chinese bakery called Cafe Savoy that's actually run by Filipinos. Since knowing the aforementioned trio of cyclists, I had been subject to numerous emails and twitter posts displaying giant $1 baked goods and bad coffee. They talked about that ride and how much they liked it, both online and off. I had whined that I wanted to go since 2009. The considerable climb out of Tenafly kept the ride just out of reach.
But sometimes, a bike shop owner comes back from a mid-day ride in gorgeous weather and feels generous enough to offer you a road bike for the following day unless that customer that was interested in borrowing one comes around. So you count down the minutes, desperately hoping that said customer won't show, and internally cheer when closing time comes around and you didn't have to make that offer of a bike you want to ride to someone else. Then you get up the next morning, hesitant about leaving because it's actually pretty cold out, then end up forcibly dragging your boyfriend out of bed because you have a frigging road bike for once and you want to do a ride. You know, the one that you've wanted to do for over a year now: the Chinese Bakery Ride.
Across the bridge and on 9W, we rode down the familiar route, then eventually made a left turn around the third or fourth traffic light. The road narrowed, SUVs squeezing in between us, and as the road seemed to roll out and down beneath us, our bikes picked up some frightening speed. With the handling skills of a newbie commuter on crack, I conservatively rode my brake the entire way, but even so the bike was rocketing down the descent. Mike flew down ahead of me, crouching down and picking up more speed while I tried not to get myself run over by a car. I briefly remembered the 2009 Jens Voigt Faceplant, then pushed it out of my brain trying to concentrate on positive thoughts like Pomeranian puppies and bunnies in paper cups.
We made another left at the base of the hill and rode on flat yet somewhat badly maintained roads, passing by Pollo's old shop then into the center of Tenafly. The Chinese bakery appeared to our right, but Mike, hungry for decent coffee, led us to the train station which housed a traditional cafe - Cafe Angelique. I peeked inside, standing on the tips of my cleats to get a good look at their array of baked goods over the heads of parents with their children ogling the gelato case, then put in an order for an Americano and something to munch on. Mike ran inside and a few minutes later returned with two steaming cups, an almond brioche [for him] and a wheat-free "energy cookie" the size of my face for me.
It was delicious. Gooey and oat-y and full of raisins and cinnamon, it totally hit the spot and i ate that entire thing, only relinquishing a small corner to Mike [and only begrudgingly so]. I wanted to pull my armwarmers back on and doze on the bench after I was done, but it was getting cloudy and colder. We climbed back on our bikes.
We coasted 50 feet, then all of a sudden we were climbing. And I was like "holy shit."
The climb out of Tenafly [it's different from the way in], requires cresting a small but fairly steep hill, then riding up another longer one. It doesn't feel as long as the one on River Road, but it's steeper, requiring some work out of the saddle. Still uncomfortable with the whole concept of spinning my way up anything, it was nice to mash a little, and there was none of that feeling that I was going to puke up my lungs. The fact that the road didn't twist and turn helped a little bit too; you could see there was an end to it. It wasn't easy, but I felt like I did okay when I got to the top.
The ride back was uneventful, a tailwind helping us on the way. I was actually somewhat surprised at how much I liked that climb, and told Mike I'd do it again, maybe even head up to the Palisades Marketplace, bust a U-turn there, and head into Tenafly on the way back. And because I always do the things I shouldn't, thus skipping the Chinese bakery after which the ride was named, there's at least one reason to go back.
...Although...that wheat-free energy cookie was pretty killer...
goodbye to the rapha cycle club
I bounced down the stairs, my just barely covered feet soundlessly skipping down the smooth stone stairs, shoes in one hand, the other alternately hovering over the banister and pinning the Rapha bonk bag, borrowed from Mike, to my hip. A thought occurred to me that I might very well crash head first into one of Mike’s neighbors given that I was stealthily flying down the stairs but I arrived on the first floor without so much as a self-conscious hello. On the first floor, one shoe in each hand, I hopped on one foot, then the other, securing shoes onto feet. One last look and sigh at the bonk bag - it obviously didn’t match - and I pushed open the door to the windy yet humid night.
Once outside, I teetered down three final steps, feeling slightly awkward and embarrassed. I paused for a moment, pretending to look inside the borrowed bag, and fixing my hair. I was in black, three-inch stilettos, a short, black pencil skirt, which, I’d discover by the end of the block, was a size too big, and a blue and pink patterned silky shirt. I had earrings on, and it was the first time in forever that I’d cleaned up, dressed up, and put on lipstick.
But given the occasion, I felt it was appropriate. It was Thursday night, the last day of the month of September, and we were all saying goodbye to the Rapha Cycle Club.
For the past few weeks, Mike had informed me of possible plans for the closing party, but it had always seemed somewhat surreal. Like my denial that summer was over about three weeks ago, it seemed like the Rapha Cycle Club would still be there, even after September 30, 2010. I would be able to just drop in, say hello to regulars like Ben [of the babelicious BH-Garneau team]and Fritz, get some killer Americanos made by RJ, and make fun of Cassidy. It was a place I occasionally ate lunch, watched the Vuelta, parked my bike before weekend rides, and met up with Mike after I got out of work. But in the last few weeks of September, it seemed much more than the collection of my admittedly shallow experiences. It had been a place that, within its short life span, had simultaneously drawn in seasoned cyclists and converted others into cycling fans. It was a place that elicited exclamations of disappointment by more than a handful of people that they hadn’t discovered it sooner, as well as hopeful suggestions by regulars that maybe Rapha could keep it open for just a few more months. On paper, it was a large pop-up shop with a coffee shop and two huge flat screen TVs. But in that huge space, at that large, glass-topped table or in the spaces between the racks of jerseys and shorts, we all seemed to find exactly what we had been looking for.
And too soon, it was 7pm on Thursday, September 30th. I strode down the block [it’s impossibly to simply walk in stilettos], across the street, and over two doors to the glow of the Rapha Cycle Club. Half the table had been pushed against the wall, Bryce was DJing near the cash register, and the broom wagon had been converted into the bar, the kegs tucked neatly inside and served in appropriately pink cups. Bikes were stacked two rows deep against the wall, and familiar faces swum among unfamiliar ones, all bordered by white t-shirts [hand-screened by Mike] stating “R <3 NY.”
Judging by the attendance, it seemed like NY loved Rapha too. The cyclists that you’d want to show up to your event to legitimize its authenticity were all in attendance, including Ben, Bravo, Sam, and CJ. [Kyle] Peppo showed up a little time later along with DS and Andy, while a fair number of girls balanced out the Y chromosomes in the room. Skull Krusher regaled us with hilarious stories, as always, and people kept seeping into the room. We talked about injuries, recent crashes, racing, when I’m going to get that road bike, and, sometimes, what was going to happen after the party - and the NYC Rapha Cycle Club - was over.
Maybe we all didn’t believe it, or maybe we wanted to be part of a really good send-off, because I’m pretty sure all of us had a lot of fun that night. The fact that we were losing a safe haven where we could watch the Tour and the Vuelta, watch movies on Wednesday nights, and sip coffee before taking off for a mid-week group ride, was put off until Friday morning. For the moment, we sipped beer out of plastic cups, laughed with friends, and swung hips to the beat streaming out of Bryce’s speakers.
When the beer ran out, people drifted outside and then to the after party, mostly by bike, some on foot. I sat on one of the stools, resting legs that weren’t used to walking and standing in such high heels, watching Derrick - the new directeur sportif for Rapha Racing - and Mike make plans for organizing inventory the following morning. I watched, as usual, Mike lock the door and pull down the shutter. We hailed a cab for Bryce, helped load his equipment into the back, then slowly walked home, Mike verbally unwinding the day’s events, sounding relieved that the weather had held, and that so many people had showed up. I nodded, trotting to keep up with Mike’s flat-soled stride, the reality of the closing not sinking in. Not yet, anyway.
A day or so later, I passed the space after work, the shutters down as Mike had finished with inventory for the day. “Glory Through Suffering,” it still said, and I remembered when Mike had gotten the vinyl decals made and rubbed them onto the gray metal. It made me sad, even if it was a little embarrassing to admit such a fact. It wasn’t as if Rapha was gone forever, but I couldn’t resist hoping that I could break in, drag that table to the middle of the room, and make everyone come hang out again. I glanced up quickly, just to make sure that the sign was still hanging outside the space, despite knowing that it would eventually be taken down.
I looked for that sign again, the following day, on the way back from a ride. It was still there, and I held back a sigh, harboring a selfish hope, however distant and unlikely, that maybe they’ll do it again here next year. That maybe Rapha might come back to NYC, and maybe even stay for a little bit longer, with Brett around for the entire thing, this time, so that we can repeat our memories. It was a silly thought [given that chances that it would happen were slim to none], but it seemed something worth hoping for.
putting down a pedal
"You only ride Sunday?"
Pollo asked me this after I rushed into Velo on Sunday afternoon, a couple of hours after he saw me on the GW Bridge. I shook my head no, and tried to explain that I just didn't have a road bike, which is why I'm shuttling between Boston and New York, working two jobs, six days a week. Seven if you counted the hour I went into Velo, after a call that they were swamped with people and could use my help.
By the time I got there, the shop was quiet, but after organizing receipts, hauling a rental up the stairs from the basement and trying to figure out how to ask Pollo in what world he thinks I would be capable of riding to Nyack [that's a 80 mile trip] on a track bike ["Only track bike? Track bike okay on 9W. Okay for Nyack," he informed me], I realized that these past couple of weeks, Pollo is right. I do only ride one day a week.
Which explains why it's been so quiet around here. The 9-5 internship three days a week lets me squeeze in a little bit of roller time after work if I don't stop by to hang out anywhere. The 11-8 bike shop gig lets me spend more time with bikes, learn how shops work, and doesn't chain me to a desk all day, but since I don't tend to get into the city until 11pm the previous night, riding's out until I have a day off. Still, while lots of bikes are around, the pressing need for a "real" job, plus - ironically - the desire for a road bike, has me deferring saddle time for work and cover letters.
I want to change that. In fact, I need to change that.
Because no matter how much of a pain in the ass it seems to get on a bike after too much time in an office, and no matter how uncomfortable it is to sweat buckets on the rollers instead of riding out in the sunshine, nothing really compares to spinning my legs around [on a real bicycle, of course]. It’s actually the perfect antidote to a stressful day: spinning enough to get disgustingly sweaty and then taking a relaxingly scorching shower can make an otherwise shitty day sort of alright. Of course, when I’m trying to cope with a shitty day, I’m more likely to be having a meltdown that tells me that I seriously have no time to be riding a bicycle. And then I don’t. And then I feel even more guilty.
So I’m putting my foot down [to myself]. I’m committing to riding more, even if it’s indoors, and getting those projects that have been floating around in my head, done. I’ll be writing more, too, because like bicycles, this makes me happy and keeps me sane.
And if I don’t do all of the above, I’m holding you all to hunt me down and kick my ass for not doing it. Or at least taunt me for staying slow.
Deal?