Exhibit A: giant chunk of glass
Please excuse the dirty hands.
linguistics, omloop, and kbk
Hello. Goodbye. I love you.
The trinity of phrases you first learn in a new language. Not that it gives one any real handle on which to cling when the rest of the language comes flooding through, but there’s the hope that you’ll at least recognize the linguistic bookends. The last is usually thrown in to anchor the hope of a foreign love, possibly to entice the naive linguophile to visit the mother country and contribute to its economy. It unfortunately didn’t come up in the Rosetta Stone program for Mandarin that Mike and I were trying out, but given that we were having difficulty remembering “goodbye,” that was probably for the best. And besides, for me, “I love you,” never sounded right in any other language than English.
The reasons for this are many, but can be reduced to the fact that languages escape me. Always a bit of a dull child, despite the dreams of success as a fashion designer, as an adolescent I never had the imaginative capacity to dream of Europe. My mental Paris had only room for tall, cultured women with bright red lips and skinny cigarettes, capable of balancing on cobblestones in four-inch Loubutins. These women would be impossibly, casually stylish; a hungover French woman who hadn’t slept in 48 hours would have such je ne sais quoi, that I was unable to even entertain thoughts of a French romance. What could I possibly have to offer a French man who could tell the difference between a 2005 Chateux Lafleur and a 2000 Chateaux Cheval Blanc, from birth? A quirky “American-ness,” that would be misinterpreted as a strange mental disease? An inability to be coy and sophisticated that would bar me from the elite Parisian parties other than in the role of “cette bizzare fille”?
Ironically, despite years of studying the French language, my mother once pointed out that I probably had a natural aptitude for sign language, after witnessing an imitation of a sign language intrepreter on TV. She actually encouraged me to study it, possibly to get me to stop talking, but by then my resistance to languages, even those that required no speaking, had solidified.
Of course, at a point when the language-learning side of my brain [or whatever there used to be of it] had atrophied, I had chosen to take up not le triathlon, a uniquely American sport, but du velo. A sport that, even after [because of?] Lance’s seven-time victories, resisted translation into the English language. I always knew I should have learned Flemish, Dutch, Austrian German, or Luxenbourgish. How much simpler would it have been to rub shoulders with the likes of Bernhard Eisel, the Schlecks, or Tom Boonen? How much more at home would I have felt, sitting back avec du cafe, on Saturday and Sunday morning, had I had the foresight to master Flemish?
A lot more, that’s how much. Fussing over [read: screaming at while punching the refresh button repeatedly] a grainy, choppy live feed of Omloop and KBK this past weekend, with Flemish alternatively barking at and cooing out of my speakers, I felt more lost and confused than if I had landed in my adolescent vision of Paris. Except had I found myself in Paris, I wouldn’t have felt any incentive to breathe “je t’aime,” to a dark, handsome, stylish stranger. On the other hand, I really wanted to know what the hell was going on in Omloop.
Unfortunately, the words on the screen shared no semblance to English, save for the fact that Roman letters were being used. But Flemish announcers apparently have a sense that non-Flemish speaking fans exist, almost punching out the names of Langeveld [who I initially mistook as Lagerfeld], Flecha, and Boonen [although, to be fair, with the incredulity and slight confusion, the “Sutton” was a little hard to make out]. And as if guiding my entry into this world of pro cycling, sans l’Anglais, they even set it up Rosetta Stone style, teaching me the basics of cycling terms in Flemish. Dag. Kop van de wedstrijd. Achtervolger. Tot Ziens. Ik zie u graag.
I was never good with languages but maybe this language of cycling isn’t so foreign at all.
what i saw on my ride [this weekend]
bike rides and valentine's day
I saw the guy move from that same table to another across the room as soon as its prior occupants vacated it, and still I didn’t get it. I made a bee line for that precious table at Cafe Fixe; prime, coveted real estate in the sparsely furnished cafe. I put down my Americano, opened my notebook, and took a backseat to the argument unfolding between ex-s at the table in front of me.
I can only imagine the importance attached to an issue that will instigate near-shouting matches involving spitting out the phrase, “it was only a fucking kiss, i didn’t do anything else with him, okay?!” in the middle of a very quiet coffee shop while everyone else sort of stiffened their necks to keep from turning and staring. And while I’ve been guilty of the same crime of fighting in public, that certainly didn’t keep me from passing judgment. But come on, I mean, I was literally 3 feet away from them! How could I not?!
Ah, love. So complicated. And to complicate things even more, there’s Valentine’s Day coming up. Yup, that’s Monday. And no, I’m not implying anyone forgot about it.
But just in case you did, or you just haven’t found that perfect gift yet, or you haven’t decided what to heavily hint at wanting, or you just want to know what I would get for myself because I am philosophically opposed to the celebration of Valentine’s Day but am not opposed to buying myself things, here’s a list, compiled with my bike and a ride in mind:
Rapha Women’s Winter Collar
Chomper Body Muscle Butter
Skins Women's Travel & Recovery Long Tights
But, okay, fine. These are way sexier.
Rapha Women’s Wind Jacket
And there you have it. The female cyclist's dream Valentine's Day. Just remember, even if you don't exchange presents on Monday, if you want to make a female bike nerd happy, going on that ride is still mandatory.
equal protection of nyc cyclists
Last Sunday, with temperatures hovering around 40F, I rode outside for the first time in about four weeks.
In those four weeks without outdoor riding, I knew things would change. The blast of aerial pressure on my face would seem new and wholly unpleasant, the bright sunlight burning retinas weakened by constant exposure to fluorescents. I would have to actually dodge things rather than simply stare at other people dodging things on my computer screen. A sports bra and shorts would no longer be appropriate attire to wear while on the bike; if not only to keep hypothermia at bay, social etiquette and modesty would require more layers. Things were going to change when I finally decided to leave the comfortable warmth and windless environment that is my living room.
But in those four weeks, I never expected NYC to become a cyclocross obstacle course.
With what has been labeled the "NYC Cyclist Crackdown," [which is beginning to sound like some undercover drug ring operation] apparently you can't just ride your bike in the city anymore. Or in the park. Or without a helmet even if you're over 13 years of age. SRSLY? OMG. WTF.
Snow-blocked bike lanes and the West Side Greenway being covered in a few inches of ice aside [at one point last Sunday, trying to scoot my way through ice, I ended up doing the Catwoman pose, except way less sexy and with a bike attached to my outstretched leg], tickets are being issued not just to people who ride the wrong way down the street [here's looking at you, you Asian girl on a cruiser who almost fucking killed me], but in Central Park as well. The po-po aren't out there in the park while it's closed off to vehicular traffic, ticketing the masses of pedestrians or anyone else who might be breaking the law. Just, you know, dragnetting anything on a bike that happens to cruise through a red.
Though it can be argued that traffic laws and regulations may not apply to Central Park while it is closed off to vehicular traffic [not an unreasonable argument as it’s unclear how Central Park is actually classified under NY state and municipal statutes], let’s just assume it is for now. Even so, the sudden enforcement of laws which hereto have been largely ignored could raise some due process and equal protection issues [ironically, New York was the only state to ask that the due process clause be included in the original Constitution]. After all, “the purpose of the equal protection clause of the Fourteenth Amendment is to secure every person within the State's jurisdiction against intentional and arbitrary discrimination, whether occasioned by express terms of a statute or by its improper execution through duly constituted agents.” Vill. of Willowbrook v. Olech, 528 U.S. 562, 564, 120 S.Ct. 1073, 145 L.Ed.2d 1060 (2000). Targeting a particular group, with the intent to discriminate against them, [while ignoring other groups similarly situated who are also breaking the law] is a classic equal protection violation. Sure, if one appeals the traffic ticket which would otherwise cost you $270, it appears that it can be knocked down to $70. But you’re still out of pocket $70. As in you, the cyclist, are out of pocket $70 while everyone else who might be breaking the law in Central Park are paying, well, $0.
Given that I pretty much sucked at constitutional law, I have to give you a disclaimer: don't take my word for this. But it is something to think about. And, I will tell you this, and you should listen to this one. With The Crackdown being enforced in Central Park, every cyclist with half a brain is going to haul ass to make those lights. Including me. And now there’s really no incentive to slow down to let that mob of tourists through the crosswalk. Because that’s my goddamn green now, son.
Although I suppose they could always make up some law and write you a ticket for going through a green too fast or something. But that's what attorneys are for, right?
cuddles, cops, and good company
Three trains, getting lost in some questionable alleys, a few cases of Coney Island beer, Farinelle pizza, cops, some friends I haven't seen in forever, and Stage 7 of the Giro d'Italia. Mix, shake, and serve on a cold Friday night.
Following weeks of deprivation of outdoor riding, the first Motion Pictures event showing the infamous stage of last year's Giro elicited an emotional response in me akin to that evoked when I see the word "sunny" combined with a number greater than 30. I didn't even care about the free beer or pizza. When I first heard of the event, all I saw was Cuddles, cycling, and the potential for interaction that is more socially acceptable than therollercam.com. How could I say no to that?
Despite my geographically-challenged sense of direction, I arrived at the Glass Shop at the fashionably prompt hour of 7.35. To a packed room. Empty Coney Island beer bottles already crowded the back of the counter and the pizza boxes were mostly picked over. Getting to the back of the room seemed like a dim possibility. But hey, there was a 9 foot screen and a chair nearby. I wasn't worried about missing the mud-covered finish.
Except that friends started to arrive. People I hadn't seen since I started wearing multiple layers of wool were coming through the door or squeezing towards the front of the Glass Shop. I caught up with Derrick, saw Hot Sam, was invited out on a ride with Phoebe, and met Dave Trimble. And just when I started to remember how to carry on a conversation with someone without 140 character limits, the cops showed up.
Not that that stopped anyone, least of all Cadel. They issued a bunch of [pink!] citations, I actually got to say, "I'm an attorney," and the stage and party finished out. No one seemed to want to leave even after the stage was over, but the last train called and we reluctantly headed out into the cold, still giddy from the stage, the beer, and the company. A monthly thing? Man, I wish this was weekly.
Check out more pictures here, and if you're in NYC next time around, be sure to stop by!
[Note: all photographs by Mr. Gage + Desoto]