vascular

July 16, 2013

One of the more interesting things I saw this weekend...

Proof that my shins are getting lean...?
It's going to be a crazy week, but good stuff coming soon!

hydration haiku

July 11, 2013

skratch in my bottlesascending tokyo mountains sweet, red gasoline

3, 3, 3

July 9, 2013

Three days before my birthday [I am now officially 70 years younger than the Tour de France], I only managed a scant 30 miles.
But there was a little over 3700ft of climbing, which included one of my most favorite passes. I even took a few of you there with me, breaking up the cathartic quiet with mental images of a Rosko, a Parlee, and a super fast Ridley.

As a woman, I suppose I should have been riding 100 miles or 100 km on Sunday, but a haircut and color [you can't tell but it's a dark, dark brown] seemed more pressing. Because you can't turn 30 with bad hair [but sweaty eyeliner is perfectly acceptable].

More words soon.

watts and a wardrobe

July 5, 2013

In all the notebooks I'm scrawling into on any given day, the random, disjointed thoughts are broken up by half completed designs for garments I'm going to get around to making. Once I finish my ride, do the laundry, run to the grocery store, clean my bike, edit that blog post, I was going to get to it. You know, eventually.
While I continue to prioritize the riding, in the beginning, I used to have mixed feelings about it. I wanted the bike to make me a waif-ish climber, but despite what Rapha ads might promise, the opposite happened. Though pedaling for hours might gift some women with narrow hips and gazelle-like physiques, the kilometers built me up into what would be considered, by Japanese standards, to be similar to a brick shithouse. It makes sense - for every Contador, there is a Cavendish - but I can't say I was elated at this discovery. I'd be lying if I said that the projected restriction of my already limited wardrobe wasn't a part of that disappointment. [Skirt below made and embroidered by me, tan lines from last year. Someone in NYC will hate me a little for this so...um...sorry?]

Growing quads, glutes, and calves made it easier, though, to convince myself that my abnormal proportions had exiled me from shopping like a normal person.The voluntary disqualification from consumerism also stemmed from the fact that I never liked to blindly throw myself into trends. Scallop-edged shorts that make me look both blubbery and like a pedophile's wet dream are in? No thanks, I'll pass. The temptation to conform lingers, but I'm still vain enough to refuse to wear anything that makes me look worse. I'm also, unfortunately, funny about clothes in the same way I am funny about bikes: I can't bring myself to buy anything that isn't [reasonably] well-crafted. It's unfair to compare stock welds to those that now grace Fireflys, but the exposed zippers and cheap, hurried seams of everything offered at Forever 21, Zara, and H&M ensure that I'll never go into bankruptcy via fast fashion. Learning how to use a sewing machine and an appreciation for impeccable tailoring have resulted in a perversion of the Diderot effect: I can't, in good conscience, buy anything that I could make - with my limited skills - better, and so I end up refusing to buy anything at all. [And yes, those ridiculous tan lines help, too.]
Unconsciously - and perhaps to my bank account's detriment - I've somehow grown into my cycling body. I like knowing that I'm stronger than women with smaller legs and nonexistent calves. On doing the usual personal physical assessment that every woman does at least ~~once~~ three times a day, I caught myself wishing that my glutes were bigger. Quad separation seemed like a reasonable goal, too. With that, I looked at my closet, sighed, and went shopping.

Unfortunately, self-acceptance doesn't mean that the world automatically embraces your proportions and starts producing things that fit just right and are incredibly flattering. And because I refuse to trade watts for a wardrobe, I dusted off some French curves, pulled out drafting paper and ironed out rolls of muslin. Since then, I've been working on a couple of projects, post-ride, when my legs don't work so good. Because what girl doesn't want to [try to] be [as Zoolander put it] really, really, really, ridiculously good-looking, tan-lines and all?

[I'll be posting progress updates and completed projects that hopefully don't make me look like a vertically challenged blob. Keep those fingers crossed for me!]

voluntary loner

July 3, 2013

"Are you alone? Training? You don't see women that do that much here."
It's been over a year since an older gentleman with stronger legs said that to me. We bumped into each other on a popular ride route, on a weekday morning because I was unemployed and he was self-employed. He offered a wheel for the way home, and I bumped into him three times that same week.

Employment, winter, and a trainer mean I haven't seen him in months. I have his number ["were you trying to pick her up?!" a friend of his joked when I ran into them], and I'm sure he'll be down to ride, but I feel a little weird getting back in touch. Riding alone - either because I don't feel like burdening anyone I know with my slower legs or because I want the freedom to roll out of bed and ride without waiting for someone who's "going to be there in like 10 minutes, I just woke up" - has ~~always been~~ become the norm. The group rides I've been on are happy memories, but my reclusive riding has turned me into the eternal bachelor friend, the one who's been flying solo for so long that commitment starts sounding odd; a nice concept, in theory, but maybe one that doesn't apply here.
You could say that I've been hoarding the freedom implicit in solitude. There's security in knowing that I'm alone, plus a twisted ego boost from being confident that, no matter what happens, I'll be the one getting myself home in one piece. There are no concessions to make - of water, pit stops, ride routes, or meeting times - which means I get to be a selfish asshole, but that I also have to deal with whatever comes my way, alone. I'd like to think that it's made me better at not blaming other people for situations I've created...although, you know, let's not entirely rule that out yet.

It would be disingenous of me to claim that embarrassment at my self-consciousness has nothing to do with being the voluntary loner. When you ride with others, you start to notice things about how you ride, or they're noticed for you. Habits become "really fucking weird habits," or, worse, "shit you're not supposed to do." That kind of insight, though usually helpful, can be a bit like "suggestions" from significant others about your personality: uncomfortable to hear, and sometimes only appreciated in hindsight. You'd think I'd be used to being wrong by now, but I still have a hard time not letting it get under my skin.
The annoying thing is that after you disengage from all that for a while, after you get used to the independence, after you see nothing but positive things about the isolation, you wake up early one Saturday morning and wish for the impossible friend who would be doing the same, just so you guys can go out and ride. Not someone to vent to, or to shoot the shit with, but simply to be there, riding next to, in front of, or behind you.

As someone who requires a regular people detox, it was a strange feeling. It only made sense later, grimacing through the prickly, hot pain of tired legs as I dragged my bike up the train station stairs. It wasn't only the desire to make some more of those unforgettable, shared memories. With friends that like to ride hard, there will always be an understanding of why you're useless for a handful of hours afterwards. There are no demands to shower, get changed, and immediately go shopping in heels. It's okay to be caught between exhausted and hungry for the rest of the day, spending the afternoon with legs stretched out, watching highlights of the TDF, and going to bed at 10pm on Saturday so you can do it all over again on Sunday. That distinctly heavy, post-ride exhaustion becomes a part of your life - raging bitchfests are too easily triggered by drained legs, so my weekend naps have become non-negotiable - and remains elusively inexplicable to those who prefer to always coast easy.

"Oh, fuck," I had said breathlessly to no one in particular last Saturday, halfway up a mountain pass. My legs were reminding me that I hadn't ridden there in almost a year while my face was dousing itself in sweat. Not the glistening-in-the-heat-this-could-be-sexy-if-done-right kind, but the kind that gets squeezed out of your skin because you're pushing so hard on the pedals. I looked terrible; my hair half matted down with sweat, not a trace of yesterday's eyeliner around my eyes, my face bright red.
Even so, I would've loved some company.