Yesterday was cold and wet. Not the sharp cold that makes your sinuses hurt and your eyes tear up within 3 pedalstrokes. This was more a lethargic humidity that makes you briefly consider ditching class, before you reprimand yourself for how incredibly lame that would be. There was a good showing of rain too – just enough to make you hope you can avoid it if you sprinted fast enough, but not enough to make you just give up and get drenched – which made sure I was properly miserable [not to mention sweaty].

And in the middle of the day, a fog so thick it looked like Halloween outside. I wondered if I’d be able to get home; if those Knog lights would even work, or if I’d get crushed under the BC shuttle bus instead [those drivers are not kidding around]. I decided I didn’t really care, either way; my mind felt like a moldy piece of fruit, and anything more complicated than zoning out was proving to be a bit much.

Yeah, it was one of those days. You know, those “yeah, whatever” kind of days. Like “yeah, whatever, run my ass over, that’s cool,” or “yeah, whatever, pretend like you didn’t see me, that’s fine.”

Which is a terrible mentality when you’re on a bicycle. Halfway up Heartbreak Hill, it finally sort of registered and with bits of foliage blowing into my face, I managed to not fall into a pothole I knew was right there, or run into that pile of gravel that’s been over there for the past month. Not that I was scared of the impact of falling per se; but it would just be embarrassing.

Because that’s a total noob mistake. You know it, and I know it. Sure, shit happens, but biting it on a route I can navigate half-blind? Even that “well it was slippery and wet and my brakes weren’t working and this is Boston so potholes appear out of nowhere” excuse doesn’t cut it in that kind of situation. And with the NY Times article “Do More Bicyclists Lead to More Injuries?” fresh on my mind, I had no intention of making myself a neat little injury statistic to re-prove how Boston cannot give a flying fuck about cyclists.

By the time I got home, I sort of regretted reading that article; mostly because the grammatical errors and spelling mistakes in the comments had driven me absolutely insane. But even slightly drenched, with bits of New England stuck to my face and leggings, and every bit cranky, I realized it’s been a while since I’ve even flipped the bird at a driver. At some point, you get used to unpredictability. You pick and choose your battles, and sometime earlier this year, I guess I simply decided that unless I got hit or swerved at, I wasn’t going to waste my time being a patronizing [m]asshole to drivers.

Bikes are for riding, not for being annoyingly righteous, right?

[Yeah, watch me get hit by a car tomorrow. That would sort of funny...if my health insurance coverage wasn't the equivalent of a box of bandaids. So let's hope this doesn't happen.]

I have the worst luck in the world. I will manage to leave just when it starts to pour and arrive at my destination as it starts to clear up, usually end up with the worst exam schedule on the face of the planet, and will consistently get thrown under the bus for things I have absolutely nothing to do with.

Yeah, it’s totally awesome.

The most recent episode of incredibly shitty luck involved an incident which occurred on a weekend I was away. That’s right; I was about 200 miles away from Boston and somehow the whole thing twisted around to bite me – a completely uninvolved, neutral party – in the ass. The pressure of throwing around the unpinned hand grenade that is my law journal only exacerbated things. And given the luxury of a warning this time around, I was bracing myself for the damn thing to explode in my face.

Surprisingly, it didn’t. Which is a good thing, if only for the fact that I can continue to keep my bike in our law journal lounge.

But of course, the weather never wanted to stop screwing with me. Clad in underarmour, wool socks, and a raincoat, I left my apartment yesterday in legitimate rain. Water found its way between the vents of my helmet, soaked the Mengoni hat I’m ridiculously proud of, and dripped down the back of my neck. Drops of rain clung to my socks and seeped into my Sidis while gloves got soaked. And just when I rolled up to the front of the law school, the sun peeked out. The rain stopped. I was still drenched. Awesome.

I secretly hoped that it would rain more later in the afternoon, mostly because I brought my raincoat. I felt more and more cheated as the sun shone increasingly brightly outside, and save for a 5 minute downpour that I gleefully watched and took pictures of, the rain vanished.

The road was mostly dry by the time I got home.

Just my luck that, when sticky social situations seem to be easing up a bit, the weather manages to royally fuck me. Actually, it didn’t fuck me, it essentially built up some hype and left me high and dry, so to speak. Which feels somehow worse.

And yes, those are going to be famous last words.

What do you do if you go through all the trouble of planning a race, getting prizes, getting cp workers, and all the rest and mother nature delivers a crap ton of rain…you race anyway! As the immortal Danny Rocks said “good luck y’all! Race it damnit, even if it is damp. wet racing builds character!” Boy was he right, a lot of character was built last Sunday.

A group of 20 or so damp (it hadn’t started pouring yet) riders assembled at the Chestnut Hill Reservoir, ready to get racing. As soon as the manifests were handed out, the sky opened up in a show of anger. About an hour later and 25 miles later my manifest was a sloppy damp rag, with vague ink spots on it that were once signatures. But boy was it fun.

Drafting behind anyone without full fenders meant you got a face full of road water (with bonus road grit!), I nearly ate shit on several utility hole covers, and there was more than one frantic skid as the brakes failed to stop in the rain….but boy was it fun. I don’t think I have ever had so much fun riding around in the rain, and the fact that everyone was suffering together meant that everyone was having a good time.

After the race we went back to someones house, and a mass striping down to skivys followed by a mad dash for whatever dry cloths we could find. All of our shoes went into the dryer, along with all of our wet cloths (which by the way means that nothing got dry). When the dryer was turned on it sounded like a rock tumbler. As we sat drying off the room soon filled with a jungle like atmosphere as a bunch of very warm and very wet rider started to create a lot of water vapor.

The awards party was at The Otherside Cafe on the patio (in the rain) and a good time was had by all. You can find pictures of the after after after party here.

Overall this was a great event, no one got hurt, everyone got drenched, and it all ended in smiles! A+ would do again.

I don’t know what my parents were really thinking but my name is a homonym for “silkworm” in Japanese.

Or maybe they weren’t really thinking.

The characters are different, obviously, but it still makes for somewhat awkward introductions. Like oh, hello, my parents named me after a worm that you eventually boil in its own cocoon to get silk thread, and no, my family isn’t [legally] insane.

These days, though, the name seems more appropriate than ever. Because with thunderstorms predicted for the next week and the desire not to get sick, I’m dutifully wrapping myself up in a proper raincoat…and steaming in my own body heat all the way to and from work.

Put a cycling cap and a helmet on top of that and I was actually dripping sweat [yeah, seems like a common theme nowadays] when I got to work yesterday. The worse part being that when I got to the office, I couldn’t get my raincoat off fast enough. With a sheen of salt water covering my arms, I ended up standing in front of my desk, waving my arms around as rivets of sweat ran down my face, desperately trying to free myself of the waterproof fabric.

Ripping off my shirt and tank top, all I wanted to do was douse myself in some ice water. Instead, in the tiny space between two desks, I struggled into a button down shirt, skirt, and heels, looking like I was ready to start another 9-5er at the office.

I say looking because although I was seated at my desk, a cup of coffee clutched in my left hand, I really just sat there for about 10 minutes, staring at a completely unexciting inbox, trying to somehow stop my uncontrollable sweating. Of course no amount of mental willpower actually did the trick; my mind only slowly flickered on when I heard the familiar stuttered rumbling of the AC kicking in.

Of course, the way home was worse. Refusing to wrap my legs in the same sauna-esque waterproof material, my bare legs got drenched within minutes, the water running down my thighs and the back of my knees to slowly soak into my knee highs, along with my misery. The rain and my own sweat worked to slow me down, and it wasn’t until the mystery guy kitted out in an IBC jersey drew up beside me at a light that I realized that the streets were pretty deserted. The usual commuters just weren’t out in this shitty weather.

With nothing to fuel my uber-competitiveness, I crawled home at a record slow, hardly bothering to pedal in better circles. The worst part being that when I got home, I was too drenched to bother getting on the rollers.

I’m justifying it as a “day off. We all need a few of those, right? I promise to do some time on those things tonight, though. Even if I get home absolutely soaked [with rain and/or sweat].

Like any good cyclist, I have dreams of Portland, OR.

Never mind that I’ve never been there, or that I hate rain, or that a city overflowing with cyclists is more than a little bit intimidating. It’s the ultimate destination for anyone who is completely obsessed with cycling, even if, like me, they can barely stay on a bike.

I’ve been having doubts about the rain, though. Because lately, Boston feels like PDX.

There was a weekend and a day of sunshine, and now it’s back to unusually low temperatures with accompanying rain. Which should mean more preparation to just get to work. But have I told you that I’m incredibly lazy? Because when it starts to drizzle, then rain, I’ll foolishly choose to bike through it, even with a raincoat in my bag.

“It’s not that bad,” I kept telling myself. Then 4/5s of the way there, it finally dawned on me. It’s fucking raining. Not like showers, or drizzle, but straight up motherfucking rain. And I was drenched.

Barely able to keep a decent grip on slippery brakes and hoods [gloves, like chamois shorts, are yet another item on the "to purchase" list that consistently gets deprioritized for bike parts], I attempted to wipe my hands on a damp t-shirt while sliding around the Public Garden. Goosebumps were running up and down my arms and water was dripping down from my elbows. Great.

I arrived at work, cold, wet, and already miserable. Coffee hit the spot and once again I was grateful to be changing into a long sleeved shirt. Sheltered for most of the day behind a desk, I headed out to the gym under suspiciously gray skies. And once again, emerged from an intensely sweaty run to a sky that had turned blue and clear, the weather dry but cool. Perfect bike riding weather, in fact, if my legs weren’t already dead.

Maybe this is just a preview of a future in Portland. Maybe the powers that be are conditioning me for the rainy, seemingly schizophrenic weather way out west. One can only hope, I suppose.

In the meantime, it’s July. Can we get to the part where the sun’s shining and it’s not pouring every other day?

Remember how it was always raining in Bladerunner?  (What was it about those Japanese-owned corporations that made it precipitate so much?)  That’s what I’m feeling like.  Me, and most of the people who live in eastern Massachusetts.  Folks, I’ve got meteorologists in the family, and I’m here to tell you that my limited knowledge of climatology and weather maps indicates that we’re in this weather pattern for the long haul.  I don’t think we’re going to be able to do any long range ride planning this summer.  I feel like I should suck it up and just ride, but that’s tough in the morning.  Something about getting into work looking like I just finished a cyclo-cross competition doesn’t do much for the professional self-esteem.  I don’t mind riding in the rain on the way home; there’s s shower and clean clothes waiting for me there.  But the drowned rat look just doesn’t fly well with co-workers.

There… Having called this summer as a washed-out loser of a season, I’ve put the ju-ju on it and assured us a string of clear (with a scattering of puffy cumulus) and 80 degree days.  Post your thanks in the comments.

I actually have been managing to ride some; not enough, but some.  The new commuter is still loud, but I’m getting used to the noise.  It definitely needs a smaller cassette, and a longer stem.  That’s coming this weekend.  But I still feel slightly beat-up after I ride it.  There is a carbon fork in my future.  Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but it’s coming.  And can someone please explain to me why you consistently see 2 or 3 buses on the same route, one in front of the other, on Massachusetts Avenue?  Who’s in charge of scheduling the #77 bus?  Do you think it might make some sense to space them out a little bit more, so you don’t get them with a 15 second interval between them?

OK, rant over.  Back to rationality.

Blame the NYC Bicycle Film Festival and the weather for keeping me from blogging regularly lately. Ironic, I know.

A busy weekend full of bicycles and hats can do that to you, though. Saturday morning started with brunch before heading to NYC Velo [yet again] in the increasingly persistent rain. We hurried to the shop with heads down, attempting to shield our faces from droplets of water, to pick up a tent, a banner, and a box of goodies. An Ortlieb bag was packed with Gage & Desoto gear, my own Baileyworks stuffed with hats, some optimistic hopes crammed into our pockets, before the whole operation was carried to the street fair.

Despite the flash flood warnings, even Jason K. [check out his pimp profile here] showed up with another Ortlieb’s worth of t-shirts and flyers advertising the silk-screening classes he’s offering. And with good company and plenty of bicycles, there wasn’t much to complain about…well, other than the damp weather, of course.

Wrapped up in a borrowed raincoat, I mentally cursed the weather as I watched the sky. I seemed to be the only one, though, as BMXers happily did tricks up and down the street, slipping on the wet pavement. A crowd of people gathered to watch, and as the rain finally let up, the cluster of people eventually grew to a slightly surprising size.

Or, maybe, it was only surprising to me. This is the BFF after all, and even in the rain people were showing up on bicycles, dripping wet but eager to have fun. And this being NYC, there were cruisers, hybrids, track bikes, BMXs and all manner of bicycles. Sales weren’t great, but the people watching was well worth the time spent under the blindingly orange tent.

We folded up the operation a few hours later, caffeine withdrawal calling us back to NYC Velo, then Abraco [yes, I'm an addict]. Later, fish were gutted, dinner cooked, more ideas bounced around before face-planting on my sister’s couch, exhausted and braindead.

But not before the weather forecast for Boston was checked. It says rain. All week.

I’m trying to stay optimistic, though.

I got rained on yesterday – for the first time this summer.

It wasn’t even heavy rain, and lasted a mere 5 minutes. But lacking a front fender, my legs were instantly covered in beads of water, raising goosebumps on my unevenly tanned appendages.

It was the first time, in a while, that I was sort of uncomfortable on my bike. And between dodging puddles and eyeing the overcast sky, I was actually thankful that I had a run scheduled yesterday afternoon, and no ride.

As much as I’d love to move to Seattle, sometimes I wonder how much riding I’d get in if I actually did.

The nicer weather’s definitely been spoiling me. Rain shouldn’t even be a problem, just sort of messy. There’s no ice or snow involved, no layers and layers of clothing to stay warm, no feeling as if I’m pedaling with all my might but not moving. But I’m still trying to dodge the outdoors, and using gyming, errands, and overdue hat orders as excuses to stay inside.

Lame, I know. I mean, I know. The worst part is that gymming is just…so much easier. Running indoors on a treadmill at a gym conveniently located on my way home from work takes no psychological effort. On the other hand, planning a route, making sure I have everything I need [tubes, pump, energy bar, water, etc.] for a ride, then actually throwing down even a so-so number of miles is much more mentally straining. And when it’s wet, humid, and rainy out, motivation conveniently slips away and is nowhere to be found.

I’m running again today [the guilt!]. But only because tomorrow morning looks like it’s going to be clear. And that means a real bike ride.

Faux-roadie-proseur weekend, here I come!

I got up this morning and made a beeline for the bathroom. Nearly tripping over the rollers in the hallway, I wondered why 1. I had to pee so badly, and 2. why there were clothes strewn all over my floor.

Oh, yeah. Beer. Cupcake. Mustache.

Well, the party, I mean. The book itself, created by Natasha of Pedal Power Photography, is a collection of beautiful photographs which, standing alone, would be more than sufficient for coffee table book status. But it’s even better. It’s a true “who’s who” of New England cyclocross with interviews and questions concerning favorite beers, cupcakes, and ‘cross races…and who can really resist that kind of combination?

I almost feel nervous flipping through its pages, anticipating that grungy streak down the side of the book from too much thumbing through. And there will be [much] thumbing through [and reading!]. Like Facebook but better – because you can stalk without fear of discovery and be able to show up to birthday parties with a 6-pack of a cyclist’s favorite beer – it had me ogling its pages after I managed to stumble home last night.

As for the party itself [held at Washington Square Tavern], the title of the book was only too fitting. Vegan cupcakes were demolished, free Chimay was had, and ample mustaches were in attendance. Needless to say, I got completely smashed [something that happens rarely these days] and ended up dizzily guzzling water [with lime!] before skipping home in the rain.

Flipping through its pages again, I had to force myself to put it down this morning, to stretch and head to school. The misty rain and lack of a front fender meant that bits of grime and dirty water got splattered on my bars and jacket, my face only spared [most of] the grossness thanks to a cycling cap [which, ironically, I never tend to wear]. It gave me a taste of New England falls though, and the possible hope that I’ll be able to at least watch some ‘cross races later this year.

The ride home is going to be wet and dark. But I’m already looking forward to the post-shower zoning out with beer, cupcakes, and mustaches.