Bikes: March 2008 Archives

So I was at the pool the other day, and a woman asked me where I get my bathing suits. "Depends. Sometimes I order from Amazon, sometimes I buy from a swim-specific place."

"How much?"

"Well, I just ordered some new ones - they were on a good sale. About $45 each."

"Forty?! I paid four dollars for this," she said, holding a dripping leotard (clearly not an actual swimsuit) right in my face while I was in the shower.

Now, let's just look separately, for a moment here, at the fact that this woman was invading my shower stall with her naked body (I was wearing my suit; I shower for real when I get home) to ask me the question in the first place.

Oy.

I mean, NYC is a big object lesson in losing your personal space and freedoms in all kinds of ways, but there really ought to be a limit. And I'd like to draw mine at the door of my shower, thank you very much.

Then there is the whole other question of Getting What You Pay For. On that subject, I am about to descend into hitherto unheard-of regions of bike geekdom. Because My Goddamned Knees Hurt. Like Hell. Every fracking day, and for several days after each bike ride, no matter how careful I am, despite my new easier rear cog.

So here we go, with the discontinued obscure expensive-as-hell cranksets in impossible-to-find short lengths. Here we go with the Q-angle, and the vintage parts market, and ohmygodI'vebecomeabonafidenutcase.

But it's not for the esoteric love of vintage parts (not that there's anything wrong with the esoteric love of vintage parts, mind you). It's because, as I keep plaintively crying to Boywich on the phone at all hours of the day, "The world does not fit me!"

Waaaaaah.

Anyway, now that I've got that off my proverbial chest, I can tell you that I have knit eight whole inches of a legwarmer. Whoop de dooh.

And I have to get back to work.

"Sometimes a thing gets broke, can't be fixed." - Kaywinnit Lee Frye

I've been puzzled lately by how heartbroken I've been feeling, given that there isn't anyone in my life at the moment to feel heartbroken about. I was thinking about it all morning, as I yanked my reluctant body out of bed and poured a bunch of green tea into it, and then flung it into the pool and swam lap after lap after lap, finally beginning to breathe clearly and swim those long smooth strokes that I get into after about half an hour.

I still didn't have an answer when I got out.

And I didn't have an answer after I'd gotten home and showered, and kicked the cat out of the bathroom, and thrown some dry clothes on, and called the bike shop, and set off for the bike shop, and hung around the bike shop while they put a different-sized cog on. And I didn't have much of an answer as I rode over the bumpy roads and onto the bridge and through the semi-deserted Wednesday night streets and on and on and on into the mild night.

And I didn't have an answer as I pulled up in front of my building and felt that now-familiar reluctance to get off my bike, ever. I didn't have an answer as I ran into my super in front of the building, and he smiled at me and said hi in his sweet, friendly way.

I didn't have an answer as I slung my wheeled steel bird over my strong shoulder (all that swimming) and hauled it easily up the stairs. I didn't have an answer as I crammed a bunch of food into my face. I didn't have an answer as I stared at the work I ought to have done this afternoon and will have to do this weekend.

I don't have an answer still. But I can tell you this: I am a lot happier now, just sitting in my well-exercised body, than I was earlier today. Which suggests to me that it doesn't matter so much if my heart is broken - even if it turns out to be broken as a sort of lifelong state of affairs - if I can just get enough endorphins pumping through my veins and brains.

I'd forgotten that I didn't get any exercise yesterday (my knees were killing me, so I took it easy), and how glum that tends to make me feel. And how I just sit around feeling old and creaky and eating too much chocolate and yogurt and other things that tend to give me a stomachache. And how I wake up unwilling to face the day.

And how I put on my swimsuit and notice that it's so saggy that it's almost like swimming naked, though without the inherent sensory appeal of that.

I ordered two new suits tonight, even though I have no money to spare, and even though I'd already dropped quite a lot at the bike shop. Because I think these are my loves - the bike and the pool. And love is worth it.

Annabelle sent me a text message today that sums up the last few weeks rather perfectly: "Not a bad day. Just sort of blah."

Well, I suppose blah is more the final analysis than an accurate description of the tenor of individual moments. There's been a lot of up and down. The downs mostly having to do with parts of my body deciding that they've had enough work for one lifetime thank you, and they are gonna crap out when I least expect it.

The ups mostly having to do with the selection of bike parts.

Yeah, I know, but it really does float my boat. Before you go scoffing and laughing, consider how your yarn shopping behavior would look to someone who doesn't give a hoot about yarn.

Okay then.

So here I am with a cat being as in-the-way as possible on my lap, fourteen tons of work to do in not so many days, a nightmare tax bill looming over my head, relatives continually begging couch space (like, every weekend this month), a half-busted tailbone and assorted knee issues, a new and glorious bicycle awaiting my love, and, oh, I don't know, a half-dozen other things preying on my limited attention.

I somehow have no time to grocery shop, do laundry, clean my bathroom (and no cleaning supplies even if I had that time), and anything else that tends to keep body and soul in working order. My hair is two weeks overdue for a haircut, I am out of face wash and paper towels, and you wouldn't believe how hard it is to find a 15 mm wrench that isn't "too long" or racheting in this city.

I ended up buying a whole damn set of metric wrenches at Home Depot, but I may return them if I can get a single one at an auto parts store someplace. And as you might expect, auto parts stores are not quite as thick on the ground here as they are in the burbs and boonies, where people actually own cars.

Now you begin to see why I have been light with the words lately. Because all my words are boring.

I attribute this to several things:

1. I am doing a project with Annabelle that involves writing every day.
2. I am really, really busy.
3. I am in an interesting emotional state - one that involves change and moving forward, and those tend not to be chatty times for me.
4. I am in love with two things: my bicycle and my Nikon. So they are getting all my juice. And neither of them are especially wordy creatures.
5. I don't have a 5, except to say that sometimes a girl needs a break from showing off her punctuation prowess to the wide world - or even the small and lovely network of readers she has mysteriously managed to amass (I still don't know how that happened, honestly, but it's an awfully cool thing).

So, 6. I appreciate your patience and just bear with me for a little while. I will at least show you some pretty pictures now and then. Or maybe often. I have been very fruitful in the camera department lately.

Love,
Lizbon

PS. Blanket statement: All of my photos are clickable for bigger (and sometimes worth it), and also copyright of me, so please don't steal 'em. Thanks.

When the going gets tough (it is), the tough head to the source of their obsession: for me, at the moment, that is the bike shop.

I stood around for hours, I chatted, I slavered over my new cranks (gorgeous, lightweight, strong), I petted both a nice dog and my soon-to-be new bike.

I dawdled, I dallied. I avoided work. I came home and did some work. A little, a very little.

My cat welcomed me home with purrs and yowls, in her inimitable way. She likes to perch on my left shoulder (I never put her on my right, as it is tattooed, and I do not wish for nice big cat scratches to complete the look) and rub her head against mine, and purr her little ass off, and dig her claws in for purchase, because much as she trusts me otherwise, she will never, ever believe that I have a good enough hold on her.

I thought about bikes, and the many ways in which they set us free. The way our eyes light up when we find the right one.

I thought about the various people who came through the shop while I was there - messengers, people looking for parts, people buying new bikes or asking for the shop to keep an eye out for the perfect thing for them (as they did for me). The girl who bought the incredible vintage handmade Bianchi, which the owner had saved for her, and sold to her at half what someone else had offered for it, because he knew it was her bike. Meant for her.

I thought about the girl who's bought my old road bike. It's perfect for her needs; she's a triathlete short on funds, and it's a racing frame, and it'll cost her half what a new one would, and I put few miles on it and treated it gently and put new tires on it right before I sold it.

I came home and dug out some extra tubes for those tires. I'm going to bring them with me for her, next time. I may offer her a spare racing saddle I have, as a gift. Bikes make people happy. It makes me very happy indeed to think that my bike will be making someone new happy. I kind of love her, and I've never met her.

I remember how Boywich felt when he sold his touring bike. He'd never quite felt the big love for it, and then he found someone who was looking for just that bike, to take on a long tour in Australia. He felt so good about seeing it go to the right person. I know just what he means.

I'd like to meet her, shake her hand. Apparently, at the last race she went to, they laughed at her bike. That won't happen this time. I hope she wins!