Bikes: September 2008 Archives

Oh, fall! How you make me suddenly yearn for that which I've been avoiding lo these many months - entanglement. Something more than pure recreation. In short, someone yummy to snuggle up with.

How you make the cat suddenly want to spend all her time curled up in the little treehouse I built for her (yes, I am a very nice witch to my little familiar). How you send the cold rain against the windows like soft percussion. How you make me glad I have Gore-Tex. How you turn metal grates and manhole covers into sheets of glass in the streets.

How you make me hear Phil Liggett's voice in my head narrating as I pick my way carefully between road hazards on the wet, rutted, slidey pavement.

How you send me running for the all-Malabrigo diet. Today's helping, pictured above:

At bottom, merino worsted in Tortuga. (Yes, the colour name had a bit to do with my purchase of it.)
Directly above that, merino & silk (!), in Smoke, slated to be long fingerless mittens for Special J, because she needs cheering up.
To the right, on the needles (now off them and soaking in Kookaburra), a birthday neckwarmer for another friend in merino worsted, Azul Profundo.

I was a bit blue earlier, feeling a distinct lack of snuggling and other boy-requiring pursuits, but a certain redhead managed to take my mind off it by flirting up a storm with me whilst adjusting this and that on my bike. Made me feel better, even though it was just talk and will only ever be talk, with him. Thanks, sweetie. I needed that.

If once I gave way to Peter, I should go up like straw. - Harriet Vane

The trouble with letting yourself admit that you like someone is that then you can think of nothing else.

When you see him the next day, and he casually kisses your cheek (but no hug! where's my hug?) and asks how you are, in Spanish, and you respond in English, cursing yourself for not having learned Spanish while you were busily learning two other languages, and then pondering whether it's simply too, too extravagant to buy Rosetta Stone just so you can impress a boy....

Well, you see the trouble.

And then you wonder whether this giddyness has been there all along but simply held in check by your mighty reserves of willpower, or whether it's newly sprung because you admitted to yourself that you liked him, and then began to see everything differently.

Infatuation carries with it its own energy source, and once given its head tends to run off whither it wants to, dragging you and the reins along after it.

Speaking of which, my new bike is fast. Um, I know, it's never the bike that's fast; it's the rider. At least, that's always been my theory. Yeah. Turns out I was completely wrong, and so, apparently, is Lance. Well, in his case, I doubt it matters much what he rides. But in mine, whoa.

I got on that bike yesterday, and found myself shooting ahead into traffic almost without effort. It was very strange. Hills? What hills? How did I suddenly make it home in 30 minutes? It ought to take 50. What is going on with the universe? Paging Dr. Einstein.

"Nice acceleration," said one member of my handsome male posse (I am such a lucky, lucky girl. They offered to escort me on the first part of my journey so I could play with my new toy without needing to fight traffic quite as much). "Thanks," I said, unclear whether he was referring to me or the bike.

Zip zip, up the bridge. No need to get out of the saddle. Swoop!

"Holy fucking shit," said I at every intersection. Pardon me while I be a danger to myself and others for a few weeks getting the hang of the thing.

It's never gonna be normal, you and me. What you're signing on for is a storm at sea. - Zero Seven, Pageant of the Bizarre
How long does one wait after having been through one of those storms before getting close enough to risk another one?

Yesterday I rode into another state on my trusty bicycle, with a small posse of the fastest men I've ever met.

I must be crazy.

It was fun, it was exhilarating, it was a wee bit scary.

I discovered a few things along the way.

1. I am faster than I think I am.
2. I am not as good at climbing as I think I am.
3. I might actually like one of these guys.

Uh-oh.

No, really, uh-oh. I am not sure I can do this. I mean, I don't know if he likes me, too, but he might. (I get a lot of hugs when I see him.)

Here's the thing.

a) Boywich, for all that he is a wonderful, unique, precious-to-me human being, was hell to live with. I am not contemplating living with anyone ever again, and no that's not his fault, I am just clarifying that it's not the living-with that's important here, it's the hell.

b) How long does one need to wait after that kind of experience (and it was a LONG experience, not like a year of that but close to a decade of it) before getting entangled with somebody else, even to the small extent of being willing to let them into your heart at all?

c) Even apart from that, I have been doing Big Work in the last year, Big Work on Old Shit. That kind of work requires a lot of personal space. Can I date somebody during that? I mean, somebody other than an off-again, on-again sexy blonde playmate who would never in a million years get close enough to me to be (emotionally) risky?

This man is not the blonde. Emphatically not the blonde.

Not only is he not blonde by any stretch, but he is (from what I've seen) warm, sweet, interesting, and very experienced in the ways of the world and what that world can throw at a human being. Also handsome, in unbelievable shape, and quite close to my own age.

Crap, right?

Did I mention he has the most beautiful eyes I think I've ever seen on a human being?

He's also a friend whom I increasingly value as a friend, and if anything is going to happen between us I would want to make sure that we could still be friends if it didn't work out. CRAP.

PS. All photos courtesy of pocketcam, which has been performing a yeoman's job in my bike bag lately.

PSdeux. Reading back over this, it sounds like things were all bad with Boywich, which isn't true. A lot of things were good, which was why it lasted so long. It's just that the things that were bad, were bad.

Occasionally I envy the folks who live in beautiful Mediterranean climates, who get dry, sunny air year-round and can lie on the beach in December if they have a fancy to. But not in the fall. In the fall I love the hush that comes over everything, the way the world seems to hold its breath for a moment while the weather changes from soggy to crisp, and the night air chills the house, and the cat and I both begin to sniff the air for the smell of curling leaves.

I want apples, and I want them now.

I want to pluck them off a curving branch, beneath a blinding sun that's turning the leaves into jade. Today I went so far as to hallucinate myself a batch of apples in a city garden. but of course they were just red plastic lanterns strung on a branch.

Perhaps this weekend I can find a little bit of forest. I heard tell of one you can ride to, if you have the legs for it. I'm going to pack lots of snacks. And a map. And a little compass, just in case.

I also want wool, another sure sign of fall. Just when I begin to wonder if I'll ever have the urge to knit again, if that stash will have to be auctioned off upon my death, I suddenly find that I'm knitting hats for friends. Or little neckwarmers for biking. Or mittens. Or that drop-stitch scarf from Shannon's blue yarn.

Clickety click. Only that's not quite the sound, since the needles are wood and therefore a little quieter. I like that sound. It's subdued and homey. I wish I could teach Kitwich to knit, so I could listen to it properly.

That's all there is to tell, really. The bike rides were beautiful today, and a huge orange half-moon hung in the sky as I pedaled home tonight. No boys to speak of, but it's only Friday...

Yeah, I pulled yesterday's post down. Sorry folks - sometimes I get bean-spiller's remorse. There's not even any logic to it. I read it and read it, and read it again, and couldn't find anything wrong with it (apart from a slight tendency to bitch) (though that doesn't normally stop me from putting a post out there), and yet still I didn't feel like sharing. Whaddya gonna do?

Nofink, as Basher would say.

Having a better day today, even though my new bike is still seventeen-eighteenths built and therefore in my bike shop as opposed to my living room being admired by all and sundry (better known as: me and the cat). But that's okay. I had a relatively good ride today on my main man, despite having needed to zip through midtown due to not having left enough time to get where I was going by my preferred outerboroughular route.

Yes, I made that word up. It's okay, folks, I'm a professional. (Writer, that is.)

Anyhoo, sun shining, fun with Big Trux in Chelsea (which sounds like stage-names for a pair of gay-bar bouncers but actually refers to impatient and slightly scary drivers of delivery trucks). Alles gutes, basically.

Rode home with some messenger friends, playing swoopy games on the bridge, and feeling about 6 years old doing so. Good clean fun.

The cat is currently obliging me by snoozing on a pile of greasy bike rags, which I find just so heartwarming for some reason.

PS. You know what it was? Oversharing about a certain lanky blonde. I'd like to keep some things to myself, after all.

The trouble with owning a really big brain, my darlings, is simply this: one tends to rely on it. To the exclusion of other, equally useful skills and attributes.

I have spent this past summer (which I suppose is pretty much over, though I am in wilful denial about that) unlearning that bad habit. Or trying out new ways of functioning that don't involve so much analysis and overthinking and overlay of heavy expectations of life and of people.

It's been going rather well. I came to a big decision about my immediate professional future without once frowning and fretting over it (okay, I exaggerate, there may have been a frown or two - but that was about 486 less than there normally would have been). I got over feeling obscurely heartbroken about a little June fling. I played and played and toyed and toyed with any number of cute young boys.

I got a tattoo. I took risks. I did a whole lot of bicycling and a whole lot of leading with my body, and my instincts, and not my big big brain. And it was good for me. And I liked it.

And now I am looking at how to keep that going, as the fall comes on with its heavier tone, its back-to-work mentality, its changing colors and smells, its Rhinebeck and its apples to be picked, and its skies so gorgeous they traditionally make me feel like I'm just not doing enough to appreciate them every day.

Breathe, the summer taught me. Just breathe. Pedal, and breathe, and pedal some more. Spoke-music. Hands on grips. Hair rumpled by wind and crushed under helmet. Ruffle it up and move along. Wear the little dress that flips up under the rim of the bicycle seat. Don't worry so much whether the new people like you or don't like you.

Think about what you want for dinner in the next five minutes. Think about what that is, flying over there, wings beating the sky - hummingbird or bee? Think about what pretty yarn you can buy for Shannon at Rhinebeck. Think about that beer. Yum. Beer.

Think about how kissing the blonde was just as nice with stubble on his face as without. Think about popsicles.

"He's like sorbet," I said. "Palate-cleansing."

Yes, like that. I do like that. Pity I've just overloaded my stomach with all those brownies I'd made for Special J. Note to self: Wait until dear friend is actually ready to receive visitors before beginning the baking. Don't worry, Special J: more where that came from, honey.

When one is building up an old bike, there are always a few bumps in the road - a few parts that you thought would fit the frame that don't. A few things that need jerry-rigging, or machining down, or some other kind of mechanical wizardry.

I have learned to not only accept that but to expect it - it's part of buying a bike that isn't factory-fresh and stamped out in a uniform procession (or even handmade in a uniform procession like my old Cannondale, which I bought new). It's part of getting to know your bike. Now I know, for example, that the new bike's head tube is narrower-than-standard.

In just the same way, I learned that my first vintage bike has really, really tough steel (it broke some drill bits). It might seem frustrating, on the surface, but I've come to see it as part of having a bike that is more like a person than a piece of equipment. It has a personality, and we spend time together. We are, in fact, best friends. So the fact that my new-old bike won't be ready for a few more days while the shop searches for a stem that'll fit its tiny little tubes is just part of the courtship for me.

I visited her yesterday, and saw her wheels all built up and installed, saw the unbelievably tight clearance between the rear wheel and the seat tube - a sign that she's built for speed and quick maneuvering; a sign, perhaps, that she might have been raced in a previous life. Raced by a very small Italian man, or maybe a teenager training for the venerable tracks of Europe. Drinking wine after each competition. Receiving pointers from wizened, fleet elders (who were also drinking wine).

Something like that. I do so wonder about my bikes' lives before we met. But then again, I don't think I really want to know. Not only would it take away the joy of speculating, of daydreaming, of making a Triplettes of Belleville cartoon in my head, but it might be a little too much like meeting your boyfriend's ex-lovers.

Apparently it's not only possible to bike to the beach; it's a damn fine day out. Especially when the weather is like this: spotlessly sunny skies, warm but not hot temperature, and that oddly hard to place but unmistakable California feel to the air.

I rode down to Coney with a friend (okay, a date), and then along miles of waterfront, and then some more miles of city streets, and then had dinner, and then rode home (ahem, the latter by myself, thank you). And it was a perfect, perfect day.

I'd like to have those more often, if it please the court.

This weekend's tally.

New tattoos: one.
Bike rides: three (including the one to/from the tattoo studio).
Boys flirted with: four.
Age range of boys flirted with: 23-47
Gummi bears consumed: one whole bag during tattoo, plus one chocolate-covered bear during today's movie.
People possibly flashed while riding bike from brunch parking space to movie parking space: approximately 100 (long story; short dress).
Bike parts waiting in my box to be built into a new bike: impossible to count.
Dollars spent on said bike parts: too intimidating to count.
Advil tablets consumed before and after tattoo: six.
Lascivious notes left on my bike by my favorite redhead: one.
Near misses with blonde: two (I was in his hood and invited him out; he was busy. He was in my hood and invited me out; I was busy).
Secret fantasies confessed to, to one of the key players: one - but it was a biggie.
Pairs of pirate leggings purchased without trying them on: two (one by me, and one by Special J).
(No, my new tattoo is not of a skull.)

All in all, a busy weekend.