By: Kaiko Shimura Monday February 8, 2010

Just as the train was about to pull away, I saw them. Multi-colored bikes and bits of gear pieced together with whatever was most comfortable and warm. A bright red jacket, a shiny white bike, and the blue/green flash of Embrocation. Their heads turned inwards, I imagined their casual banter as they slid smoothly west. I watched them intensely for a good five seconds before they vanished from view, and for three of those seconds, I wished I was riding with them.

…But not really.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to have the ability to make riding look as easy as those guys do. But a voice in my head has been resisting the more-constant-than-not desire to run with the boys [and sort of be one]. Not because I prefer the kind of gender isolation that gives birth to the literary cycling equivalent of the Vagina Monologues that I’m starting to get kind of good at, but because of something much more basic. I have a girl crush.

Unconsciously trained – like most women – to judge beauty in both men and women from an early age, the girl crush isn’t a phenomenon confined to yours truly. But it is – no matter the sexual orientation of the crusher – one of the highest accolades available in the convoluted dynamics of female to female relationships. So while I have been frugal in my obsessions, regardless of my dating status, the girl crush has persisted – the crushees in my lifetime thus far ranging from Brody Dalle to Twiggy to Koyuki.

You probably expect me to say that this time, it’s Victoria Pendleton or Liz Hatch or any of the other usual suspects of [cycling] sexy. In a way, I wish it was; that way I could spew out a few details about their lives, their racing history, link a few pictures and call it a day. It’s never that easy, though, right? And because I apparently like my life complicated, I have to disclose – in all honesty – that it was just a picture.

Team kit that perfectly matched her bike and a long, blonde ponytail, it was a fairly ordinary picture of a non-pro bent over in the drops, mid-pedalstroke. The ubiquitous profile shot combined with sunglasses meant you could hardly see her face, just a small, pointy nose. Yet somehow, there was something there that clicked neatly, like that feeling of “ahhhh” the first time you manage to clip in without looking down at your pedals. And an unfamiliar thought arose: maybe being a girl, or rather, riding as one, isn’t so bad after all.

This belated realization is, for me, simultaneously weird and comforting. Women’s cycling tends to get not so much glossed over as completely ignored, which makes it that much harder to really look up to. It seemed normal that I could stalk Lance, Alberto, Jens, Andy, and Frank for hours and never turn my eye onto members of my own gender who were making it on two wheels. Perhaps not on the guys’ terms, but they didn’t need to; they were making it on their own. And that wasn’t a concession to a weakness, but the definition of genuinely cool.

To be honest, I think that’s exactly what scared me. Being familiar with the high standards that girls hold each other to, I found shelter in voluntary ignorance of women’s cycling. But just as I was about to sigh in resignation at not being with that pack of male cyclists, that picture of the Unidentified Female Cyclist blinked through my mind. And I stopped. Because, while the guys are great, the women are just as cool.

Sure, earning the latter’s respect is a lot harder; you don’t have permission to be weaker. But I have a sneaking suspicion that it would but a lot more rewarding, too.

By: Kaiko Shimura Monday January 25, 2010

Unlike most girls, I am not as predictable as clockwork. I’m reliable, but not minutely exact. I understand the general gist of when things are happening, but I couldn’t give you a time or place.

Paradoxically, I hate to run out on established plans.

Which is why, last Friday, I was on a geared road bike, doing laps around Central Park when all I really wanted to do was curl up into a ball on my bed under at least two covers and make gutteral whimpering sounds in between sipping hot chocolate and eating crushed saltines sprinkled on a giant Wholefoods vegan brownie. I craved salt, fat, carbs, and sugar. Loud noises gave me a headache and my moods were swinging dangerously from Sidi-throwing temper tantrums to irrational crying fits over things I just found “sad.”

It was that time of month and I had to get into Lycra.

If you think that stripping down and putting on what is akin to a skin-tight superhero outfit is hard when you’re male, tend to be on the lean side, and do at least 100 miles a week, think about how you would feel if you had to put on that same kit over a fat suit. Then imagine every one of your friends laughing and pointing out all your imperfections and you’ll start to get the idea of what it’s like to get into a simple pair of bike shorts when you’re female. Add 150 more pounds to that fat suit and that’s what it feels like to go on a bike ride when your uterus realizes that you’re not planning on baking any buns in that oven and starts spitting out pizza sauce. In short, I felt enormous, bloated, and torn between weeping or screaming. I was not ready to go on a bike ride.

Never mind the fact that I was already dressed from head to toe in the tightest, yet hopefully slimming, articles of clothing that I own. I tried to avoid looking in the mirror and failed. I sat on the couch and rested my head on my knees. And when Mike said “let’s go,” all I could manage was.

“I can’t go on a ride. I’m too fat.”

If you’ve ever wondered what a beached whale might feel like, ask a girl who has managed to overcome the psychological trauma of getting into a kit when her cervix is retching out three week old placenta and she’s gained two pounds of water weight and about ten tons of hormone-induced crazy overnight. And through the assurances that the ride was going to be fun and easy and we could stop whenever we [read: I] wanted, I almost believed that if Mike had dragged me outside by one cleat-shod foot, that I would be able to swim back to the couch and plant myself on it until I died of dehydration or fell asleep, whichever came first. But lethargy and laziness always go hand in hand, and the thought of crawling back out of my layers was exhausting enough. Neither did I really want to visually revisit the rolls and folds of flesh that felt like they were multiplying and expanding like a colony of wild rabbits as I sat there, pouting. And, yeah, the whole thing was kind of lame, too.

So I got up, thanked Patagonia that my jacket made me look more shapeless than bulbous, and got on some gears. I want to say that it made everything better, that it totally cleared my head and chiseled away at the drama bouncing around my psyche. To be honest, though, it wasn’t the miraculous cure-all I had been looking for; I still felt like a walrus when trying to climb hills. But the imaginary tire around my waist made the descents that much faster.

And that’s gotta be worth something.

By: Kaiko Shimura Monday January 11, 2010

My track record is somewhat pathetic.

There’s little to none that I can point to and say, “see, that was something to be proud of,” or at the very least, “hey, I had a good time while it lasted.” In fact, it seems that I put myself in the exact opposite position; my past record doesn’t consist so much of notches on my belt as embarrassing blemishes. It’s gotten to the point where all I seem to be doing is going through the motions, repeating the same mistakes and the same excuses, year in and year out.

Why are new year’s resolutions such a bitch?

Sometimes I wonder why I even try to mentally make some resolutions that I know, by February, will be long forgotten or, even worse, I would have completely failed at. At this point in my life, even thinking about new year’s resolutions seems to sound a death knell for whatever resolution I make. The repeated failures are more than a little embarrassing; and in attempting to avoid being called out for all the promises that I make and can’t seem to keep, I’ve stopped announcing my soon-to-be-failed resolutions.

But hey, it’s a new year. 2010, people. So why not?

Well, there are a lot of reasons why not, but let’s put those aside for now. In my perfect vacuum of a world where the sight of rollers in the morning will be more welcoming than a harsh reminder of how out of shape I am, where I’ll have the time to ride for hours and hours and hours, I’d like to get a little more fit and a lot more fast.

I know, I know. The sheer subjectivity involved in both “fit” and “fast” give me a lot of leeway to not fuck this one up. On the other hand, if I do somehow manage to screw up, I can just turn around and argue that I had set the bar too high because my definition of those words bordered on the impossible. Or at least on the far side of “highly unlikely.” In short, I have created a win-win situation for myself.

Of course, given the strength of my previous new year’s resolutions, I’m pretty sure this one’s not going to work out so well, either. Still, a small part of me wants me to believe that I can hold onto something for more than a year. To have something I won’t be embarrassed about, for once. Something possibly worth being kind of proud of.

Even if, you know, I haven’t actually gotten on my rollers since I’ve been back…

By: Kaiko Shimura Monday December 14, 2009

At one point, before boys came into the picture in any significant way, I couldn’t choose between two girls. One was blonde, cute, and down to earth; an awesome athlete that was blessed with the ability to pick up any sport with ease and lived in jeans and sneakers. The other was a raven-haired socialite; typically snobby and beautifully oblivious to the consequences of her actions but somehow someone you couldn’t hate. Oh, and it just so happened that the two were best friends.

I am, of course, talking about Betty and Veronica from the Archie Comics [am I showing my age by admitting this? FYI, I was not born in the 40’s]. As both girls vied for the true affections of Archie, I faced the same indecision as Archie did. There’s a little bit of what every girl wants to be in each of those two girls. Archie’s inability to pin down his own feelings never helped matters either.

I haven’t cracked open an issue of Archie in forever, but it was the image of Betty hopping on a skateboard that popped to mind when I clicked on a tweeted link the other day. “The Fixfixfix just got a little risque!” Superb Bicycle (a.k.a. Jason) twittered. Curiosity and the desire to prolong procrastination had me clicking the provided link; good thing I wasn’t in class because a beautiful topless girl posing with a bicycle wheel popped up.

Intrigued, I did a little more digging. The site consists of galleries of attractive girls posing provocatively with bicycles, some more dressed than others, complete with cheesy captions like [for the topless girl] “after all that action in the hot sun, Victoria decides to relax inside.” It’s one of those “shit, why didn’t I think of that?!” sites that fill a predictable [and potentially lucrative] void in a world where girls – especially attractive ones willing to take off their clothes – are a rarity.

But that has me asking the age-old question: is that really what guys are looking for? The girls featured on Fixfixfix are sexy, no doubt…but some of the bikes clearly don’t fit them, and most are dressed in the kind of thing that not only would make cycling impossible [platform heels + toe straps = disaster], but also embarrassing. Because whatever the girls are wearing [or not] on top wasn’t ever built to keep things safely tucked in…especially if you’re anywhere close to the drops.

So as the Betty in me scoured pictures to find proof that these girls don’t really ride bikes, the Veronica in me asked if that even really mattered. Everyone is attracted to beautiful people, and finding some excuse to discount some biologically lucky human being because I wasn’t so biologically lucky was simple insecurity, that Veronica voice said. She’s gorgeous, it doesn’t matter if you can ride better or harder than her, the voice continued, guys [will always] dig that, get over it.

A part of that’s true. And not just for those of us who aren’t blessed with perfect proportions and an ideal bone structure. Riding my bike everywhere means I dress for comfort. That consequently means that I’m bound to be grittier and far less sexy than the specimens on display at The Fixfixfix. My version of relaxing after “all that action in the hot sun” consists of trying to gimp into the shower after a long ride to scrape off the dirt and sweat that’s caked onto my face. It’s way less glamorous than topless play with a bare wheel. And sadly, it’s always going to be.

But a part of me – perhaps my inner Betty – is proud that it is that way. Cycling is stunning because it’s so difficult, and captivating because the pros do it with such ease and grace. Getting up a few hours earlier than you have to in order to squeeze in a ride or time on the rollers/trainer before work, spending half of your weekend on your bike [and the other half recovering or eating], committing to riding a set number of miles a week, even in 20 degree weather…we all go out of way to schedule life around our bicycles, and it’s not easy. Yet the routines that to any sane person seem a bit extreme are ones that I couldn’t live without. The permanently scarred knees, spectacular crashes, and blurry-eyed morning roller sessions all attest to dedication that goes beyond simply dropping trou in front of a bicycle. And for me, anyway, that’s what makes cycling so sexy.

Or so I told myself as I snorted at a picture of yet another topless girl, dirt smeared around her breasts, in Sidis, standing in front of a Surly 1×1, the latter proudly and prominently sporting…flat pedals.

Hey, I never said there was no Veronica in me.

By: Kaiko Shimura Sunday November 29, 2009

“What up Dickheads 1 and 2?”

That was the usual greeting from a college friend as he sauntered down to my end of the dorm hallway. Originally friends with my two male next-door neighbors [the aforementioned “Dickheads 1 and 2”], the four of us became a close-knit team my junior year. They dragged me out to drink too much watery beer while I played wingman; when I inevitably passed out on frat house couches, they made sure I sobered up and protected me from general sketchiness.

It was an interesting dynamic. Despite all the typically masculine disdain for the frivolous behavior of other girls, I had won their respect. They even gave me a choice:

“Hey Kaiko, do you want to be Dickhead Number 4 or Dumb Slut Number 1?”

Awwwww. How sweet.

I’m not being totally sarcastic. When 99.8% of your friends are male, and you’re the only one without a scrotum, the “tag-along” label gets thrown around a lot. When you happen to be female and end up chest-deep in a sport where squeezing into Lycra suits to sweat for hours at a time are enough to weed out most things with breasts, “tag-along” is a status that you have to claw and fight your way out of. In the world of cycling, merely being female presents an automatic extra set of challenges. Even with a fairly confident smile paired with the slightly jaded air that nothing less than Campy Record or SRAM Red would be enough to really get me excited, it can be an uphill battle when I walk into an unfamiliar bike shop with a male friend.

As if cycling needed another reason to seem more homosexual, the eyes of shop employees pass over me and lock onto whatever male friend I’ve dragged into the shop. Testosterone-rich “male speak” then ensues [“Hey man, what can I do for you?” or “What’s up man?”] and I’m experiencing flashbacks to too many late nights in the gay district back home. Between the exchange of greetings that don’t include me, then the awkward re-direction of attention to why in fact, the two of us are there [read: me], I’m desperately looking for why exactly I’m getting the “tag-along” treatment.

Because like the recognition that the only thing missing from your perfectly interesting and entertaining conversation with the dashingly well-dressed, blush-triggeringly-hot man with the body that looks like it’s been chiseled out of marble is, well, any modicum of interest in anything without external reproductive organs, it’s not hard to tell when someone is absolutely not interested in bicycles. Even with the notoriously determined socially ineptness of bike mechanics, it’s difficult to miss the blank, zoned-out look of utter boredom. Girlfriends and true “tag-alongs” tend to shut down once they walk in the door. As Roger Sterling would put it, girls who know a thing or two about bicycles are usually the “only one[s] without that stupid look on [their] face[s].” Odds do tend the favor the safe choice of approaching the potential male customer as opposed to the female one. But taking risks always has its rewards; any shop that directs at least equal attention to me and a male friend will consistently get super extra bonus points from yours truly.

Still, that can be rare, and as a woman, it can be discouraging to say the least. But like the choice presented to me back in college, being the only woman around also means that repeatedly showing up at a shop can translate into respect and true friendships. Well…”respect and true friendships” as defined by a bunch of guys who – as we all know – will insist on acting at least 20 years younger than they really are. Which means, of course, that while I’ve graduated from “Dickhead Number 4,” I’m currently called things that I really shouldn’t be publishing on the Internet.

On the other hand, at least it’s not “Dumb Slut Number 1.”

By: Kaiko Shimura Monday November 16, 2009

So, like, since I’ve dropped ¾ of a size recently, can we talk about my ass?

Like every girl, I’ve struggled with my backside for a while. It’s just difficult to accommodate. Once a year, some magazine will promise to offer me the perfect pair of jeans for my body type. I consistently fall for it, only to find that no brand has yet to design a pair of jeans that will make my stumpy, short-legged, pear-shaped, flat-chested Asian body look like Angelina Jolie’s. But with the army of jeans designers out there, I’m still holding out hope, combing through the generic to the obscure in my search for that matchless pair of denim.

Too bad when I’m stripping off my jeans to climb onto something else, the options aren’t nearly as bountiful.

I know I’ve talked about this before but I’ve only just come around to the fact that women’s specific saddles, much like women’s specific bikes, are only available in different shades of ugly and ill-fitting. Being limited to choosing between four or five saddles while the boys get somewhere from twenty to fifty options is like being kicked when you’re already down. Having those four to five saddles come in shades of aqua and lavender with flowers festooned around them is like being spit on by a car full of teenaged kids just as your male friends drop you faster than an unpinned grenade.

And it’s not just the stinging disappointment of salt being rubbed into your wounds. It’s like the bike industry wanted this to be the most humiliating experience for anyone vain enough to care about the size of her ass. Because once you locate the eyesore that is the only available women’s race saddle from X brand, the tape measure has to come out and the guy – because it’s never a girl – wielding it has no idea why you’re visibly cringing and backing away.

That tape measure only got applied to the indents wearing into my Brooks, of course, but the comments that followed [“wow, yeah, that is wide,” and “really? You really want something over 150mm? That’s pretty big. You know that, right?”] were the auditory equivalent of jumping up and down, naked, in front of a full length mirror.

In case you were wondering, that image is far from pretty. And the smile I had bravely plastered onto my face as Mike suggested we look around for that perfect saddle had quickly melted into a strained grimace. My enthusiasm visibly reaching the level of depressed where I end up weighing how badly Two Buck Chuck, Gran Marnier, and sugar free Red Bulls might taste together, he did that thing that all guys – bless their ignorant, stubbornly naive, infuriatingly oblivious hearts – do. He gave me that irritating yet genuine look of cluelessness.

“What?”

“…Nothing,” was all I could manage as some rational part of me fought the vain diva within. And then, as the diva bitch-slapped the rational side, “…I wish I had a narrower ass…”

“Oh please, you know I don’t care, right?” came the response.

I sighed before sinking my face into my Americano. I didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or neutral; thankful that my ass was not a subject of discussion or chagrined at my Dude status. Feeling a tad self-conscious regardless, the search for a new saddle simmered away and the discussion moved to t-shirts and things that didn’t involve the globes attached to my lower back.

We rolled out a few minutes later, with me lining up with Mike just enough to keep my ass out of sight. Sure, he might not care, but I certainly do. And until I have something incredible worth showing off – either underneath me or attached to me – I’m totally okay with my line of vision being obscured by those with finer posteriors.

By: Kaiko Shimura Monday November 2, 2009

I can be a total freak when it comes to dining etiquette. What fork to use, where to sit [women are supposed to face the room, thanks], where the napkin goes when you have to go powder your nose… I prefer to know it all. I prefer it when dining companions are in tune with all the rules of etiquette, too.

Which makes me a miserable snob to eat with. And makes dining out incredibly stressful endeavors for yours truly.

But there’s comfort in rules. Sure, that leaves a lot of room for totally fucking things up, but there’s a right way to do things. A little research and practice can make anyone dining-companion worthy, and might even go so far as to impress people. As long as, you know, you don’t fuck up.

Yet, despite my love of rules [The Internal Revenue Code? Check! The Federal Rules of Civil Procedure? Double check!], I somehow spend time in places where etiquette gets thrown out the door and rules, other than those of common sense and civility, just don’t exist. Watching a friend juggle three customers in a bike shop, I mentioned how deftly she could switch hats, despite the slight awkwardness that invariably emanates from bike shop newbies.

“Aren’t they adorable? But I don’t think I’ve ever gone into a shop like any normal person. Or maybe there is no such etiquette,” she said.

And if you think about it, she’s totally right. I’ve done the awkward bike newbie thing, the slightly less awkward bike hypochondriac thing, and the awkward-only-to-shop-employees-who-want-to-kick-me-out-because-they’re-too-busy-to-deal-with-me thing, too. All those forms and permutations of bike shop patronage/hanging out are actually acceptable, though, which would throw those looking for a particular etiquette into a confusing loop. There just aren’t clear lines drawn between what is acceptable and what isn’t.

That blatant lack of established etiquette is probably the reason otherwise normal customers sometimes manage to drop civility at the door, as well. The sheer imprudence of pissing off your local bike shop, or [possibly worse] your local bike shop’s mechanic, aside, the black hole of rules of patronage that permeates bike shops doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole. It only means that you need to be a little more comfortable operating in a void, while retaining politeness.

For me, that also means getting fully comfortable with my discomfort at not having a handbook of rules to go by. It’s still unnerving, to be honest. So unnerving, in fact, that I came up with a strategy and plan of attack when I first stepped into NYC Velo [a shop at which I have, since then, established my own personal spot on their couch]. Needless to say, that plan disintegrated as soon as I opened the door.

I managed, though, to linger for a little less than an hour on that first visit. It was absurdly fun, too. More fun, in fact, than sitting down in a Michelin-starred restaurant, etiquette rules and all.

By: Kaiko Shimura Monday October 19, 2009

As the weather gets progressively more freezing, and flannel shirts less ironic, something changes. Some of the less insane clean their gear and stow it away carefully for the following spring. Others pull on galoshes and rain suits. Still others slather on Mad Alchemy’s chocolate embrocation.

Me, I start to spend more time in front of a computer.

I’m sure I’m not the only one. There are, I’m sure, thousands of people who are doing the same exact thing. We haven’t stopped riding, or maybe some of us have, but we’re pulling up our sleeves and getting down to business. At the doorway of winter and already dreaming of next spring, the hunt is on.

Because, as any bike nerd knows, March is too late to start looking for a new ride.

Even as vertically challenged as I am – the options consequently being severely limited – the hunt for a perfect frameset can be as depressingly frustrating as trying to find the perfect bra. You find something cute and adorable and just the right color and the under-wire feels like it’s going to stab you in the ribs. Or something that actually fits right ends up being some electric blue, slightly geriatric thing that you’d rather die than be seen in. And then there are those awesomely sexy, black lacy things that any girl would look good in but you’re pretty sure it’s not meant for actual everyday use.

Then, of course, there’s the budget. Because while money can’t buy happiness, it can probably still buy you a bra bike made out of gold. Or Ti. Or carbon fiber. Or whatever’s going to be comfortable and supportive. But when you don’t have that much moolah, well, you sort of have to make do.

And like bras, bikes have a lot of moving parts. Does it fit right? Do you have to adjust the stem and dial in the seatpost? Maybe you were riding it all wrong in the first place. And while you may not be outdoors every day this winter, warmer weather will be here before you know it. That means if that ride isn’t ready, or just isn’t broken in enough, low-cut tops longer rides are going to be out of the question.

So between rolling out my IT bands and rolling on the rollers, I’m also spinning the scroll wheel of my mouse, scouring Specialized, Bianchi, and Trek, while dreaming of Cervelo and Pinarello. It might still be October, but it’s never too early to start hunting for spring gear. Bras or otherwise.

By: Kaiko Shimura Monday October 5, 2009

The first boy I ever dated like to play in mud.

No, he wasn’t 5 years old. We were both in college; and in typical liberal arts crunchy granola style, he loved to play Ultimate Frisbee. Post-practice, he would find me in the cafeteria to say hi, smelling of a mix of antibiotic ointment (for skinned elbows and knees) and the heavy scent of mud. As much as I adored him, I didn’t understand the appeal of running around in shitty weather, getting everything you own covered in dirt, grass stains, and possibly blood.

A handful of years later, that boyfriend is at Goldman Sachs – undoubtedly dressed in pristine custom suits – and I am catching mud-encrusted bicycles.

Earlier this month, in NYC, I got wind of a big ‘cross race up in Gloucester, MA: The Great Brewer’s Gran Prix. It was worth traveling to, it was said, and an awesomely fun time. Embarrassed enough at my ‘cross virginity, I resolved to find a way to get there. Complete ignorance as to how to operate a car became a non-issue as Zipcar and a best friend pulled though. And Saturday afternoon, dressed in knee-high galoshes and a raincoat, I was Gloucester-bound. Even chilly temperatures and persistent rain couldn’t keep me away.

I was purely there to spectate. But apparently that involved a little more participation than just taking pictures in the rain.

Because an innocent request to walk an extra bike to the pit by NYC Velo owner and friend Mr. Andy Crooks turned into full pit crew duties, complete with a bruised palm and muddied everything.

Relentless rain meant that the course was thick with the kind of mud that tried to suck my galoshes off my feet. Less peanut butter and more boxed-cake-mix-before-you-bake-it, it was, as Mike put it, “the best worst weather” for racing. And while the rain finally abated in the first 15 minutes into the race, that didn’t mean I could stand by simply snapping pictures in the mud.

A call for a bike came, and Mike and I ran into the pit. Andy shouted instructions for us to clean off his cassette (a smart move as we had no idea what we were doing) before he looped around and with the grace of a mud-covered ballerina, tossed his Litespeed my way and hopped on his IF in one single motion.

Simple physics meant that the bike dragged me about a foot as I tried to stop it without falling over myself. Mud splattered onto my rain-drenched jeans and raincoat. My hands were brown and gritty.

“…Wow,” I said.

“Welcome to ‘cross,” came the reply with a smile from the rain-suit clad gentleman next to me.

I smiled in return before running across the course to wash off the bike and return it to some sort of functioning order. We did it one more time before returning to my spectator/photographer status, and mid-drooling over a Richard Sachs frame, even got a smile from the man himself.

Endorphins rocketing around in our brains from unexpected pit crew duties, I clapped and shouted and whooped at Andy on his last loop. He whooped in response. He was unrecognizably covered in mud. It was freezing, we were at least half-soaked, and it didn’t even matter. “This is fun,” would have been a gross understatement.

Welcome to ‘cross, indeed.

By: Kaiko Shimura Monday September 21, 2009

Back in college, I had the biggest crush on a cokehead.

He was absolutely gorgeous. Curly light brown hair and empty brown eyes, the permanent smirk of an overconfident asshole smeared across his lips. He’d bend down to murmur something in my ear, letting me in on a secretly snide remark. He took me out on my first proper date. I was swooning.

It lasted all of two weeks, before his perfect ex-girlfriend reclaimed control. A skinny brunette with an impressive rack, she was small and stunningly cute. The girl every guy wanted.

She was also notoriously crazy. Beauty can be a real bitch, I guess.

It’s odd, I hadn’t thought of her in a while. But taking Whit Yost’s advice to lose some teeth on my track bike, my new cog was exactly like that girl. Small, dark, and cute, it’s the first cog I’ve had that doesn’t peek its teeth over the flange of my back hub. And while you shouldn’t compare, it just looks so much sexier than my 17T on the other side of my hub. It looks like it belongs there, draped across the threads of a double-fixed hub, chain encircling her tiny waist.

But not unlike that perfect girl, this new cog of mine has supplied its own host of problems.

Its tiny size meant that, while it looked awesome on the bike, that the wheel was pulled further back in the fork ends. Which means that it changed my wheelbase length ever so slightly. Which means I’ll have to adjust the rollers if that chain stretches.

No big deal so far for non-lazy people. But knocking two teeth off the back also means I’m feeling every push of the pedals and I’m gasping for breath within minutes. And that’s all after I’ve finally managed to actually get the wheels rolling. Because for about 3 seconds, I’m screwing up my face while remaining mostly motionless on the rollers, trying to start the first pedal stroke. It has to look ridiculous.

Still, like the cokehead I fell for, I’m still reaping the benefits associated with that cog. I’m finally warming up at the proper gearing for track cyclists. I’m passing out at the end of the day into the blissful unconsciousness too similar to post-coital sleep. I get to be associated with participating in something most consider insane.

That doesn’t mean it’s not painful. It is. But you get over it, and move onto better things. You know, just like junkie crushes.