Kyoto and Providence meet in New York City

Takuya and Ogura (friends I met while visiting Kyoto) pedalled around New York city this week collecting merchandise and connections for Ogura's new bicycle lifestyle shop. Currently, Ogura runs a high end clothing shop popular with international celebrities. He is modest and friendly, shy about speaking English. Takuya–messenger, artist, and bicycle socialite–accompanied him to help translate and introduce him to fixed-gear fetishists and bike culture guru's that he knows from events like Cycle Messenger World Championships and KyotoLoco. Ogura brought his stylish track bike, while Takuya, with some chagrin, borrowed a mountain bike.

Since New York is a lot easier to get to than Kyoto, I threw my bike on the bus and made a daytrip to reunite with my foreign friends. I met them at Trackstar Friday morning.

The cupcakes I'd carried from Providence in my bike basket looked rough when I presented them to Takuya; nonetheless he devoured them. When I traveled to Japan last spring, he hosted me generously, having never met me. He helped me to meet my favorite painter and the national champion of cylcocross. I couldn't understand much Japanese, but I believe he exaggerated my credentials, tailor my introduction as "an artist from America" or a "great bike racer from America" to fit each situation. He was my guardian angel in the form of a dirty old bike messenger with mischievous eyes. The least I could do was meet him in New York with a box of jostled cupcakes.

After hob-nobbing with our friends who run Trackstar we ate sandwiches at a shop the Kyoto due had frequnted three times already this week. I guess it's hard to get an affordable sandwich in Japan. Over roast beef and cheddar cheese, Takuya updated me on Japanese bike scene gossip, and also decided to commission me to design and print some shirts for the new shop (look for pictures here in a few weeks)!

We parted ways; they continued their schmooze tour (pictures of it are on Ogura's blog) while I headed to Chelsea to peruse galleries before returning to the bus. Perhaps if I sell enough t-shirts I can visit them soon.

Cakes, Starcrossed, Black Bear

Last week I sandwiched a weekend of Northwest cyclocross into a visit to my Dad's house at the Cascades' foothills. Farms, woods, mountains--some nice stuff out there--I miss it. At a loss for how to fill my time between bike rides and book reading, I baked some cakes. Why not? First Decadent Chocolate decorated with candied rose petals, next sour cream coffee cake with a layer of backyard apples and cinnamon in the middle.


Starcrossed was a grass crit and a spectacle: wicked fast racing surrounded by a big party. And there were waffles. I ate one while I watched the Elite men. Barry Wicks and Ryan Trebon on their tall orange bikes took off with Christian Huele, leaving the field far behind. Midway through the race Wicks attacked, sweeping through a u-turn, but he took it too hot and crashed! Off the other two went, but whaddayaknow, of course he caught them! That whole mess was hilarious and impressive--just what I like about cross.


It was nice to see some familiar faces, and make new acquaintances. I send my thanks to friends and family who came out to cheer!

While unloading the car after Sunday's race (see below) I looked across the yard to see a black bear eating apples off the tree! Only about 100ft from where I was, wow! so cool! Then he looked at me, took another bite of his apple and then dashed off into the woods.

I wrapped up my trip with a lovely ride on logging roads and trails with my step-brother. Pretty awesome being able to ride right out the door into the woods!

Now I'm back in the Northeast, buckling down for hard training after a humbling weekend. Are they faster out there or what?

Soundtrack

Preparing to travel westward, Simon and Garfunkel's "Homeward Bound" gets stuck in my head.

Theme songs for my life: sometimes I choose them deliberately, but often they emerge unexpectedly from my internal library of pop culture and personal associations. Sometimes it's "Leaving on a Jet Plane"--not the famous version, but a painfully sincere performance by a girl at a Unitarian Youth Convention I followed by best friend to when I was 13. Other times I choose something more flattering, like "Rebel Girl", the Bikini Kill song that every young lady with the slightest punk inclination believes to be about herself.

When I think I'm being funny, I choose Marilyn Monroe's throaty "Diamond's are a Girls Best Friend" (a feminist song about financial independence), or the Waitresses' "I Know What Boys Like" which my roommate has appointed as my identifying ringtone on her phone. "Pretty in Pink" is too obvious, and not fitting beyond the title line.

Mirah gets me when I'm homesick and lonely with lines about the river and the mountains in "Person Person." If I feel like reveling in some wistful sadness I turn to Bright Eyes or the Weakerthans. And Northwest music like Built to Spill tugs nostalgically at my Pacific heart.

Classic old punk charges me up. For a while I woke up each morning with Operation Ivy's "Sound System." My first kiss was at an Anti-Flag show at the RCKNDY, a grungy club that's been replaced by condos. Poly Styrene singing "Oh Bondage, Up Yours" or "I'm a Cliche" by the X-Ray Spex work when I feel ironic, conflicted, or hypocritical.

I used to get "Singin' in the Rain" stuck in my head whenever I was really happy. During my brief stint as a roller derby jammer, I borrowed my moniker from "Hard Hearted Hannah;" I never decided whether Ella Fitzgerald's rendition or the Red Aunts punk cover fit better. The only other palatable song I know of with my name is "Miss Hannah," as sung by Coleman Hawkins. I'd happily follow it's flattering theme (about how everybody admires Miss Hannah).

On long bike rides alone, I sing to myself to keep pedalling--it doesn't matter whether I like the song, only how much of it I can remember to amuse myself. On a bike tour from Portland to San Francisco my accomplice and I played the same Sam Cooke tape over and over from a tiny cassette player tethered to my pannier.

When riding cheerfully through the city on a sunny morning, or drunkenly home on dark night, I imagine I'm moving fast enough that no one can hear my tone deaf self-serenade.

Boys will come and go, but i'll always have my bike

It's nearly midnight on Monday, and I'm baking brownies. When mulling over complicated thoughts, I like to bake. The methodical process untangles my busy mind, and unlike most endeavors baking consistently yields immediately gratifying results.

I am certain about one thing: I love to race my bike.

Fast as ****
The anticipation of last Wednesday's Witches Cup in Salem had me shaking in my boots. I would be racing against some fast ladies, and could only hope to hold my own and stick with the pack. The short crit looped around a park, and the festive mood around the race excited me. Right from the start Lynne Bessette and Rebecca Wellons attacked, and the rest of us never caught them! It was fast as ****! I settled in and waited for the sprint finish; I got 6th! Then I bought a pint of ice cream and watched Adam make some moves in the men's pro-1-2-3 race (read his blog about Salem too).

I'm pretty damn excited about racing.

My new cross bike should be finished by the end of the week!

Almost Perfect

I rode 15 miles to the crit in Attleboro, raced, got 3rd, chatted with friends, rode home, ate ice cream, napped, went mountain biking, swam in Carr's Pond, and finished the day with pizza and beer.