Walking up the street, I felt jittery and queasy, imagining the staff trying to figure out what type I was based on the opaqueness of my lines. I am a total fraud!
The shop occupies a corner lot nestled between a wide running track and a flattened park with tennis courts. Tucked into the far edge of an old neighborhood, the area is known for a slow, lush lifestyle. It’s close to the financial district, yet disconnected from any direct subway lines; fully isolated from the city’s hustle, yet close enough for old money to seep through. Driven by gentrification, minimalist coffee shops and industrial boutiques pop up every other week. While long-time residents conveniently feel elevated by status, they choose to ignore the fact that daily living is becoming unaffordable and diversity is disappearing.
On this Friday afternoon, elderly residents strolled with foreign helpers alongside newlyweds pushing strollers. Decades-old Cantonese eateries stood adjacent to hybrid barbershop-cafes. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows lined the canopy-covered streets, practically daring passersby to peek in. Is it an architecture firm, a boutique fitness studio, or a high-end concept store? Take a look, but don’t walk in unless you’re ready to shell out thousand-dollar bills or face silent judgment.
The atmosphere was welcoming and intimidating all at once.
Inside, the contrasting black arched window frames set off the off-white walls, allowing the warm tangerine light of dusk to flood in. Racks of jerseys and bibs were organized by color and fit, each hanger precisely 5 centimeters apart. I took in the entire collection in one glance without fumbling through racks and drawing attention to myself.
Me: “I saw online there’s a promo.”
Tanned staff: “It’s 23% off basics, or 30% if you buy two items. In the back, we have clearance items up to 50% off. Are you familiar with our collections?”
I gently felt the fabrics, pretending to compare the earthy tones while trying not to look suspicious. Staff outnumbered customers, so I was terrified that any sharp movement would trigger unsolicited advice as I hunted for price tags. Flipping each one over, I soon realized my mission was in vain, as everything was absurdly expensive for synthetic fabric. I either had to commit or go home to keep riding in oversized hand-me-downs and running tees.
I picked a white jersey with mesh sleeve caps that claimed extra breathability and also conveniently, being a tad cheaper (less material, perhaps?). I paired it with a bib in matte midnight, unsure of my proper size. Looking in the mirror, I felt like a boxer wearing built-in adult diapers. At least my thighs looked toned.
Tanned staff: “What kind of riding do you do? I can help pick out the right fit.”
Me: “Uh, you know… triathlons.” Mumbled with awkward hand gestures “For fun, of course! I’ve been fine in Lululemons and oversized gear, but I figured I’d level up this year. These feel pretty tight though… “
It turned out I could go a size smaller. The fabric on the waist was bunching up, causing the back pockets to sag. But I’d knew the smaller size would squeeze my chest so tightly that zipping it to my neck would feel suffocating. Still, I tried on the recommended size; this time with elastic bands cinching all four limbs.
Me: “I feel totally sucked in. Protected in the (point coochie) area.”
Tanned staff: “That’s completely normal. You can fold up the jersey hem so the proportions look cleaner. Notice the lettering on the back? It pops against the darker tone. A lot of clients specifically look for that detail.”
Little did he know, I preferred a lighter color to stay low-key and avoid absorbing unnecessary heat (from cycling snobs). He handed me a mossy green and white striped top paired with a grassy green bib. They’re a looser cut, but equally snug.
Me: “This looks like my regular clothes” Do I look like a real cyclist?
Tanned staff: “The top is 50% off and the bottoms are 60%.”
Hearing that, I immediately coerced d into picking out an outfit. Looking completely lost, he was handed a darker variant of the striped jersey and a gray bib. d has a narrow waist and heavy thighs, so predictably, the initial fit was awkward. His top also bagged out just like the white one I tried. Neither of us was accustomed to clothes that fit like second skin. d’s swim trunks barely hold onto his hips!
Tanned staff: “This is the last size in the dark stripe. But we have a size down in white.”
Just like that, Tweedledum and Tweedledee were born. Matching couple outfits are adorable when they complement each other, but quickly cross into cringe territory when being identical. We aren’t twins, and we don’t bike, talk, or even look remotely alike! Yet, the girl math was undeniable: two discounted sets cost barely more than a single full-priced outfit, comm’on!
Me: “Are we actually doing this?”
Bleached-blond staff: “He looks way better in the white stripes.”