Wall of Shame

Deferred Maintenance: The practice of allowing machinery or infrastructure to deteriorate by postponing prudent but non-essential repairs to save cost, labor and/or material. The failure to perform needed repair, maintenance, and renewal by normal maintenance management creates deferred maintenance. Generally, a policy of continuing deferred maintenance will result in higher costs or failure than if normal maintenance had occurred.

It is one thing to put off something for another day. When ”another day” adds up to weeks and months there is big trouble. Especially if you are a cyclist. Most of my readers should be aware by now that I repair and maintain bikes as a sideline. Those who use my services will also know of the Wall of Shame. It isn’t really a wall, it would be if I had an empty wall but I don’t so it is just a section in the back of my shop book. It has pictures of bikes that were way beyond the normal dirty. If bikes did not get dirty, I would not get paid to clean them. But sometimes things just get out of hand.

The pictures with this article are of a bike that set a record for grime. It is an old Specialized, one of their first efforts in fact. There is nothing wrong with the bike, it is basically a decent sort. The fault lies with the owner, who shall remain anonymous. The pictures show before and after, there is no need for me to label them. The big question is how did this happen?

It isn’t his “Good” bike. It rides around the country on the backside of a motorhome. It more or less worked although not very well. Picture a Big Ben alarm clock it will wake you up in the morning but it might also lose ten minutes overnight and the incessant tick tock will prevent all but the most drunken slumbers. He could have wiped it off once in a blue moon but like most work horses it was expected to toil until the knackers come.

We can’t blame the bike for being dirty. Bikes have little choice in the matter. All of us have ridden in the rain at one time or another and neglected to rinse and wipe right after the ride. Most mechanics cringe when a Triathlete brings in a bike. The handlebar tape, dare say the entire bike, is encrusted with dried on body fluids and salt. Tri’s get off the bike and go for a run and by the time they finish running, calorie replacement is more of an urgency than bike care.

It took me four hours of labor to get this old friend back to looking pretty. It will never be showroom ready but it looks pretty fine to me. Everything works, nothing squeaks and the only grease is in the bearings.

Remember friends, you’ll only miss us when we’re gone, so be nice to us now. A little care and attention and we will be around for a long time yet to come.

Cattle Guards, Wind and Suffering

First of all let me describe a cattle guard. It is a few bars of metal laid across a road to discourage cows from wandering. Cows will not cross one, neither should anyone sane, but in Texas we ride across them on bicycles. When you cross your first cattle guard it scares the beejeezus out of you. The first one is like that every year and well it should be. Once you get used to them you learn that 20 mph is pretty smooth and 30 mph you just glide over them. Over 30 mph and you start contemplating your personal mortality. If you have to hit them slow, your butt hurts and your teeth rattle.
Three of us decided to go to the Easter Hill Country Tour in Kerrville, Texas. Sponge Bob and I had been there many times before, Hudler was there for the second time. It was early this year, weather and fitness were big factors. Usually we ride about 65 miles the first day, 107 the second day. and 35 miles the third day. Easter Sunday is the third day and we ride if, and only if, the weather is just a little better than decent.
Hudler got a new ride name this year. Everyone gets one. Sponge Bob used to be Goat Boy. I was Kleine Sheist or the little monster. Hudler is now the Iceman. Why? He turns the motel AC on to Ice Age, he has a fetish for iced tea with pebble ice, and he is remarkably pale.

Sponge Bob took two years off and has been back a whopping six months. Hudler lies like hell and does super secret training. Speedo, moi, is over 50 and usually prefers drinking beer with the cats to training. Our main man, the Deacon Landry, has five broken ribs and a plate in his ankle. He decided healing was more important than suffering and stayed home. I have a few smart friends.
Seeing as the Deacon stayed home, I was in charge of navigating. I got lost three times before we left the city limits on Friday. I figured it out after that pretty quick. Iceman did point out to me that, no matter how much I denied it, we were on the exact same route as the year before. Who knew? Bifocals or shades? You make the call.

Friday was windy as hell. Any advantage my weight might have given me was pretty much wiped out. I hung in there but pretty much got whipped. Sponge Bob was in stealth mode and snuck by us. Imagine our surprise when he got ahead of us. We managed our 65 miles and headed back to the hotel for beer, a jacuzzi and food. My buddies wanted dinner as well but I tried to replace 1400 calories in one meal and really didn’t have much more room.

Saturday I figured turn about was fair play and told the Iceman to watch out for Bear Creek Road. There is this little rise with a 1/2 mile grade of 18% (@#$%&*(steep for the laymen) that comes on Freedom Trail Road, right after Bear Creek Road. Yeah. I know I lied but it was fun, payback for all that super secret training. We call this little rise “The Wall”. It starts out painful and finishes with a oxygen deprived scream. There is a nice descent afterwards but there is a rather inopportune hard right at the bottom.

I have no more pride. I did the paperboy weave up the Wall. I knew there would be much more suffering later. I felt a need to pass the guy with the tall wool socks so I pushed a little and immediately regretted it. Iceman went straight up and it a new maximum heart rate for his introduction to being 50. Sponge Bob? what a trooper. He suffered like St. Sebastian and still kept going.

That set the mood for the day. Right and left you started hearing “My legs are shot”, “My butt hurts” and “ Are we there yet”. Sponge was fading fast but was smart enough to say I have nothing left and I don’t want to be your excuse for being slow and out of shape. Iceman kept running off, I was having a nice conversation about drive trains until mine malfunctioned. My chain fell off my inner chain ring. Usually you can just shift it back up but this time I kept riding until I did an Arte Johnson (If you are too young to get the reference, google “Laugh In”) and fell over. Sponge Bob gave me high points for a gymnastic roll and had the kindness not to laugh.

Sponge had to abandon 60 miles in. Not even the pickle juice could save him. We sent him home with instructions to clean up, smell good, and make dinner arrangements that included beer. Iceman and I continued on even though he had a knot in his calf that must have been painful. I was hoping it was painful because that’s when I pounced. Yes friends and neighbors, I thought my good buddy and dear friend was hurting so I picked up the pace. That sounds so heartless and cruel, it is supposed to. It isn’t true. In fact my butt started to get a real personal wet pain going, an aggravated tenderness in a portion of my anatomy that will not be named. Yes, I went faster, I just wanted the ride to be over.

We made it in. Sponge Bob was smart and called it a day before he crumpled. Iceman took the easy way out and headed for the Motel. I had one last thing to do, Aneurysm. It’s relatively short , very steep and causes a lot of pain after 100 miles. It’s also a tradition and some one has to do it.

Don’t cry for me Argentina. I had a good soak, a cold beer ( Sponge Bob is a saint), a little nap and dinner with excellent company. Now that I am home, I feel happy to have done it but a little disappointed in the way I rode. I tell myself it is just a barometer to give me a baseline of where I am now and what it’s going to take to get where I want to be. I always want to do better, but hey, who doesn’t? It was a fun trip and the guys are great. It’s going to be a good year.

Segundo and Worthless

A Tale

Not all of my stories are about cycling. This one is a story that has two cyclists but they are not on their bikes. No, this is a tale about two chickens, nay, roosters.

I bought a replacement flock of chickens. Dogs ate my old flock. There is a job that gets little respect but requires a high degree of professionalism. It’s sexing chicks. Don’t get too excited, chicks are baby chickens. They are sexed in the egg, a chicken sexer can be 98% certain of a hatchling’s sex. The guy who sexed my chicks was out getting a Frappucino when two of my eggs went by. I wanted one rooster, I got three. The big red guy, true to breed, and the twins.

I would have named them Castor and Pollux but they are chickens, not Greek myths. In Greek, Castor is “He who excels”. Pollux means “very sweet”. I had a couple of unwanted roosters. Neither excelled or was sweet. I named them Segundo and Worthless.

You are supposed to have five hens to one rooster. I have eight hens. It doesn’t take algebra to figure out the ratio. If, by chance you grew up on a farm, you would know that makes for a ruckus in the hen house. I’ve got nothing against whacking a rabbit for gumbo once in a while but I’ve got a real issue with feathers and food.

So what do you do with twin roosters? I asked everyone I knew and no one wanted to step up to the plate and help me out. No one but Sponge Bob. If you have forgotten, Sponge Bob and I ride together. (BIG FLAG! This is the cycling tie in!) Sponge has a brother in-law and a mother and a sister. (Did it take you as long to figure this out as it did me? Damn you’re smart.) The extra little bits of family live on a nice little ranch. They have lots of fields, miniature donkeys, peacocks, swans, bovine and equines.

Sponge suggested that his family on the hill could use a couple of more roosters. There would be food and company and the noise wouldn’t bother him at all as he lives ten miles north. It’s best at this point I mention my darling wife Nancy. She did not grow up on a farm and rarely if ever has done those deeds that require darkness and a burlap bag. She did not take the darkened road, I had to lead her astray.

So, one recent dark night Nancy warmed up the truck and I headed out to the chicken coop with a burlap bag. Chickens sleep when it gets dark and you can walk right in and pick them up off the roost. Once you toss them in the bag, things get pretty quiet. Quiet as a couple of roosters in a sack can be. I threw the sack in the back of the truck (Did I mention Mama’s side of the family is as hillbilly as Snuffy Smith?) and we headed for the ranch on the hill.

I had forgotten, or never noticed, that all of the pastures have eight foot high fences. Why? I don’t have a clue. Fence was on sale maybe? We drove past looking for an opening and nothing. Mom’s gate has tall and closed but low and behold bubba in law Bruce’s gate was open. I had my darling, devoted, led astray wife kill the lights. I hopped out grabbed the sack of roosters, jumped the cattle guard and with a shake and a wiggle, Bruce had twin roosters.

Sponge Bob told me the next day that he’d asked Bruce if he’d noticed any extra fowl. Bruce asked if they were speckled, Sponge said “Could be.” Bruce said the were walking back in forth in front of the cattle guard. I never said they were smart roosters. Eventually they will find the other chickens. Sponge will hear no end of complaints about roosters that sound like a transmission going bad and me?

Rufus, the remaining rooster, has decided that since there are no longer three roosters, he has to make up for the missing twins. If only he was Caruso, if only...

Suffering

My Butt Hurts

I am in training. That is not exactly true. I am actually drinking beer and having dreams of levitation. This is nothing new I drink beer and have these dreams all time. I drink a few beers, pick your integer, and then I dream I am floating above the world with a few pulses from the energy pulsing from my palms. Yeah,really, all of the time.

I could have used some of those pulses of energy last Saturday. Four of us went out on a 95 mile death ride. It could have been more fun but then we couldn’t call it a death ride. Why such a morbid moniker? Ordinarily on a long ride you take frequent breaks to rest and recharge. We stopped three times and one of those times was a red light. My good buddy Hudler said we should suffer as much as possible so that when we have a good ride we will know it.

I wonder if the pros have a training program like this. I have been told that Sean Kelly (Famous Irish Racer for the uninformed.) had a program based on suffering. Apparently his idea of a winter training camp was to ride a hundred miles a day in the Irish damp. A few weeks of this and pretty much everything else seems easy. I suspect there were a few pints of Guinness involved but purely formedicinal use.

Sponge Bob and I were having a discussion one very windy day. We are connoisseurs of wind. When we say very windy it means 35 - 40 mph with 50 mph + gusts. Some of the local club riders were doing the Jalapeno 100. This year it meant a 50 miles sufferfest back into that same horrid wind. We came to the conclusion that self inflicted suffering does not make one a hero, or a martyr. But, in the words of Rod Stewart, “Look how wrong you can be”

My friend Armando went out to ride the 50 mile segment of the Jalapeno. He brought his bike over before the ride to have me give it a once over. He lingered for a while to get some support and encouragement. This was to be his first 50 mile ride. I told him it’s only a couple of hours and he could do it no problem. Basically I nonchalantly sent him into the gates of hell. Many of the more experienced riders abandoned the ride but Armando stayed with it and finished. It took him a very long time and I know he must have been in pain. That makes him a hero in my book. He showed a lot of courage and determination. He has lost over 40 pounds because he started riding his bike instead of playing video games. He doesn’t race or even own a flashy bike but he’s the real thing.

Passing Note.

I get asked a lot about when I started cycling. 1960 in Alabama. Here is the oldest known picture of me riding. Yes, I really was that dirty.

The Road Goes On

So It Goes

I dislike writing eulogies. Having to write one invariably means someone close and dear has passed away. This time it was Sheldon Brown. Many people are writing about Sheldon these days.

“In August 2007 Sheldon was diagnosed with primary progressive multiple sclerosis. After losing his ability to balance an upright bicycle to the disease, he was able to continue pedaling by using a recumbent tricycle. Sheldon died on February 3, 2008 after a heart attack.” Wikipedia.

That says so little about Sheldon. I never met the man in person. He helped me with all things bicycle from the stupid newbie questions to esoteric conversion issues. I am one of many strangers he helped and I feel much more alone in the world now.

Road Trip Tucson February ‘08

My wife and I made our annual trip to Tucson this month. She takes a class in jewelry making and I rent a bike. The last couple of years her class was two days long, a Friday and Saturday. This year I had to settle for a Wednesday. I will not be writing about an epic shoot out with the bad boys, I wish I was. There is nothing like public admission of getting one’s butt kicked for humility.

I rode four SunTrans Buses before I got to the Fairwheel Bikes. I could have ridden a few less, but what kind of heel makes his wife ride across a city as big as Tucson by herself? The last couple of years she did exactly that. What...? It was the Saturday morning ride! What was I supposed to do?

Fairwheel had two of their rental bikes stolen. Both the 50 CM and the 52 CM. I ride a 50 CM and was stuck with a 54 CM. My legs reached the pedals and I could clear the cojones, but the steering was a little hinky. I took my trusty maps and headed off on a 50 mile loop that was supposed to be flat with some rolling hills. When did I become such a flatlander? Tucson’s idea of rolling hills is not our South Texas idea of rolling hills. Rolling hills I think of Iowa. There were not any epic climbs on this route but you do have to work.

I only got lost a couple of times. It helps to bring your bifocals so you can actually read the maps you so carefully packed. I stopped at the Saguaro National Forest to refill my water bottles and met Kyle. He was also in need of a map. We talked for a while and conferred over the map and then rode out on the wrong road. Bifocals do not make you Einstein. Long story short, we did not add too many miles to our route and had a splendid ride. I have found that as long as you are not judgmental and keep a little humility about you, there is always someone to ride with, damn near anywhere.

Kaboom!
Our good buddy Randy will not be going to Kerrville for the Easter Hill Country Ride this year. He and his motorcycle impacted a car. He has a bum ankle and 5 broken ribs. Try not to make him laugh. He has lots of support and sympathy though. Here is a direct quote from a dear friend.

“If I didn't want to face 109 hilly miles in Kerrville, I'd come up with a better(and less painful) excuse. How about, " I'm just not in shape?"

There is nothing like riding with your buddies.


Extras:

Fairwheel Bikes http://www.fairwheelbikes.com/
The best bike rentals in Tucson and home of some of the lightest bikes on the planet.

BICAS http://www.bicas.org/
Just because not everyone races but everyone should be able to ride if they want to.

Transition

Christmas is past and New Year’s Eve looms. The seasonal adversities are assailing me. There are the ghosts of Christmas past, the nostalgia for simpler times, when a box wrapped in shiny paper was more than enough to guarantee joy. The ghosts of Christmas future, the introspective angst, the desperate grasp for some little tiny bit of hope that will insure a good future and not bleak despair.

Then there is the ordinary ghost of Christmas present. Who knew that tamales and beer could add five pounds so fast! Okay, so that may have been an unexpected shift in timbre, but I’m a cyclist over 50 and five pounds is a tragic loss to the forces of youth. It was not such a big deal last year, I was only 49 but this year AARP has been reminding me weekly how old I am. There is no need to mention the memos from my skeleton and cryptic cartilaginous warnings that things may not be the same as they were a few years ago and a couple of asprin have replaced the Flinstone’s vitamins.

Lachrymose lamentations are not going to bring back the youth that so easily slipped away so let us turn to more practical considerations. I am considering New Year’s resolutions. I seldom make any, I so hate to be a disappointment to myself. I will make some goals for the coming year, nothing too lofty, just a simple plan to keep life from being keel-less and adrift.

I will not let you know the details of my plan. It is a personal guide for my own betterment and not a score card for the world to judge me. I will say I plan on riding a lot, having fun and being creative. Then there is the issue of tamales, beer and the astonishing five pounds. How do you say no to traditions, especially when they are ever so good? I refuse to eat low fat tamales or drink lite beer, life is to short to accept substitutes, so I guess I am going to just have to put in a few more miles.

Life is good.

Texarkana and the Return of the “Deathmobile”

Not long ago I had the pleasure of going on a road trip to visit the in-laws. They live in Texarkana, both Texas and Arkansas, which is a leisurely 14 hour drive from our house. This is not a trip we make often, it is not a destination on a par with Disney, more like Bubba Gump.

I did not take a bike on this trip, I took my kayak instead. There was a bike carrier in the back of the truck just in case I found that “must have” treasure at a garage sale, but the kayak was more appropriate this trip. Cycling in northeast Texas is, well, different would be polite if maybe charitable. There is however an abundance of murky lakes that are perfect for slow boats like mine.

We visited the in-laws in California one year. They lived in the foothills of the coast range in northern California. One morning I had planned a nice long ride up into the mountains. I had a decent enough bike and a nice route planned out. Unfortunately my shoe delaminated and I was left without a way to actually ride the bike.

My father in law had a bike he salvaged from the junk yard. It was a black spray painted cruiser, KHS brand. It had wobbly white wall tires, longhorn handlebars and a coaster brake. Did I mention they lived in the foothills? This bike was aptly christened the “Deathmobile” due to it’s reluctance to either go in a straight line or stop. What with being up at dawn on a beautiful morning and having all set for a ride, I took my life in my hands and rode the Deathmobile into town. (Corning, CA pop 5000) I got myself a large coffee and rode around town at a very relaxing pace. I must admit I had a blast.

Fast forward back to Texarkana. My father in law passed away a couple of years ago and there are no more junkyard treasures to play with. Sitting around my mother in law’s house was starting to get to me. I had already fixed everything on the “honey-do” list and done way too many crossword puzzles. I looked through the window of her shed and saw...handlebars. Lo and behold, the Deathmobile was there. I trued the wheels to an acceptable degree of wobble and filled the tires with two cans of fix a flat. I straightened the handlebars and used a very liberal amount of WD-40.

The Deathmobile was back on the road. It doesn’t wobble quite like it used to and it steers pretty good now. I am a much better mechanic than I was at the first encounter. It still has braking issues. One must plan to stop, not slam on the coaster brake. It was still a most enjoyable ride. Up the road to the local park, a couple of laps of chasing ducks and scaring pedestrians, it was all fun. Usually I get up in the dark on Saturday mornings, ply myself with espresso, slather on sunscreen and drag my lycra covered butt out to do battle.

Change is good. The Deathmobile generates more pure joy to be riding than I have felt in a long time. Cruising along at coffee sipping speed instead of hanging on at warp speed is a nice change. It is nice enough I may start a new Sunday ride. One without lycra and gears. A Coffee Ride where you have to ride slow enough to drink coffee and carry on a conversation at the same time. Indeed, I am heading to the Pawnshop to price a cruiser in basic black, with a cup holder and a coaster brake.