F*cking bicyclists!

 Mid-week, a couple rode in from Moultonborough on a tandem for a couple of quick adjustments. They ride a tandem because the stoker is blind. They reported that one or more drivers had yelled "fck you!" at them as they rode on Route 109.

I've mentioned before how the roads along the lake shore seem to attract a high percentage of assholes. I have had few incidents either on my commute or in my own neighborhood where there are no prestigious bodies of water. That all changes near any major lake in the state.

On Saturday's ride home, I got to the end of Bay Street in time to spot a "take it now or wait a while" gap, which I sprinted into. The intersection of Bay Street and 109A can be stressful when traffic is heavy with impatient drivers. The last two weeks of August have a hectic feel as vacationers rush to cram in the last of summer fun, and tired locals are more than ready to see the last of them for a while. Neither of these user groups has much patience for someone pedaling.

I made the gap cleanly in front of the line of cars coming up from my right. The leader of that bunch may have been setting up to turn left. There were vehicles coming from each of the three directions, far enough back to give me just enough time to go for it. If I had hesitated, I would have had to hover at the intersection for a long time while they sorted themselves out by pushing past me or cutting in front of me. So I made the left turn and faded to the right, settling into a steady climbing rhythm.

As the line of vehicles came up behind me, I heard continuous angry horn blasts. They weren't right behind me, so I knew they were directed at whoever was leading the bunch, who was apparently passing me too slowly and deliberately for the expert driver behind them. The honking continued as the first vehicle passed, and continued as the angry jerk in a black Mercedes SUV came through next. I expected a closer pass, but it's hard to manage the horn and the string of f-bombs and brush the cyclist's elbow all at once. He did say something about "fcking bicycle," but he sounded like his tantrum was already making him a bit short of breath. I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or ranting to the person in the vehicle with him.

Some people are unbelievably territorial on the road. Anything smaller and slower offends them. How dare we be out there getting in their way, even if we aren't really? The problem is that any particle in the flow changes the flow. Do these drivers want to spend all of their time in concrete-lined chutes, running full throttle to their next vitally important destination? Do the particles in a particle accelerator get hooked on it?

A couple looking for a ride route earlier in the week had thought that they would ride the Cotton Valley Trail, but the husband had a full-on road bike with skinny tires. Sure, a skilled rider could manage the trail on that, but he would spend all his time concentrating on the many rail crossings and the less than ideal surface for such a small footprint. His wife had an e-hybrid. Since they'd driven to town to ride, I figured they wouldn't mind driving a little more to get to nicer roads, so I sent them to park in my driveway and ride in my neighborhood. They left a nice note afterward, taped to the porch rail, so it must have gone well.

We're approaching the end of my bike commuting season, as darkness encroaches on the evening half of the ride. Elm Street in Ossipee is really bad in the dark, as drivers blind each other with their headlights. Last night coming home by car from the grocery store I followed an oversized pickup truck hauling a long trailer with a car on it as it turned in at Elm Street. I imagined having that behemoth try to pass me on a bike in there. Bad enough in daylight, let alone in the dark. And you know they would pass, or harass me for holding them back if I tried to cover the lane. Claiming space on the road becomes much harder in the dark.

A Wasp in the Crotch

 In late summer and fall, various species of social wasp turn into an unemployed bunch of mean drunks. With next year's brood bedded down, and fallen fruit fermenting, not to mention unattended drinks at the last cookouts of the year, workers whiling away their last days have nothing to do but look for sweet things and sting people.

Before that they may aggressively defend the nest. Last summer seemed particularly bad for the number and hostility of wasp colonies.

What does this mean to the cyclist? Road cyclists may travel near flowering plants where bees and wasps come and go. Off-road cyclists not only encounter these insects buzzing about the forest and field, but might encounter a ground nest inconveniently built under a trail feature. And that brings us to your shorts.

Over the course of half a century of bike commuting, I have taken more than a couple of wasps or bees up the shorts. I probably took in that many in my first year out of college. In 1979, my commute was roughly 14 miles each way, with a very enjoyable stretch on St. Margaret's Road headed out toward the Chesapeake Bay Bridge from Annapolis, Maryland. Honeysuckle grew thickly along parts of that. Because I wore either touring shorts -- basically hiking shorts with a chamois -- or classic black wool shorts, the leg fit was not snug enough to exclude a stinging insect I might accidentally scoop up on the way by. Fortunately, those hit the outside of my thigh on the right side. It didn't end well for the stingers. To stop the attack I had to pinch them in the cloth and then shake whatever was left out the bottom of the pant leg.

Canvas shorts are harder to sting through, should the wasp hit the outside of the fabric. Difficult but not impossible. The old wool shorts wouldn't stop anything. Lycra likewise presents no barrier at all to an angry hornet. However, modern pads, more elaborately engineered than the old chamois, do protect the most vital areas from direct attack. As poorly as Lycra armors against nearly anything, the heavy pads in most shorts now include a front section conveniently located to deter angry insect stabs. That's not its purpose, but it serves the purpose.

Yesterday, coming into Wolfeboro on Center Street opposite Whitten Neck Road, I was enjoying the curve in the road along a stone retaining wall, heading into a welcome short descent when I felt the burn of a wasp sting on my inner right thigh, what I would call the event horizon of the crotch, not right up in the junction, or the junk. I swatted it away, but it had already struck.

Riders who prefer street clothes or baggy cycling shorts, be warned. Long inseams might move the entry point down the leg, making wasp entry trickier than hitting the exhaust port in the utility trench on the Death Star. But someone did hit that. Fiction, I know. But there's always the real-life example of the HMS Hood, blown to smithereens by one lucky shell from the Bismarck in 1941. Long shots still have a shot.

My commuting setup includes a waist pack, which serves not only as extra carrying space but also as my light bar for rear-facing blinkies. Because of this, any undesired arthropods that fly in through the top zipper of my jersey can't just fall out the bottom. That has led to a few stings and crushed attackers over the years. I have to unbuckle the waist strap on the pack, shake the remains of the insect out the bottom of the jersey, and re-fasten the pack, usually while still riding. Who wants to stop? Not only that, stopping and putting down the landing gear takes time and exposes me to a longer attack by the irate and perhaps not yet deceased wasp.

As I researched this topic, I found many stories of other riders who have been stung, including on the head. A wasp in the helmet can be a real disaster, even if you aren't officially allergic. I'd already heard stories from motorcyclists who took one through the raised visor of a full-face helmet. I tie a bandanna underneath my helmet, which might serve at least to confuse a wasp. Maybe it will like the upholstery and feel like napping instead of attacking.

Riders who scorn helmets might chuckle at the self-created hardship of helmet wearers in this case, but you could just as easily get stung in the face.

Days later, the area of the sting still itches as the venom dissipates. Over the next two mornings, I gave the wall a wider berth and kept my knees even closer to the top tube than usual.

Wood soles and glove leather uppers

The forecast for this weekend wavered back and forth between a chance of showers or a chance of heavier showers.

Rainy rides test your resolve and your equipment. Depending on your bike, you might keep the worst of the deluge out of your butt crack by using proper fenders/mudguards, but in any kind of steady rain you will probably end up with very wet shoes. This is inconvenient for a recreational rider. It's more of a nuisance for a commuter.

Among the many nice things obliterated by progress, the coming of step-in pedal bindings in the mid 1980s, quickly wiped out the cleated racing shoes of the day.

When riders used toeclips and straps, the upper of the cycling shoe was made of light leather. The sole might be stiff layers of laminated leather, some form of plastic, or wood. The break-in procedure actually involved soaking the very tight shoes with water and then going for a long ride while they dried to the exact size of your foot. As soon as the secure grip shifted from a strap that went around the foot to a plastic widget that snapped into the pedal and held the foot from beneath, riders started ripping their shoes apart. D'Oh! Didn't think about that detail, did ya?

Road shoes evolved rapidly, growing various straps, as the uppers got thicker as well to account for the added stress on the shoes themselves and the riders' feet therein. Regardless of synthetic fabrics and ventilated mesh, all that upholstery takes longer to dry than a much lighter shoe with a wooden sole and a glove leather upper. I could stuff my leather shoes with newspaper and they would be dry by morning. My modern shoes might be dry by next week.

I had shoes ranging from almost cardboard soles up to some really nice contoured wood ones. I added over the counter Dr. Scholl's arch supports to counter a little pronation problem that came... and eventually went. I could strip down wet shoes to essential structure for fast drying in one or two easy steps.

I quit riding regularly in cleated shoes several years ago because I wanted to be ready to walk if necessary. My remaining pairs of shoes with slotted cleats were made in the clipless era. I still have a pair of 1980s Detto Pietros, but without cleats mounted. Some riders in ancient times would use shoes like that without the cleats just for the stiff sole to aid power transfer better than a bendy sneaker. Bata offered the Bata Biker, which was a canvas sneaker with a thicker sole under the ball of the foot, but without the bulky cupsoles and rands common today on shoes that ignore the needs and desires of the few remaining toeclip users.

In cycling, almost nothing dies out completely. The toeclip lives on. I predict that it will rise again when a new generation of riders recognizes its economic utility and freedom of choice in footwear. Every once in a while I dust off the old slotted cleats and go for a power ride. With toeclips I have that option: full power with cleated shoes or at least partial power with non-cleated shoes.

One way you can tell my content is not AI generated is the way I keep harping on the same old shit. Also, AI probably doesn't swear as much. My rationale is this: If a concept is good and true and important, repetition puts many versions of it out there for readers to find.

We are the ER of vacation fun

 In Resort Town, our bike shop sees not only a seasonal surge of service work, but intense spikes within it as vacationers and weekenders face unexpected mishaps.

Overall, the work load is far less than it was in the 1990s. We had two full-time mechanics and two full-time staffers who worked the sales floor and the workshop as needed. This level survived into the first decade of the next century, even though the bike industry had already torpedoed itself, and "supply side" economic policies were still hollowing out the general economy. It took at least twice as much work to bury us as deeply as we are buried now with just two elderly mechanics.

When the emergency cases started piling up this weekend, the long-term repair queue was basically empty. Most of the intensity had centered on renters picking up bikes on Friday for the local triathlon on Saturday morning. I had one flat tire job for kid or grandkid left over from the day before, and a repair estimate for a job for later in the week. Every walk-in flat tire or dropped chain qualified for a same-day turnaround. "I'm only here through Monday." "We're only here for the week." "We were just starting out on our ride." Within an hour, we had a full day of rush jobs.

Promise is too strong a word for the assurance we give that we can finish what looks like a simple job within minutes or hours, but it's close. We proceed with confidence because we succeed more often than we fail. You see it all the time on the television medical dramas. Simple diagnosis, initiate treatment, sudden downturn, beeping alarms...

Job 1: flat tire on a Surly Grappler. Clean bike, custom equipped with Brooks saddle and a fairly narrow -- by modern standards -- upright handlebar. Tube tires, so a nice, clean prospect. But then the bead fit was super tight coming off. Tubeless-ready rims are a plague, with their little shelf for the bead to snap into. But breaking the bead loose from that was only the first hurdle. I didn't start that repair, but it got handed off to me because I still have some residual grip strength. This only consumed a little extra time. By the end of the day, all those littles add up. hell, by the middle of the day they add up. Fortunately, the tire went on more easily than it came off. This is often the case. Inexperienced or impatient mechanics will panic and resort to tire levers.

Most of the repairs tumbled in at the same time, as people beginning their Sunday fun discovered their problems. I had already checked in a guy's road bike with a broken pad retaining bolt on the front disc brake and a broken spoke in the rear wheel. The full length of the broken spoke was still there, which meant that I could connect the new spoke to the old nipple, and that enough of the old spoke remained to get an accurate measurement. Pfft! No problem!

The pad retaining bolt, or screw, or pin, depending on you choice of internet search term, was the kind with threads right under the bolt head. The rest of the pin sticks though the tabs on the brake pads and out the other side of the caliper, with a retaining clip on the end of it. Although the customer had somehow managed to twist the head off of this small fastener with a 2.5mm head, I knew I could grab onto the other end of the pin and unthread it from there.

Grabbing the end was relatively easy with our smallest locking pliers. However, the space available in the Shimano 105 brake only allowed me to get about one-eighth of a turn at a time. Progress was imperceptibly slow at first. Everything in there is black or dark gray. Finally I saw threads emerging. This did not speed the process, but it verified progress.

Our stash of pad retaining screws did not include one long enough. I checked our suppliers. No one had one, including Shimano's B2B website. You could find them on retail sites, including titanium ones for stupid amounts of money, but we didn't have one and had no wholesale source. No matter. The customer needed it that day. I used a cotter pin, the way so many brakes do anyway.

On to the spoke. Rear wheel. Remove the cassette. Remove the brake rotor. Center-lock rotor using the same tool as the cassette lockring. Nice. All I have to do now is extract the broken spoke from the nipple and thread in another spoke to keep the nipple from disappearing into the rim.

The broken spoke was welded into the nipple. Fortunately, it was a brass nipple that could take some torque. Holding the spoke with the locking pliers, I twisted the spoke wrench. The nipple moved a little, with the protesting ratcheting noise of dry metal against dry metal. I flooded the area with penetrating oil. One nice thing about disc brakes: no need to keep a braking surface clean on the rim. With the rotor off the wheel, it was safe from drips as well. Good thing, too. It was at least a half hour freeing that spoke without destroying the nipple. If I needed to replace the nipple, that would mean removing the tire and peeling up the rim strip. Sometimes that only requires deflating the tire, pulling back the bead, and prying up a section of non-adhesive rim strip. These days, though, the rim might have "tubeless-ready" rim tape stuck down, not to mention an absurdly tight tire fit requiring more complete removal of everything. Hey, I don't give a shit, I get paid by the hour and bill accordingly. But when we're trying to accommodate a whole flock of people whose vacation fun depends on getting their bikes fixed now, extra steps just add more stress.

Into the chaos came a walk-in with a folding bike. She was half of a couple, but only one bike needed our attention. Based on its condition, I would bet that the other one did, too, but as long as they were satisfied, I wasn't going to instigate anything.

"The chain keeps falling off here." She pointed down between the small cog and the dropout. I could see that the derailleur was hanging funny. "I was trying to tighten the brakes. I messed with this cable too." That was the shift cable.

It took a while to get it onto the stand. The limit screws on the derailleur were run all the way out, so you had your choice of whether to drop the chain down beside the small cog or throw it into the spokes. The customer had run the brake cable the wrong way around its anchor bolt and graunched it down, oblivious to the deeply and unevenly worn pads. The shift cable anchor bolt was rotated in a way we see often, thanks to a quirk of Shimano design. There's a little tab that is meant to hold the plate in the proper attitude while the cable runs under one edge. Instead, people are constantly turning it to put the cable under the little tab. The bike could have used another hour of cleaning and adjustments by the time I got the derailleur working and replaced the brake pads, but it was safe and functional. It can be admitted later for the less acute problems.

Just before the weekend I had done a spoke and tire job on a mountain bike with tubeless tires. That one worked out well, because the customer used spoke hole plugs instead of stupid rim tape. The breaking spoke had popped its plug loose, deflating the tire quickly and completely. I had ready access to the spoke hole to install the new one. We had some rim plugs sitting around, to replace the one damaged when the spoke blew out. The tire re-seated and held. So that was nice. There was only one complication. When I had everything back together all snug, I spun the wheel and heard something rattling, either inside the tire or the rim itself. Fearing it might be another old rim plug or some other debris I had overlooked inside the tire while the bead was detached, I took everything apart to remove whatever was rattling.

There was nothing in the tire except still-wet sealant. The noise was in the rim. Broken nipple? Bits of rim plug? I shook and shook and shook it to move the object to a spoke hole. Eventually, a perfect sphere of something fell out. It was dark and appeared hard. Ball bearing? Too light. And it crumbled under a firm pinch with my fingers. Also, the rim still rattled. I shook it over and over as it released a total of four of these little dung balls. Near as I can figure, they're composed of sealant, trail dirt, and carbon dust, spun into spheres by wheel rotation.

That was just on my stand. El Queso Grande had his own set of urgent care cases, as well as launching most of our renters, and working the register for sales of clothing, sunglasses, daypacks and other merch. It's like the ER staff also operate the hospital gift shop. Hurry up and stitch that laceration! Someone needs a tee shirt! Fortunately, no real lives are at stake. I mean, we need to do our work right so that riders don't end up in the actual ER on our account, but successful repair doesn't depend on speed and precision the way emergency medicine does. However, some of the clientele get fretful over how their planned day of fun is bleeding out on the bike shop floor. We're here to literally save the day.

Between the end-to-end days and the bike commutes on either end, the hours left over go to preparing for the next day and trying unsuccessfully to get enough sleep. The days off go to catching up on that sleep whether I want to or not, and all of the routine chores to get ready for another week. And summer's over and the days are shrinking and we face east awaiting the sun again. Sure, there are a few weeks left, and all of fall, but the cellist is leaving for her school year job, leaving behind the keening silence of tinnitus and the decaying sunlight of our turn toward the season of darkness.