Citizen Rider

Self Editing

2012-01-27T15:15:00.003-05:00

A woman was just surveying our selection of energy bars, gels, beans and whatnot.

"You don't have Larabars?" she said. "I love Larabars. They're all natural. There's absolutely no added sugar, it's just nuts and dried fruit."

"Oh! You mean it's sterilized bear shit," I didn't say. But I wanted to. I really, really wanted to.

They really do sound great. I just have a warped sense of humor. When she talked about all natural substances and nothing but fruit and nuts all I could think of was bear patties I've seen so many times in the woods.

Way off season

2012-01-25T13:30:00.001-05:00

Another bout of warm, wet weather wiped out nearly all the cross-country ski trail we had on life support. Here it is, late January and we're putting in some quality time with our rental bikes. Not that we have much to spend on early Valentine gifts for them. At least we can take note of the condition of each of them so we have an idea what complaints renters will have when they return them.

Big G and I are brainstorming as usual. So far we've come up with an idea to set up an aerial gondola over Wolfeboro as a tourist attraction and public transportation. We might end up doing a monorail instead. This was after we had some fun imagining where we could run zip lines from our building. That led to a gondola across Back Bay. The gondolas would have to have bike racks to make it easier to get to the bike path and other attractions on that side of the Smith River.

The discussion evolved to include Celebrity Blimp Tours along the waterfront of Sewall Road. Big G has dealt with the regulations governing carrying passengers by air. He started reeling off some of the things that would be required particularly for a route over water. I immediately thought of a marketing tie-in.

"In the event of a water landing, we will send you digital photos of yourself struggling in the lake as a complimentary souvenir of your memorable day! In the regrettable event that they need to be sent to your next of kin they will be tastefully packaged in a suitably commemorative way." This is a class act.

Forced to rely on our imaginations for occupation and diversion we're looking toward the bike season because the ski season keeps teasing us and flitting away. It isn't really bike season. Winter holds title to the next ten weeks even if it never decides to take a firm grip. Rather than strap myself onto the Nordic Track -- the most effective and therefore the most torturous exercise machine ever invented -- I run the stairs in my house from basement to loft over and over and then ride rollers for 40 minutes or so. Follow that with some stretching and call it good enough. The stairs are steep. It isn't bad. Any time I'm home I can throw in a lap or two without having to put on special clothes. If March is more like spring than winter I can venture out on the road then. Can't think about it yet.

We'll just keep redesigning Wolfeboro.

Doing my own maintenance

2012-01-19T13:42:00.000-05:00

I was going to change my violin cables today but I decided to wait. I'm told they will have to settle in with use and I have a class tonight.

I have a bad habit of playing this thing like some sort of bastard ukele when I'm trying to pick out a tune without making too loud a noise. Usually it's no big deal, but I had some skin repairing lotion on my hands to try to remedy winter's cracking and scaliness when I suddenly got an urge to track down a little reel that's been embedded in my brain because I keep grabbing the same CD for entertainment in the car. When I dared move on to the bow, it sounded all mooshy because I'd gotten goozh all over the strings. These strings are old anyway. The A looks like it could go any time. Just as I carry spare shift cables on my commuting bike, I wheedled a spare set of strings out of the cellist (who is also my dealer) so I could have them with me when I finally do need to put them on.

My ultimate hope is that one day I will be able to play well enough to play my own background music for cycling videos. That way I don't have to worry about using copyrighted material or have to sift through hours of public domain stuff to find something I like. Usually I have a tune in my head when I'm riding. Since I started trying to learn to play, that tune is often something I'm working on anyway.

Don't hold your breath. We could all be dead before I'm good enough to play anywhere but a locked closet. But you never know.

Cross Training Sucks

2012-01-18T16:44:00.000-05:00

With the arrival of an unusable but significant amount of snow, followed by a deep freeze, it has become Nothing Season. Roads are icy while cross-country ski trails don't have enough base depth for the groomer to till the icy coating into skiable granules. This forces the working cyclist into creative training strategies.

Because the kind of weather we're having doesn't encourage anyone to come into our shop we have long hours in which to pursue other activities. Employees and our rare visitors track in a lot of sand and salt from the parking lot and walkways, so I decided to take a few minutes to vacuum it up.

The vacuum cleaner seemed suspiciously heavy. When I extracted the bag it felt like something you could pile on top of the levee to divert flood waters. When I searched for a replacement I found an empty package. Apparently one can't just nip down to the hardware store to get new bags for this model. Even though it was obviously full to capacity I would have to use it anyway. I did extract the big hair and lint wad hanging from the inlet before placing the sand bag back into the vacuum.

When I finished the bag weighed 12 pounds. I would have thought it was heavier. The floor is somewhat cleaner. On the plus side, I burned more calories and got a bit of an upper body workout maneuvering the overweight vacuum around the sales floor.

Late last week, temperatures plunged below zero for two nights. It was so chilly in the shop that I wore my Bob Cratchit gloves while doing inventory. The heat seems to operate by its own rules. Some days are chilly, regardless of whether the day outside is particularly frigid. Other days it pays to dress in layers you can easily shed. This does not seem to correspond to solar input or the compressors operating in the basement. Sometimes the wind direction seems to make things colder, but the same wind direction does not always have the same effect.

Who really cares?

Over the holiday weekend the place was so dead I was running up and down the back stairs. Then I was walking up and down the back stairs. Then I had to stretch my legs to keep from cramping. My colleague George wants to set up a trainer we can ride when things are quiet. That's starting to sound good. Usually I listen to motivating tunes through headphones but I might work up a good spin by pretending I can get away from the "easy listening" station that gets pumped through here all the doodah day. Sirius makes the computer get stupid and the CD player is busted. We can't get really sweaty, though.

I did order another light set from Peter White. For the moment I can install it on any bike that will take the dynamo wheel I already have. Later I can build the 26" version to get the trail commuter fully operational. I'm really starting to groove heavily on the racks, lights and fenders thing. It does raise the stakes in case of theft. That bothers me as it would bother anyone who was making beater car levels of investment in what is far from a beater bike. Theft is not a huge issue around here, but I do think globally while acting locally.

Rational Daylight Saving Time (or none at all)

2012-01-11T16:10:00.001-05:00

When the start of Daylight Saving Time was moved to early March it really screwed with everyone's body clock around here. It shoves sunrise back to the equivalent of early January and brings a weirdly unseasonable light to the evening. As much as DST caused a certain amount of jet lag when it started in April, the effect of changing in March never seems to wear off. Daylight doesn't make it springtime.

I've started a petition to the US government to return Daylight Saving Time to a start in April. By April the day length is over 12 hours. The change does create a bit of disruption even then, but the longer day in general makes it much easier to manage. Please sign it and publicize it if you agree.

The petition reads:

"The current early onset of Daylight Saving Time in March creates more problems than it solves. It is far more disruptive to people's systems than when the change took place in April, when day length was already over 12 hours. Move the start of DST back to April and end it in October or just shift the day a half-hour later and leave it there all the time."

In the past couple of lackluster winters I have launched the bike commute in March with the advantage of evening daylight. The price of that is the morning darkness that pushes us mentally back to midwinter. The morning and the evening don't go together at all. Add the usually fickle and fretful March weather and you get a very strange mental state. It's just not worth it.

Some bitching and a bike ride

2012-01-09T21:09:00.000-05:00

Ha! Check it out: I go all gloom and doom in this blog and that blog, dredge one of the fixed gears out and take a ride and presto! A storm that was supposed to deliver rain on Thursday has shifted its track to a snowier one.

I feel confident in saying it will dump something significant, because I had made up my mind that I didn't want it to. If it does, I will dutifully and gratefully serve any members of the cross-country skiing public who show up. Money is good, survival is great. Winter is supposed to be winter, after all. Just because things around here look a lot like winter in Maryland used to 30 years ago doesn't mean they can't revert however briefly to New England's more traditional conditions. As far as that goes, the forecast still falls within the range of temperature and precipitation that would have seemed normal in the Middle Atlantic region. The climate, it is a changin'.

Thirty years ago in Maryland I would have commuted by bike all winter, interrupted only by the few days on which frozen precipitation fell too heavily and lay around too long for me to ignore it. I became pretty adept at tiptoeing across some slippery patches on the fixed gear. When snow was deep and sloppy the slithering was too dangerous, but your average winter street was just interesting.

Up here the commute is too long and too much of it is on the highway for me to venture out. In Annapolis I could switch to walking and still not be too horribly late. On the days when I didn't want to ride I usually walked anyway.

The ride today woke up a few muscle groups and reminded me to cut back on coffee. The old cardiovascular system feels like it's lugging pretty hard when my basal caffeine level is over five cups a day. At least that's true when I'm coming out of a long layoff. When I get into the regular riding groove my system can support a long, steady caffeination if I hit it lightly at breakfast and then nurse a big cup through the middle of the day.

The roads were eerily deserted. Some cars passed, but I had things to myself a lot of the time.

I stopped at the town offices first. It's time for one of the most important and highly-anticipated rituals of New Hampshire citizenship: buying a new annual dump sticker. After that I continued on one of my convenient short rides to log 15 miles.

This snow thing is going to throw a hitch in the mix. Maybe I can commute on skis on part of my rail-trail route. Commuting time makes the most convenient exercising time. That's why I started doing it so long ago and why I hold onto it so tenaciously.

Saturday, 3 p.m.

2012-01-07T21:32:00.001-05:00

Three p.m. Two and a half hours to closing time and by this hour it's highly unlikely that anyone will bring anything interesting to us. We've used up the jobs we had on hand. The boss is understandably a bit grouchy, so we don't want to look unacceptably idle as we brainstorm about things the business can do with its future or things we can do with our future if the business proves not to have one. Am I serious? Time will tell. But such is the precarious nature of life.

Bike repairs wander in one or two at a time. My work stand is wedged into the rack of rental skis.

We rang the dinner bell for some off-season repairs. Maybe that will fill the queue. And if Murphy still has any clout with the winter precipitation, an influx of bikes to fix will surely trigger a major snowstorm and a flood of pent-up ski renters. So, either way, problem solved.

This weather does make the MTB commuter look more and more tempting. Again, this presents an opportunity for winter weather to make a mockery of that investment. That's okay, so far I'm not planning to make it. But it's harder not to think about it.

Inspiration and encouragement

2012-01-03T20:16:00.000-05:00

My brother gave me two books by Jan Heine this Christmas. The Golden Age of Handbuilt Bicycles and The Competition Bicycle, a Photographic History are luscious picture books of fascinating machines.

The hand built bicycles draw mostly from the world of randonneurs. The bikes are sturdy and capable but many are surprisingly light, as are some of the "primitive" competition bikes from the 1920s and '30s. My long commute has always had more elements of a day tour than a race anyway. As I add equipment for bad weather and darkness I appreciate the technology used by riders going long distances without support.

I rode my first and only double century with a support car. I had never envisioned it as a supported ride but when I finally did it I needed to document it as efficiently as possible because I hoped to sell magazine articles about it. I needed the income because I was unemployed after the magazine I was working for as a staff writer was unable to produce a paycheck I could actually cash. I came up with a route and a concept that seemed like it would sell. It did, though never for enough to make a significant dent in my expenses.

On my second double century attempt, a companion and I got dropped off in Sherbrooke, Quebec, and set out for Effingham by a route we hoped would come out to 200 miles. I had measured on the only maps I had. We only rode 180 that day, but we did not feel like going after the other 20 when our shortfall became obvious as we came down from Crawford Notch. The important thing to us was that we did it without support, even dealing with one or two minor mechanical issues.

The rider who came with me on the Sherbrooke ride came with me on a number of other rides longer than 100 miles, all but one of them completely unsupported. We would start at my house or his and end up back there, hours later. On one ride we finished in Bridgton, Maine, where someone met us with a car. It was prearranged that way, not a result of rider or machine breakdown.

We had a racing mentality and racing bicycles. Some of the discomforts we endured would have been less of a problem if we had equipped our bikes with lights and fenders. My road bike is comfortable for long days, because it's vintage steel and not excruciatingly tight and steep like modern racing steeds, but it's still a racing bike. With the 700X28 tires on it, there's no room for fenders. It does not have rack eyelets the way my old Eisentraut Limited did. The Eisentraut was only a little tighter than the Cross Check. The 'Traut doesn't have the tire clearance that the Cross Check does, but it certainly had all-day comfort. Of the original frame, the chain stays and seat tube have each been replaced once and it's on its third fork. A split in the underside of the lower head lug has been filled with brass. I got the 1975 frame used in 1979 and rode it a lot until 1995. My torch wizard recommended after the last repair that I retire it to ceremonial use only. She provided the Tim Isaac Trek that now wears my motley assortment of heirloom components.

The constructeur bikes in the Heine volume take the concept of proprietary products farther than Shimano ever dreamed, yet somehow it's nowhere near as offensive. The bikes were unabashedly pricey. On the other hand, the builders did not turn around and try to yank more and more big money out of their customers with short warranties on fragile crap and constant changes to drive trains that made repair expensive and difficult. The bikes were built for endurance. The riders who bought them planned to own them for a long time and ride them long distances.

As my colleague George and I turned the pages of the book devoted to competitive bicycles he noticed what I had, that the bikes seemed less and less interesting as we approached the most recent examples. The art was replaced by an industrial feel, as if the engineering, the cold, hard numbers had taken the humanity out of the bikes. They are something to clip yourself into with mechanical latches and switch on a machinelike part of yourself to push them and yourself to your physical limit. It's glorious, but -- in the execution -- joyless.

Even as I write that I recall exultation in a strong racing performance. Much of the time, though, it only feels really good after you stop. Then it feels better and better in recollection. When you're actually hammering there's a lot of re-swallowing puke and trying to control fear in tight corners in a large field or swooping down a steep descent with a bunch of suicidal maniacs.

The rando and camping bikes provide a lot of ideas for the budget-conscious rider to add to a practical bike built on a mass-produced frame. Options include vintage bikes from the 1970s and early 1980s, expensive and affordable steel frames from custom and production builders today and current examples from constructeurs working today. One approach to economy is to buy something truly first-class and take great care of it, like a man I know in Maine who bought a diesel Mercedes in 1974 and still has it.

I can't say how much endurance riding I'll get to do beyond my commute. For various reasons I can't even predict how much I'll be able to do my commute. I certainly hope to, but you really never know what's going to happen to you next. The perspective of middle age has killed off the ignorant optimism of young adulthood. You can train and plan and say what you hope to do, but the resolve, however strong, may not be the strongest force in your life when the actual time comes.

In the meantime, the beautiful bikes of builders who cared about every detail reassure me that such people exist and they value some of the same things I do. The bikes are also just nice to look at.

Mental Activity

2011-12-29T20:16:00.000-05:00

My life's work has been riding to work.

I've ridden my bike to every job I've had since I graduated from college in 1979. I had no idea it would be such a controversial and political activity when I took it up. It just made sense: I got exercise and saved money. Why wasn't everyone doing it?

Whatever else I planned to do and still hope to accomplish, riding the bike is the most effective advocacy I can think of. Be seen on it. People will eventually have questions and ask them. They also take your opinion more seriously when they see you acting on it.

Winter is tough for cycling around here. Even in the warmer, lighter months I understand that many people have to rely on motor vehicles. Sharing the road goes both ways. Motorists do have a big responsibility because their vehicles are large and hard, but bicyclists have to balance their rights against the need to move people from place to place cooperatively. It's a balance more complicated than a few regulations can encompass. I spend most of the winter waiting for the next bike season. If I had only to deal with the weather and light my way through the darkness I could handle it. The vehicles with which I have to share the road create the vast majority of the obstacles. So I journey inwardly.

Winter used to be mountaineering season. Any cross-country skiing I did on the groomed trails where I work was only to build and maintain fitness for excursions to places that were harder to reach. These activities provided good alternative training to relieve the unbalanced fitness and possible overuse injuries a year-round cyclist might suffer. The upper body muscle came in handy for the season of splitting and carrying firewood. Now splitting and carrying firewood forms the majority of my winter exercise. I don't have the right amount of time in the right places in the day to do anything ambitiously athletic or to prepare for any expeditions. Some time after the first of the year I will probably start riding the rollers. I also keep saying I will start walking the path to work in lieu of riding it, but so far I just sleep too late and drive the whole way.

Depending on the amount and quality of the snow I might do a park-and-ski commute on the path. It's used by snowmobilers, so I have to worry about being buzzed by motorheads. It's a lot easier to dive off the path on skis than it is to bail from the roadway on a bike (should I be inclined to do that). In places it would even be fun, although the path follows a valley floor, so it provides no real opportunities to dive down a glade and crank a few turns.

The most practical ski for path commuting is not a very sporty one for fast striding, but conditioning is conditioning.

Skiing depends on a narrower range of conditions than cycling. If I ski in on a cold morning and a wet warm front moves in during the day, it could wipe out the snow completely. The trip back to the car would be a muddy plod. The reverse is also true: I might walk in the morning on bare ground and face a foot of snow in the evening. If the weather goes from dry and chilly in the morning to wet in the evening when I'm riding the bike I just ride anyway. I have fenders. So winter is more finicky than the seasons that aren't winter. It's really easy to abandon self-propelled transportation entirely and go from car to building to car to building, day after day until suddenly you're a waddling doughball facing bike season with no fitness base. That happened to me last year.

I don't make New Year's resolutions. If something is a good idea, it's a good idea. Do or don't do. The date does not matter. Last winter was pretty crappy for a number of reasons. This winter has already delivered woes of its own, with death and illness around town. Quite often there's more to consider than the weather or the traffic when deciding when or whether to go out.

Art, Footwear and False Economy

2011-12-14T13:47:00.001-05:00

We save boxes to re-use for shipping. Cross-country ski boots especially call for boxes of a certain size to protect them properly without sending a bulky, space-wasting package.

I found this calligraphy on the perfect box for a pair of racing boots I was boxing for shipment today. Ordinarily we obliterate old marks so they don't confuse the shipper. In this case I figured I did not have to destroy something pretty since it did not convey misleading information to UPS. It was box 1 of 1 in our shipment as well as the one in which it had arrived. The number meant nothing but was harmless. I liked how whoever wrote it made it look nice.

This post started as a little report on winter cycling footwear. Opportunities to write are limited. So are opportunities to ride. Generally at some point in mid December I just take a deep breath, dive down and swim hard (metaphorically) toward the end of the holiday season. Maybe that takes me into the beginning of ski season or maybe we spend long dismal hours waiting for bankruptcy in an endless mud season. Ski season no longer represents much in the way of fun, because I don't get to ski consistently enough to call it a conditioning program. I might as well still live in Annapolis. But I digress. For the moment, I take the rides I can get.

The weather has been warm for most of the fall. The big snowstorms weren't particularly cold and they had warm weather before and after them. For most of my path commutes I have been able to wear an old pair of Diadora touring shoes that are great for toeclips. They have a smooth sole and a tapered toe, plenty of support and only light Velcro straps. Of course they are no longer made.

The touring shoes have the usual mesh uppers. I have used neoprene toe warmers and even booties with them, but the lack of a cleat means the pedal wears more directly on the neoprene. Also, neoprene covers all have huge holes in them to accommodate cleats. That's a drawback even with cleated shoes because cold air and wetness can get in through these built-in leaks.

I put tape over the mesh in places, but it doesn't last and it doesn't cover enough. I have also used various combinations of liner socks and plastic bags.

*****

With my cleated shoes the neoprene toe covers and booties work adequately, but I don't like to ride the trail with cleated shoes in case I have to walk. I also don't like to ride far from home in the winter with cleated shoes because a breakdown might force me to walk in all kinds of sand, snow and slush. It has happened. A short ride can be a rough, long walk when you are abusing your riding shoes with every step.

A few days ago the temperature was about 20 degrees. I skipped the cycling shoes entirely. I have a pair of North Face shoes -- called Snow Sneakers I believe -- that are insulated and waterproof. They're stiff enough. They fit into the toeclips adequately. They were gratifyingly toasty on the truly frosty morning.

Bikes continue to trickle in for repairs. This fork is from a cheap mountain bike called an FS Elite (made in USA!) that a customer wanted refurbished for some offspring living in New York. He pointed to the broken fork brace.

"That's not important, right?" he said. "I mean, it doesn't really do anything." He did agree to have the fork replaced when I told him I could scrounge up a rigid, one-inch fork with a threaded steerer from the basement. We used to do fork replacements all the time in the late 1980s and early '90s. Suspension technology has virtually eliminated the damage riders used to inflict by jumping. They can still trash forks, but in different ways. This one was just cheap junk.

The holidays continue to bear down. I might get one or two rides before January. Then it's mostly up to the weather and whatever disruptive events might lurk in the mists of the future. Last winter was kind of a bucket of crap. I hope this one is better.

It's Brilliant!

2011-12-06T08:37:00.001-05:00

After nine months with the dynamo hub, I still love it. It adds weight and resistance that a removable battery light wouldn't, but you would have to remove the battery light to save the weight. So that just leaves resistance.

A transportation bike is going to weigh more than a sport or competition bike. Even mountain bikes are using exotic materials and evolved designs to reduce their weight compared to bikes with similar features from a decade or more ago. But the transportation category includes cargo bikes and heavy tourers, so we quit worrying excessively about every gram when we started down that path. Or road.

In 1980, when I worked at my first bike shop job and thought it was a temporary thing while I got a more illustrious career in order, our tribal elder and wise man -- he was 32 -- told us that a generator adds about a gear's worth of resistance when it is operating. He said this as he was installing the classic Union bottle generator onto the Motobecane he was configuring as a fixed-gear commuter with racks and fenders. We were all assembling different forms of the same thing. Most of us, with limited budgets and more of a focus on racing, used completely inadequate lights.

When I got a better job (relatively speaking) the following year, I invested in my own Union generator, and later acquired a Sanyo that drove off the tread face of the rear tire, rather than the sidewall. The increase in resistance never seemed as clear-cut as "a gear's worth." Does that mean a one-tooth jump or a larger increment? Even in the days of anemic incandescent bulbs it was great to have a fairly steady light. With Union's battery pack accessory it would even stay lit when the bike stopped. Any resistance it might have added was never enough to discourage me from flipping the lever to activate the light.

The specter of resistance still haunted me. When I moved to my present home and faced a 14- to 15-mile hilly ride each way for my commute I carried as little as possible on the bike or myself. The season of darkness ended my riding each year.

When powerful battery lights emerged as mountain bikers pushed into the darkness, they offered amazing illumination compared to any battery or generator light I had previously encountered. But then the problem of battery life became more important. When your light is already pretty feeble, its dimming seems less dramatic than when you start out with something that lets you read a newspaper at 50 yards when it's fresh, but leaves you groping in its dying glow when the charge runs out.

Rechargeable batteries needed careful handling to avoid over-discharging them and over charging them. As battery and charger technology evolved, we were told that running the batteries out was no longer a problem. So-called smart chargers eliminated the problem of frying the batteries if you left them baking too long as well. After using some of them I remain unconvinced, especially about the chargers.

At best, rechargeable batteries have a finite life anyway. They can only survive a certain number of charging cycles. So you go through a period of diminishing efficiency as the battery nears the end of its functional life.

Cold temperatures also diminish the power of many batteries. When I used my mountain biking light as a headlamp for night skiing I had to tuck the battery inside my clothing. When I took cold rides with the battery mounted to the bike it would suffer from the exposure. The battery lights I have on my helmet now don't work as well in sub-freezing temperatures. But then, who does?

The SRAM iLight hub dynamo I chose had very few reviews on the Internet compared to the Shimano, Sanyo and Schmidt hubs. Schmidt is the gold standard: expensive but excellent. Shimano is often rated as the next best choice. Shimano has prospered for decades making the second best item in many categories, bringing them to market at a price significantly lower than the top brand. Now they are recognized as a leader by many. Love 'em or loathe 'em, they do put out a lot of useful items along with container ship loads of technofascist whizbang garbage. I try to avoid them when I can because of that, but they're so huge that they end up providing things their major competitors won't.

Shimano made my job easier when choosing a hub because they did not offer a 36-hole hub that was not set up for disc brakes. SRAM did. So did Schmidt, but I work in a bike shop. I'm not pulling in Schmidt money. We have an account with Peter White, importer and distributor, but even with that it's an investment.

The SRAM seemed like it was a bit better than the Sanyo for comparable money. In particular it seemed to have lower drag with the light off. That resistance is the price you pay for unlimited light.

A 36-hole hub is probably overkill for my commuting routine. I went with something that strong in case I take a heavily loaded tour. Since I can imagine putting dynamo lighting on almost every bike I own now, I could see building on hubs with lower spoke counts for some of them.

Because I have not ridden with the Schmidt or Shimano hubs, I can't say if I would find them easier to push. The Schmidt certainly has impressive numbers, especially with the light turned off. However, I don't go without the advantages of the dynamo hub just because I could not afford the very best.

If you have a frame with a dynamo bracket already built onto the stays or fork, you can mount a sidewall generator like the Busch and Muller Dymotec 6 I used initially. I had problems maintaining alignment because of the tires I use and the way the add-on mounting bracket clamps the seat stay. Rather than continue to put a hurt on the frame tubing I went to the hub. With the sidewall generator you have zero resistance with the lights off. The downside is that you have to make specific arrangements to improve performance in wet weather. The wire-brush roller for wet conditions can mess up a tire pretty quickly if you don't have it lined up right. Also, most tires do not have a real dynamo track molded into the sidewall. German brands are more likely to, because of Germany's lighting requirements for transportation bikes. It's not a feature most tire makers highlight in their product descriptions in North America.

If you go with a dynamo instead of battery system you can get accessories to charge and power your small electronic devices so the electricity you produce during daylight won't go to waste. Some lights also come with daytime running lights now.

I have noticed that motorists show more respect when I run the big light. Something about its power seems to put me on a more equal footing. Fewer oncoming drivers leave their high beams on when I have a light that makes a bigger impact on them. It's aimed down where I need it, so it does not blind anyone driving toward me, but it clearly gets their attention even when I'm not running flashing lights on the handlebar to enhance visibility.

The wide Toplight Line Plus tail light probably helps for overtaking vehicles, but I never ride on the road without my full array of flashing tail lights as well. The Planet Bike Superflash pounds out a sharp warning that commands respect even when the sun is up. As the centerpiece of a night array with two flanking flashers it probably makes me look like an official vehicle. The bluish tint to the Beamers in flashing mode on the front of the bike may subliminally suggest police lights to drivers who chronically have a guilty conscience anyway.

Some things you have to experience for yourself

2011-12-05T16:14:00.001-05:00

Riding out the path on Saturday night I was pondering how I (or anyone) could shoot a video that really presents the essence of a night ride.

It's hard enough in daylight. A ride appears linear, but travels through four perceptible dimensions on its apparently forward course.

Exceptionally talented fixed-gear riders might proceed an impressive distance on a backward course, but such riders are rare and even they usually have better things to do.

At night the most visible field narrows to the areas shown by whatever you are using for lights. When I was in my twenties, if my corrective prescription was absolutely up to date I might be able to ride at a foolish clip at night without any lights, but now I rely on powerful technology to make sure I see and am seen. With light comes shadows. But the world still exists in the darkness all around you.

The temperature was 27 degrees F when I started out. Some frost was starting to form. Stars glittered alongside half a moon. Things tend to glitter on winter nights even before snow spreads a luminous blanket over everything. The sky, if it's clear at all, seems exceptionally clear in the cold months. The bright stars quiver as if the frigid breeze reached them. Crystals form instead of dew as the night's chill settles. Reaching beams from a cyclist's light strike these minuscule reflectors that sparkle back.

As noted many times, the path I ride requires frequent zigzags to go between the rails or exit from them. The rhythm of the ride includes the sudden slowing, the well-practiced angulation, the sprint away. Each of these maneuvers swings the light. My comparatively weak helmet light probes for the course I plan to take while the powerful dynamo light splashes its radiance where the bike is actually pointing. Each pass through the rails is a tricky bit of peering to find the built-up crossing outside the brightest patch and get the bike lined up with it. When the fallen leaves are deep the crossings can disappear. I've over-run them a few times, jolting humorously down the uncovered railroad ties beyond the filled-in travel way.

Riding often leads to reverie. The rhythm provokes a meditative state that becomes even stronger at night. It can be nicely dreamlike.

On the road, a rider needs to be careful of motor traffic. Some roads are quite nicely desolate. Others are annoyingly busy. Off road it can be weird and lonely. But what you feel comes from inside you, so you can control it. If you are fortunate enough to have one or more compatible companions for the night ride that can hold any creepy feelings at bay. Remember, of course that in scary movies they often pick off members of a group one by one. The progressive disappearances add to the fear. So just because you have someone with you doesn't mean you won't be abducted by aliens or successively slashed and/or devoured by someone or something. So hey, you might as well go alone.

Wishbiking

2011-12-01T14:19:00.001-05:00

This is the story of a project that may never happen.

The grand movements of nature and society have traditionally followed their own course regardless of the plans of individuals. This seems especially true when individuals lay those plans to adapt to those grand movements.

In the previous couple of years that I have been trying to use the Cotton Valley Trail to extend my bike commuting season into the dark months, the decision to quit has been mine to make, well before winter weather really shuts things down. This year we've had two significant snowstorms that forced me off the path before December even arrived. Each one melted after a while.

Between October's storm and November's I took a look at my old mountain bike. The Cross Check is an excellent bike. If I owned only one bike it would be that one. But I don't. I build to meet my needs. I quit riding the mountain bike completely after I built the Cross Check, because I no longer wanted to spend time looking for technical trails. But what if technical trails came to me?

The basic bike starts with a 1996 Gary Fisher Aquila frame. Originally I switched over most of the parts from my 1991 Stumpjumper. Over time I added linear-pull brakes and a 58-94 crank so I could run smaller rings up front. Who knew 58-94 was going to be such a temporary thing? I mean, bike companies make perfectly good stuff disappear all the time, but some things really seem to have a very short run. I put on wider bars with a bit of rise because my technical mountain biking advisor told me they would improve the handling. They seem to, but I hardly rode the bike after the mods.

The shifters remain where they belong: on top of the bars.

When mud was a selling point and filth was fun we would charge out on the rotting ice of thawing snowmobile trails and laugh about our sprawls in frigid water and silt. As much fun as that sounds, it's not good if your ride ends at your place of employment. They don't care how I look when I arrive. We all used to ride in the gook together. However, I have to be ready to work with customers.

In the 1990s I tried studded mountain bike tires when they first became popular. They were novel, but I was more likely to skate or ski if ice or snow were good. If the winter was acting like an endless November I wouldn't need the studs to ride the trails. I sold my test pair to a local ice boater who used his bike to ride around on frozen lakes when he had left the boat offshore. Ice isn't the issue here, but cargo capacity, mud and water are. So is darkness.

Fenders and a rack are easy. Lights not so much. I'm really addicted to the power and limitless running time of the dynamo lights. Knobby tires make a hub dynamo a better choice. Since the entire evening commute takes place in the dark now, lights are not a luxury. For the short duration of the regular evening ride a battery light might be fine, but once I've made a technical-trail explorer it might as well have full night capability. Cha-ching! Honk! Honk! Honk! The unnecessary investment horn sounds. I've talked myself out of it...for now.

What can I say?

2011-11-30T21:50:00.001-05:00

The long lapses between posts don't indicate a lack of thought, they are the result of too many thoughts, too close together. Strangely for this time of year, when nature slumps toward hibernation, I have trouble finding time to sort and edit what occurs to me.

The weather has been erratic even by New England standards. The storm on the day before Thanksgiving brought eight or ten inches to the neighborhood. That stopped me from riding. By Monday the roads were clear, so I got back out. I still haven't done a commute. Friday and Saturday look good. Sunday the cellist and I have to do automotive maneuvers to get her car inspected and serviced before winter might actually arrive.

When I lived for ski season I would go insane when winter did not cooperate with my need to have deep snow in the woods. Since I refuse to let an unrequited desire drive me crazy I got myself over that fixation in a couple of seasons. Unfortunately, in a specialty shop you have to deal with some people who do not control their addictions well. You might think they'd be a great source of revenue, but they can actually be a little psychotic. They can also be highly annoying when they need endless therapy. Seems like the climate may be either killing them off or crushing some sense into them, though. I haven't heard a lot of chirpy bullshit about when and how much it's going to snow. Maybe they've just learned to keep it away from me. Either way, problem solved.

No doubt the season has affected my own mental processes. I take a strange pleasure in the last dark dip at the year's close. Sometimes that pleasure is hard to discern. It's best when I get the chance to contemplate it quietly without a bunch of people trying to overcompensate for what they perceive as the gloom.

Conflict avoidance vs. conflict resolution

2011-11-21T16:39:00.001-05:00

My autumn adventures in side path land have been at once restful and disturbing.

The peace of a car-free path is undeniably restful. I worry about very little as I ride in the secret world of the path. Hardly anyone is on it this time of year. It runs through the woods, unseen from the busy road except at a couple of crossings in Wolfeboro and a couple of long views where it runs on causeways beside Crescent Lake and Lake Wentworth. After Route 109, no other major streets cross the path for the rest of its completed length. If anyone ever raises the funds to finish the route to Wakefield, as planned in the 1990s, virtually all of it will be in the woods. My biggest worries are skunks or the occasional moose.

When I imagine myself restricted only to the segregated path I start to feel as if I have been locked into a small room and left there. It's not quite like being buried alive, but it's a feeling of imprisonment nonetheless.

Every time I ride a path, whether it was the Potomac bike path and related Washington, DC-area trails in the late 1970s and early '80s or the B&A Trail from Glen Burnie. MD, to Annapolis in the late 1990s, the C&O towpath, or the Maine Mountain Division Trail, I have the same disoriented, unprepared feeling when I emerge and have to deal with the realities of traffic cycling as it happens in the vast majority of places. Paths are relatively rare. Well-designed paths are much rarer still.

Cyclists and motorists alike get spoiled by paths. Motorists have complained to me when they see me on a road near a path, because I'm not using what they consider to be a superior facility to the dangerous road. As a cyclist, I find myself less warmed up and alert when a lot of my route consists of largely-level, segregated path instead of hilly roads shared by everyone who really has somewhere to go.

A path that makes good connections feels like an advantage. The more I have to bend my route to fit the path into it the more obvious the artificiality of the path becomes. And, as I already noted, cyclists who need or want to ride on the streets near the path may hear more criticism from motorists there. When popular paths are very busy, a fit cyclist is safer riding among the motor vehicles than dodging the many obstacles on paths choked with strollers, dog walkers, darting children, and a variety of things with small wheels, moving erratically.

The mix of users on the trail in Maine last week did give me an idea for an event called strollercross, in which cyclists sprint up to people pushing strollers, singly or in groups, and have to dismount, run past the stroller(s), remount and resume speed. My colleague envisioned stroller derby, in which the jammers are small skaters who try to get past much larger blockers pushing double-wides. That is more of a closed-track event instead of the cross-country format of strollercross.

Traffic-phobic cyclists and non-cycling planners view the only critical user conflict as a problem between motorists and bicyclists. In a broader context, bicyclists are usually lumped with pedestrians. But who gets the stink-eye on multi-use paths? The bicyclists again. We are NEVER on top.

Motorists have been the focus of road planning for decades. Pedestrians are the focus of non-motorized route planning. Sure, paths are often referred to as bike paths, but they usually turn into bike and pedestrian projects, even though they are usually barely wide enough for a moderate to high volume of bicycle use, let alone bicycle use slaloming between people on foot. The main goal is not to provide genuine integrated routes that help bicyclists ride efficiently for transportation and pleasure. It is to get cyclists out of the way and show something that looks like progress to overseers who have no idea what progress really looks like.

It's great to take advantage of some corridors, like old rail lines, that are not being used and that can connect some portions of a transportation network. Other paths follow corridors defined by things like power lines or wherever route designers can stitch together a strip of land left over from development that had a completely different focus over the centuries. This elaborate, frustrating work is all to avoid upgrading the existing rights of way used by vehicle traffic to truly accommodate the non-motorized user on a travel way appropriate to each type of propulsion: sidewalks for the walkers, lanes and intersections configured to reduce motorist-pedaler conflict, secure parking and general acceptance.

Rides in November: Fact Finding and Favorite Spots

2011-11-17T13:41:00.001-05:00

Last Sunday the cellist led us on a field trip to the Maine Mountain Division Trail. It parallels a portion of her route to Windham, Maine, where she teaches orchestra in the middle and high schools three days a week. She was thinking the trail might provide an opportunity for her to do some park and ride commutes when the days lengthen again in the latter part of the school year.

The first part of the trail in Standish, from Route 35, is a dirt road of compacted glacial till. The fine-grained sediment looks sandy, but was not loose and treacherous the way sand can be. The bad news was that the till contains cobblestones about the size of a potato, which stud the surface with endless bumps. They're not the jagged tire-slicers we have further inland, but the jolting was relentless. The cellist decided years ago she did not like anything resembling mountain biking, so this initial surface aggravated her considerably.

The Cross Checks are well suited to handle rough bits, but their forks are not as robust as real mountain bike forks, whether rigid or sprung.

Once the trail descended to the rail line we reached the paved part that looks like your typical multi-use path. On the dirt, multi-users included people on horseback and many dog-walkers. The horse folk advised us that their mounts were calm enough for us to ride past, but they couldn't guarantee other horses would be as accommodating. Most of the dog walkers just looked at us like something someone else neglected to put into a plastic bag for proper disposal.

I didn't take a lot of pictures because we needed to keep moving to complete the route well before dark. I had my well-lit bike, but the cellist would have to make do with Beamers and blinkies if we let sunset overtake us. Beside that, the scenery was nice but not outstanding enough to make me interrupt the ride.

This bridge over the Presumpscot River brought us to a stop while traffic cleared from the pathway. The center strip of the wooden deck has been reinforced with that recycled plastic lumber stuff, creating a one-way path where tight two-way passage might have been possible. The raised edges of the plastic planking create a tripping hazard even if the rider has the whole pathway to use. The plastic slabs are warped, presenting an undulating surface with some raised seams even down the middle of it.

A stupid idea. I hope they get rid of it. If you notice, in the pictures of the bridge on the trail's website the decking does not have this added reinforcement.

On a warm Sunday, albeit a cloudier one than the forecast seemed to promise, the trail saw a lot of use. Planners must feel gratified when people prove the popularity of a project like this. On the other hand, it can lead to other problems of conflicting styles of use. Other problems arise as users try to get on at access points where the planners might not have anticipated as many people trying to leave vehicles, for instance.

In Windham we left the segregated world of the path and joined the rest of vehicular traffic. No one went out of their way to bother us but it does raise the stress level when motor vehicles are buzzing by. Anyone who has ridden with traffic for a few years has had enough encounters to know that anyone at any time could decide to inflict some bullshit. They probably won't. But they might. The bicyclist is an oddity in this country. Some of you may live where these oddities are more numerous, but the cyclist is still in the minority, perhaps well tolerated in places (better in some than in others) but almost nowhere welcomed and encouraged. We are encouraged to drive to side paths to enjoy our little hobby out of everyone's way. When we ball up our little fists and insist on having our piece of the road we may be granted it, but some of our fellow travelers will express their opinion. Traffic riding calls for extending the senses while simultaneously thickening your hide.

The total round trip, including about four miles each way on the roads, came to about 18 1/2 miles.

The next day I went out to do one of my favorite routes, taking in Huntress Bridge Road. Huntress Bridge Road traverses a tamarack swamp on the border of New Hampshire and Maine. I missed the peak golden color of the tamarack needles. There are still a few pale ones left. They made delicate compositions with winterberry shrubs splashed among them.

The red berries hang in the dun-colored framework of leafless branches.

The day was unseasonably warm again. You wouldn't know it from the sky. It was a typical November gray. The beech and oak leaves have turned russet brown. The sun slides cross the southern horizon, lower each day. I prefer clouds because they eliminate blinding glare.

Riding didn't fit the the schedule on Tuesday, Wednesday or today. Tomorrow I'll be back on the commuting trail, finding out if the rails and fallen leaves on the Cotton Valley Trail are merely wet or actually icy.

Pivot Rivets and Marvin Bolts

2011-11-10T07:59:00.002-05:00

The repair tag said, "Bike fell over on drive side. Trouble shifting to big ring." The bike was stopped, so it wasn't a serious slamming, sliding crash. There were no major or even minor impact marks.

The front derailleur cable felt a little slack. I thought maybe the cable had simply gone out of adjustment and the bike's fall had been a coincidence. Snugging the cable did not fix the shifting, but it did change the problem enough for me to notice that the front derailleur was not swinging in a smooth arc.

This picture was taken after I noticed that the rivet on which the derailleur cage pivots had backed out about three millimeters. When I tapped it back in, the derailleur then functioned properly. I have no idea how a minor topple could have caused this problem, but there it is: something else to check when normal adjustments aren't bringing the desired results. The rivet could have been backing out already and the minor fall either helped it the rest of the way or had nothing to do with it.

Shown at the center of this shot, the pivot rivet. Derailleur is Shimano 105.

Some older front derailleurs were held together with bolts that can loosen. Check your derailleur and snug these bolts every so often. The term Marvin bolts comes from the particular repair on which I failed to remember them soon enough.

A real advocacy opportunity

2011-11-07T16:45:00.000-05:00

The Lakes Region Planning Commission is updating the regional bicycle-pedestrian plan from the most recent version issued in 2006. They have scheduled four public-input meetings around the region. They also have an on-line survey so you can record your opinion within the usual cumbersome limits of such surveys. Take a few minutes to fill out the survey here.

The first meeting was in Wolfeboro last Thursday. The next one is in the Tamworth Public Library tomorrow night at 6 p.m. On Wednesday, November 9 they'll be at the Bridgewater Town Office at 6:30 p.m. The final meeting in the series will be Thursday, November 10 at the Belmont Corner Meeting House at 6:30 p.m.

I'm sorry the notice is short, in case anyone reading this blog is in the region and would like to attend. I've had trouble finding writing time of late, so I didn't post anything at the instant I found out. I'm not sure how much difference it would have made. Whether you get to a meeting or not, fill out the survey. Use the "other comments" blocks to try to make up for the misleading nature of the over-simplified questions. Surveys are a woefully blunt instrument. However, a large number of respondents will indicate that people are interested, so funds are worth expending.

Eric Senecal from the LRPC and Seth Creighton, who works in the planning department for the city of Laconia but was not attending in that capacity, have prepared a short program to introduce their project, but stressed early and often that they really want to hear from the public so the updated plan responds to citizen needs and wants. They're not coming in as experts to tall people how it ought to be.

The Wolfeboro Public Library had provided plenty of chairs. Most of them were empty. The people who showed up for the meeting, perhaps a total of a dozen, were the usual suspects. They were the people who have already been working for years in town to create such facilities as the Cotton Valley Trail and the upgraded sections in the Sewall Woods and Abenaki trail networks. Every one of us was over 50 years old. Other people, most of a similar age, will show up for volunteer work days on various outdoor projects.

The age emphasizes the graying of the self-propelled demographic. Cross-country skiing, for instance, tends to draw primarily from the middle aged population looking for beneficial exercise to stave off the effects of aging that can no longer be denied. Some might have started in their twenties or even in childhood, but many enter the sport after they have to give up sports that cause more impact, or after years without significant daily exercise. The same is true among the customers looking for a comfortable bike for path riding and a path without motor vehicles on which to ride it.

It occurred to me as I jotted a few notes before the meeting that bicycling has never -- in its entire history -- been necessary.

In the beginning, humans walked. Before they were even humans, they walked. To cross water, they grabbed floating logs and then began to shape those logs and use other materials to invent and refine boats. They domesticated animals to carry loads, and pull carts and whatnot. Eventually, along came steam engines and railroads.

The bicycle was the greatest idea never to catch on. It had its fashionable periods, even before it had pedals, but most of the public considered it an annoying nuisance. It seemed like a plaything for the idle classes to zip around on. Sure, the Wheelmen may have made a stink about improving road construction, but not because massive numbers of people were depending on the bicycle to move people and things in a unique and vital way. As conditions improved for bicycling, and industrial practices pioneered by the cycle industry improved to make bikes easier to build in quantity, the motor vehicle industry was already surging ahead with a more publicly-desirable product. Roads got better, but bikes were already being run into the ditch. We have no strong sentimental connection to a great period in which the bicycle was a huge force advancing our civilization. Conestoga wagons, clipper ships, railroads, cars and airplanes covered the major distances. Few made a big whiz-bang deal about how the bicycle helped people of fairly modest means cover more minor but more common distances.

The bicycle belonged to childhood in this country. I say belonged, because kids don't use it the same way anymore. The normal childhood of a kid born in the 1950s would probably be considered abuse, neglect and endangerment today. On a summer day I might disappear from the house right after breakfast and not return until dusk. The bike was the first set of wings. My friends and I rode everywhere. Yes, we nearly got into trouble in various ways. I don't remember losing any schoolmates to those dangers, though. The first one to die succumbed to bone cancer when I was in sixth grade. That had nothing to do with our common practices of playing on active railroad bridges, bushwhacking along jungly creek banks for miles, or sneaking up on guys target shooting with a .44 magnum in a vacant lot. He was at the top of a steep river bank, practically a cliff. I'm sure he never expected ten-year-old boys to scramble up it like little commandos because they homed in on the sound of gunfire with an uncontrollable instinct to go toward anything that sounds like it might be blowing up.

When it came to the bicycle, that which did not kill me I would get back on as soon as I healed sufficiently. Kids didn't even think twice about it. Get back on the bike or be that poor whiner going "guys, wait UUUUUP!"

Regardless of the bike's place in kid culture, we were also meant to outgrow it and get into cars and cigarettes by our late teens. As generation after generation got its driver's licenses and hit the road, those roads looked less and less like a place to send the kids to pedal. As a nation, we let that get away. It's easier to sell the idea of protecting a vast tract of wilderness hearkening back to our pedestrian and equestrian past than it is to get plans approved to upgrade the roads in any major city or suburb so that people can walk or ride their bikes without fear of getting mowed down by a motor vehicle or at least annoyingly and frighteningly harassed by bullying drivers who want only clear running room.

The bike may finally see its time as a world finally paying attention to its resources starts to try to use them more wisely, including human energy. It's too early to be sure.

For millions of years, humans never had to plan very far ahead. Every generation could duke it out for money, power and sex without thinking about the kind of world they would leave for their children. A few aggravating prognosticators might go on about how we were going to hell in a handbasket, but never for the real reasons that we WERE going there. A very few thinkers started to catch onto that mess in the late 1960s and early '70s, when the terms "ecology" and "environment" trickled into common use. It was still the first time in the entire history of the human species that anyone started to realize just how carefully we might have to think about the future if we really cared about the the little yard-weasels some of us were raising to inhabit it. Of course the offspring born in the 1960s and '70s have had their own offspring and probably become grandparents by now, all without doing a whole lot to improve the outlook for their own little squirts. Someone is always looking back the glory days of the late 19th Century or one of the economic peaks of the 20th, with or without glorious bloodshed, and trying to get us to go back to the good old days even though they weren't really a good idea at the time, and they certainly aren't now. Humans simply make things up as they go along and then look back and call it wisdom.

OK, so it snowed

2011-11-04T21:54:00.000-05:00

I measured about eight inches of snow at my house. Someone told me Wolfeboro logged 16. I don't know about that. Warm weather immediately started taking the cover away. Because of other necessities, four days passed before I could even think about trying to ride my dark-time path commute.

Snow survives in many shaded places. However, really shaded places didn't receive as much snow because the trees intercepted the sticky snow on the way down. The sun then melted it the next day, so it fell as warm water onto the thinner accumulation under the trees. Where we find deep drifts is in clearings that filled up, but where the low sun of late fall can't penetrate easily to bring the most warmth.

The parking lot didn't look too promising, but I needed a ride after several days without one.

Zoom! After the first ugly bit, the path appeared completely clear.

Luck ran out, but for how long? I was committed to the route by then.

This section made me work. Someone had been training a sled dog team with their off-season wheeled rig.

Woof! This was just one snowy section. I was running late, so I didn't stop to document every obstacle. Some were deeper than this, but for a much shorter distance.

The work day was pleasant and unremarkable. In addition to various employment-related tasks I also installed a helmet mount for a Beamer light to see how it might improve my lighting options. The Black Diamond Cosmo headlamp I've been using as my "zombie spotter" is light and affordable, but I thought I might like to add a light with more range. The Beamer helmet bracket was cheap enough. I figured I could use the Beamer as my zombie spotter and the Cosmo as my dashboard lighting, aiming it down toward the computer on my handlebars while the Beamer sends its light out along my line of sight.

The term "zombie spotter" came to me as I rode alone through the spooky woods on a late October night. You know, you hear a noise from the dark forest and whip your head around to see what made it. Usually I don't see anything. Whatever might be crunching and crackling is headed away from me and that's just fine.

Zombie spotter and dashboard light

The day never felt warm, with a high in the 40s and a gusty wind, but it was above freezing. The snow had not miraculously vanished between morning and evening commute, but it was better at the end of the day. I never got sent sideways on the evening run, but I nearly did on the morning rush to town.

The augmented helmet light array picked up glowing eyes from the brimming swamp beside the path several miles out from town. If I lived in the south I would guess it was a 'gator. Up here I'm thinking it was a beaver. Can't think what else might be looking up at me from a pond when it's 38 degrees and dark. I suppose any northern aquatic small mammal is as likely. In any case it was just a glint as I hurried past. That section of the path was clear to the dirt, so I was taking advantage. No point giving the zombies a good fix on me by going slowly. I've gotten this far in life by making myself a moving target.

The Cosmo and the Beamer put out very comparable illumination. Neither one had a longer range, but they joined forces if I angled the Cosmo to place its light patch adjacent to the Beamer's. If I really want range and power from my helmet light I will have to invest in one of the modern super-lights. I don't know if I care that much. The dynamo light does a great job by itself down the road or trail.

11-1-11

2011-11-01T10:59:00.000-05:00

I suppose I should have gone out on skis yesterday so it would still have been October. I was ignoring the snow, hoping it would go away. Heavy, wet glop over unfrozen ground on Sunday had mutated only slightly by Monday, so it didn't look inviting. By today, though, I'd taken note of the beginning of the winter flab roll that has taken the place of the redistribution of muscle that used to mark the transition from cycling to cross-country skiing and climbing every winter. In the fall I would start weight-training and other exercises designed to make muscle migrate to the arms, and get the legs used to supporting body weight instead of just providing power through the pedals. It's all great athletic fun, but you don't do much else when you also have a full-time job. So that side of life has suffered as I spend time trying to draw and write, and other pursuits of the mind that also can't happen during the work day.

The woods look strange with the fall foliage above the snow. The trees are trying to cover the snow with leaves and needles. Winter does not officially start for seven more weeks. Locally we're usually ready for snow by Thanksgiving and at least not shocked by it in mid-November. We've also waited entire winters for it to fall, seen it arrive early and take off for a midwinter break or make its first appearance anywhere from late December to early April. This is certainly the earliest any of us have seen this much snow around here.

The golden canopy gives no hint of what lies on the ground. The snow melted off the trees on Sunday. As with Hurricane Irene, the dramatic effects of the big snow storm hit elsewhere. Parts of New Hampshire got more than 27 inches of snow. Some people are still without power.

Thursday night, before Saturday's big storm, we got a more seasonally appropriate test snow. It was solidly frozen onto things on Friday morning when I took this dash-cam shot. The ice and snow kept me from incorporating the bike into my commute at all. I can only imagine that the trail I use this time of year is inconveniently covered over much of its length. Warm days may clear it, but night meetings on Wednesday and Thursday will keep me from checking.

Shot from the Saddle

2011-10-23T07:01:00.000-05:00

This picture falls under the heading "why I live here." Rural life presents many inconveniences, but they are the reason the area remains relatively undeveloped. This picture shows the Ossipee River from the bridge at Effingham Falls. I stopped to take it on Tuesday morning when I went out to try to get a shot for Rantwick's foliage contest.

On Friday I stopped on my way out the rail trail to look out over Lake Wentworth. The Olympus camera I carry is such a great light collector that it makes the dusk look more like a cloudy afternoon. Some ducks were impersonating loons out on the lake, swimming and diving in the big bird's signature style, but then quacking to each other after they surfaced as if enjoying the joke. They were too far out to be sure. Maybe they were multilingual loons instead.

The rail trail, showing the notorious rails.

This little twig off the other side of the path was putting out its best colors.

I resumed the ride out toward the far end of the path as dusk deepened. The dynamo light continues to do a great job. The hub dynamo is much better than the tire-driven model. The tire-driven model did a fantastic job when everything was fresh and new, but it was extremely sensitive to alignment. I have not found a new application for it yet.

I tried to shoot a video of the headlight in operation once the night got really dark. Unfortunately the low resolution of the camera made it grainy and unimpressive.

October brings a feeling of solitude. Summer's crowds are long gone. I rode several miles out the path without seeing anyone. When I reached my car where Cotton Valley Road turns to dirt and the pavement takes a hard left to go up Cotton Mountain the area was deserted. I thought it might be a good opportunity to strip right down and put on dry underwear and jeans. No one was around. Only the mysterious creatures that make weird screeching noises showed any sign of life. I was alone. Who would be out in the chilly night when most people were home having supper?

Of course this triggered an instant rush hour. I had to laugh. Fortunately I was not caught putting on a headlight strip tease. Unbelievable how many people suddenly needed to pass through that one obscure rural crossroads at just that moment.

Soon I was alone again at least long enough to finish the change and drive away.

Foliage and stuff

2011-10-14T19:01:00.000-05:00

Monday was nice. The cellist mentioned that we hadn't taken a spin through South Effingham in a while. I forgot to shoot any pictures on our way out. Most of the ones I grabbed on the way back either came out fuzzy from camera motion or the color was muted because the sun was so strong. It's hard to capture the full sensory experience of a nice day's ride in a few quick photos. And if you're taking the time to produce really good photos, you're not having that great uninterrupted ride.

New England pastoral scenery.

The tornado swath from 2008 is growing in. The damaged area was logged to salvage the timber, evening up the edges of the scar in some places.

This is actually a climb. Here it is, October, and we're riding in shorts and a jersey.

We got another couple of nice days before the rain moved in. Rain, fog, darkness and rural highways all put together definitely kill my enthusiasm for bike commuting. They make nice visual effects with the fall colors, though. And they really make you appreciate a snug house and a new woodstove in the living room.

Driving While Intoxicated

2011-10-04T21:50:00.000-05:00

Your point of view changes when you get in the car. Your sense of speed changes. Your sense of responsibility changes.

The car is an intoxicant. It makes some people aggressive. It makes others stupid. Use becomes a habit, then a dependency. May cause drowsiness. Side effects include weight gain, shortness of breath, tunnel vision and in some cases injury or death.

Try to quit. See how hard it is.

As with many strong substances, it has its uses as well as its risks. Some people seem to manage its effects better than others. Its power is insidious. It must always be used with caution. Excessive use always leads to increased risk of dependency.

Click! What?

2011-09-30T22:27:00.000-05:00

I appear to have updated my template. I was doing a bit of housekeeping in the ol' HTML. Thanks to the new Blogger interface something must have crawled under the mouse when I was saving the changes I had intended to make. Oh well. The content all seems to be there. Maybe this new setup will make it easier to put interesting features up here. I can't worry about it right now. I have to get some sleep.

Gratifying wizard fix

2011-09-25T07:23:00.001-05:00

A customer had a mysterious shifting problem on his cyclocross bike. He has some mechanical knowledge. He has raced for years, so he has switched between racing and training wheel sets many times on different bikes.

On the cross bike he could not seem to get the gears to work on the race wheel. They were dialed perfectly for the training wheel. Ten-speed cassettes have to fit so much into the space originally designed for eight that manufacturers can't block each other out with proprietary spacing the way they had done when they had more room for those shenanigans. So why wouldn't one ten-speed wheel work as well as another?

He had already explored cable tension. That adjustment failed to dial in the lower gears on the race wheel. Unfortunately he only brought the bike with the wheel that worked when he first presented it to me to solve the problem. It wasn't broken, so I couldn't fix it. I did have a flash of inspiration as I stared at it.

To work with a ten-speed cassette on a road frame the wheel has to have a freehub body the proper width and an axle that measures 130 mm over the locknuts. That is all. What if the race wheel was spaced very slightly differently, so the limit screws of the derailleur still allowed it to span the whole cog set, but the start and end points were about half a cog off? I suggested he measure from the axle end to the outer face of the cog set on each wheel.

Guess what? The discrepancy was .6 millimeters. Six tenths of a millimeter. It was, in fact, enough to cause the annoying shifting problem.

Here's the tricky part. Spacers to fit that particular region start at one whole millimeter. Who has ever needed less than that? The industry yet again fails to catch up with itself as it pumps out temperamental sifting systems that can be disrupted by small tolerance issues and does not readily provide the curative shims.

A 1 mm spacer at least got the shifting in range of cable tension adjustment. The racer will have to remember to dial in the tension from one wheel to the other. This is fairly common. Meanwhile I have a .7 mm bottom bracket shim on order that should fit over the freehub body and reduce the discrepancy essentially to nil.

Perhaps I'm not so old and useless that I need to crawl out on the ice floe yet. It's often hard to stay interested in my job anymore. When it's just a parade of greasy, abused junk I take scant comfort in the "job security." Real satisfaction is so much more satisfying.

Expertise lives everywhere

2011-09-22T07:00:00.000-05:00

Back in the 1990s there was a brief surge of interest in "buying American." This trend in patriotic consumerism seems strongest during recessions, when citizens suddenly care who is getting paid to make the things they buy. This does not stop them from chiseling the retailer mercilessly, by the way.

"Buy American" is back. The 21st Century version is more potent, the same as all the partial solutions rigidly demanded as complete philosophies in society and politics during the last few years.

When I posted a comment on someone's Facebook link pointing out that buying only American items would eliminate the vast majority of bicycles and their parts and accessories, he replied with a link to American bicycle products that contained few surprises. Least surprising is the fact that Buy American consumers are perfectly happy to buy a frame made in America, festooned with parts from all over Asia.

Even many American cars are stuffed with foreign parts. My Dodge van had a Mitsubishi engine. The Pontiac Vibe was a joint venture between GM and Toyota. And Toyotas (to name but one foreign brand) are made in several of the United States.

While it is true that customers putting money into American companies on American soil will keep that money in somewhat tighter circulation in the domestic economy, it does not assure that American products will meet every need or be the best in their category. If the primary attraction is an American flag on it, that lowers the bar considerably. Look at how long the Big Three bike makers -- Huffy, Murray and Columbia -- pumped out truly reprehensible crap in their American factories until finally moving offshore before the turn of the century.

Matters get more complicated when the American worker, wages eroded by decades of pressure from other economic factors, has to flock to places like Wal Mart to find products they can afford. Consumers want to consume. If the goal of life is to make as much money as possible and get as much crap as possible for it, price is a factor. In fact, if you simply need to outfit yourself with clothes and appliances on a very tight budget, price is a factor.

Value is not the same as price. Whenever possible I buy a better-made item because it will work better and last longer than a flimsy, cheap one. I appreciate being able to shop from a world-wide selection. When the American product is the better choice I will choose it. The economic anomalies that have made it cheaper to ship things all the way across the Pacific Ocean to this country will continue to give a pricing advantage to certain items. That decision is controlled at the top management level. Company owners send jobs overseas. Take it up with them in strong language.

In olden times one might argue that you got better product support from a company that wasn't spread out across half the globe. These days, product support is a bad joke in nearly every industry. You call a support number or send an email assuming you will spend a long time in a telephone labyrinth or get a reply email from someone who signs the name Chad or Cynthia, but whose use of English betrays that it is not their first language.

The bicycle is a world traveler and a world citizen. It knows no boundaries any more than birds and animals do. It is a human creation shaped by contributors from many lands.

To consumers I say, "Insist on good stuff." To manufacturers I say, "Make good stuff." The rest will take care of itself.

An American Bicycle

2011-09-14T06:49:00.001-05:00

A man brought in this 1950s Columbia for us to pack so he can ship it to someone who bought it from him on eBay. He has brought in reproductions before, but never the real item.

This type of bike has never interested me except as a historical curiosity.

I love the suspension fork.

Then there's the headlight

The Delta Super Rocket Ray: guaranteed to make the owner of this bike the second largest purchaser of D-size batteries in the country. I'm not sure who would be the largest purchaser of D batteries, but I tend to reserve the top spot because there's always something greater.

FIVE Star Superb.

Place tushie here

Place friend here.

Adios! Admire my mud flap.

This bike sums up the American attitude toward pedal powered transportation pretty well: it's gaudy, impractical, and you'll only want to ride it a short distance. It's built like a 1950s car. The sheet metal is a gauge never seen on later Muffies. Mufolumbias, actually. The paint, the chrome and the machining show care and investment that also had diminished by the next decade and disappeared in the decade after that. When better bikes were built in this country they borrowed from European designs. Meanwhile the old-school American method rolled on with Huffy, Columbia and Murray. Schwinn had their own twist on it.

While I was down in the back parking lot doing this photo shoot, two brothers on Surly Long Haul Truckers came in the other door to see if we could take care of a minor shifting issue on one of the bikes. The older brother, Scott, couldn't get the indexing to work even though the barcon shifter still clicked. The shifter can be switched to friction. Sometimes the switch gets bumped just enough to move it from the index position. It still clicks but the clicks don't line up with the gears.

Younger brother Jim keeps his shifters in friction. Scott said he would practice that. Meanwhile, we got the shifter working so they could continue their tour. I may see them on my commute this morning. Their route comes up this way.

Roadside Emergency Kit

2011-09-08T06:38:00.001-05:00

Riders often ask me what they should carry with them on the bike in case of a minor mechanical problem.

My own seat bag is a dense mass containing a spare tube, patch kit, chain tool, multi-tool hex key set, individual 8-, 9-, and 10-millimeter box-open wrenches, a spoke wrench and a little scrap of rag. I ride a rural route and sometimes venture onto roads much less traveled. I like to get myself out of a predicament rather than ask anyone for help.

The comprehensive tool kit developed during the time when our shop held weekly mountain bike rides. Many of the participants did not have tools or know how to use them. But I was always the guy with the tools, even 30 years ago when I raced. On the training rides I bothered to carry the stuff other riders just hoped they wouldn't need.

Not all the riders who ask my advice take it. Some of them just carry a cell phone so they can bother a willing supporter to come fetch them back from wherever they broke down. Others want to pick their emergencies. Most often they prepare for a flat tire. They get a tube and a pump or CO2 inflater.

"Should I carry a patch kit?" they ask.

Absolutely. Not only might you patch a minor puncture if you have already used your spare tube, in case you have a serious mechanical problem or -- god forbid -- an injury, you can sniff the glue in the kit to amuse or anesthetize yourself until help arrives.

How close is too close?

2011-09-06T15:36:00.000-05:00

During my first year as a working class bike commuter I also started bike racing. You learn right away to relax with other riders almost touching you. In fact, you'd better learn to keep your wits about you when you actually bump another rider or a bunch of you may be hitting the pavement.

When I commuted back then, the space around me among the motor vehicles seemed generous by comparison to a crowded criterium field. I appreciated a little elbow room, but generally did not freak out when vehicles greased past me in a tight squeeze. It was the way of the world. As long as I was still up I had few complaints. Plenty of drivers gave me ample cause for anger by doing aggressive things like honking, yelling or throwing things. I wasn't going to sweat the average daily squeeze play.

Over the years my perception changed as motorists took too many chances with my safety and I began to imagine the point of view of riders who had not raced in large groups. A motorist has far less at risk than a cyclist. Sitting in the La-Z-Boy, piloting their rocket sled down the road with only their own schedule in mind, it's too easy for a driver to decide that a maneuver is acceptably safe when that driver definitely will not be paying the price for miscalculation.

Riders who don't have the strength, speed and experience to play racer games with the motoring public deserve their space. But how much is enough?

Many states have enacted safe passing laws that specify a distance motorists are legally required to maintain. These are virtually unenforceable even if law enforcement officials were interested in enforcing them. Some agencies or certain individuals might be more sympathetic than others, but you can't have a cop in every car and truck to make sure the driver stays sober, doesn't play with electronic devices and stays the proper distance from cyclists, passing only when it is clear enough to leave the mandated margin. The laws make two statements. Overtly they acknowledge that a cyclist is a legitimate and vulnerable user of the road. By implication they make it clear that the operator of any vehicle has the ultimate responsibility to operate safely on the honor system, without supervision. The safe passing law is a "best practice." Since you'll probably never ever see anyone ticketed for violating it, it is purely advisory.

With the number of substance abusing, tired, angry, depressed, distracted or fatigued people in the population, it's a wonder we don't have more collisions of all kinds out there. It's a testament mostly to luck.

This summer I decided to rely on luck a little more in some of the tight places. I opened the gate on more sections of road where I had been taking a strict view of the bicyclist's right and duty to control passing vehicles. Obviously it was okay. I'm here, undamaged.

I still held the lane where it really mattered. Except for a couple of aggressive idiots back in April or May, drivers seemed to understand why I was out there. As soon as I could slide to the right without putting anyone at risk I would release anyone who had not already shoved past me.

You can't call what I did an experiment. It proves nothing except that the bad event never happened. I would not let a big vehicle like a tractor-trailer squeeze past me, but few large vehicles came along in the spots where I would have had to make that decision. Meanwhile, a bunch of people in smaller vehicles were happier because they had an easier time getting around me. They might not have been perfectly content, because I was there at all, but they were able to move on quickly enough to prevent them from wanting to stick around and get ugly about it.

All this time I noticed I was still riding with a speed and efficiency uncommon among people who don't study the craft of cycling at least somewhat. I hesitate to call us serious riders, but you know who we are. We are into biking enough to consider it an important -- if not vital -- part of our complete lives. Maybe you might like to sit more upright, ride with flat pedals and have a basket on your bike, but you're not going to take crap from anybody and you're not going to quit riding just because some driver wishes you would. Right? Bikes --all bikes -- belong. A rider who is not set up like a racer can still ride efficiently. Why waste energy? It's your own personal energy, not some cheap, dirty fuel we pump out of one smelly tank into another and burn with seldom a second thought except to bitch about the rising price. So we ride mindfully.

The people I dodge when I'm walking on the sidewalk and they're riding down it probably see the street in a different way. It is a hostile environment where they do not belong. Or perhaps some of them are just too lazy and think of the bike as a law unto itself, so they're taking a short cut. They're never in the mood to be interviewed.

As we move into autumn the mood becomes darker with the days. The teeming summer population of visitors and seasonal residents dwindles, but the locals have bred in plenitude. Until those kids become young adults and leave the area to experience life in the wider world they drive for several years as teenagers. Some of them never leave, so they work through all their young adult issues right here on the road beside me. It's been interesting to observe over the years, especially as mountain biking ceased to be a rite of passage and the Fast and Furious movie series added more and more episodes. They are remarkably benign in spite of that. But I may benefit from my own legend, since I've been riding the same commute on a local highway for 21 years. Your results may vary.

I've also been using the rail trail to get out of town in the evening. It turns out to be pretty clear during supper hour, so I don't have to squeeze past too many other users in the long narrow stretches between the rails. I have about a 5 -minute video I shot on the trail. I just have to find time to put some music to it, Rantwick-style. Or I might just post it with all the rattles, bumps and heavy breathing as it is.

Before the Storm

2011-08-27T19:45:00.005-05:00

The shop is closed tomorrow. I thought the sign on the door should say, "If you're reading this you are an idiot. Go home!" The management opted for something else.

Yesterday was stunningly beautiful. The sun shone down from a cloudless sky. The air was warm but not hot. The Chamber of Commerce had decreed Sidewalk Sale Days, so we had a couple of pop-up tents over some racks of clothes and a couple of tables of sandals and other odds and ends to whet the appetite of a surprising crowd of shoppers for so late in August.

One of our tent minders passed a few boring hours by counting cars passing on Main Street. He came up with an average of more than 560 per hour for about seven hours. He did not figure out how many might have been the same car over again. In terms of traffic volume it doesn't matter whether there are 560 different cars in every hour. If you're out there with them you still have to negotiate with 560 of them.

During my short stint out there I watched cyclists doing what they thought was right. A posse of about ten teenage girls rode on the sidewalk up the opposite side of the street, against the flow of vehicle traffic but separated from it. They were all duly helmeted, on bike shop bikes. The way they rode the sidewalk showed that they were familiar with it and completely comfortable, utterly unencumbered by any doubt or guilt. They rode into crosswalks at intersections at the same slow but steady pace they exhibited on the sidewalk itself. They obviously felt they were where they belonged.

A short time later a man in his fifties or early sixties rode by on a Rolling Rock beer promotional cruiser bike. It was really cool, with a top-tube tank and full fenders, a real 1950s - early '60's retro ride. He rode down the sidewalk in front of the shop, apparently oblivious to the critical commentary several of us exchanged as we watched him ride by. He passed again on the sidewalk on the other side of the street in just a couple of minutes.

I could not imagine any of these riders holding their own in the actual traffic flow. They just didn't have the temperament to take a place in the lane. I could imagine them as drivers encountering vehicular cyclists, wondering why any rider would subject themselves to the abuse, and why any rider would victimize the motoring public by getting out there IN THE WAY.

I've been watching raw video for the bike piece I've been working on. Despite my hope that I could enlist some other riders to take part, so far all the riding footage is of me. I look very efficient. In fact, I look fast. This is funny, because I don't feel fast, but I guess I only know that because I've been around riders who really are fast, so I know the difference. I do know that my view of the road is shaped by decades of riding and a period of racer-like training. I did race for a time. After a few seasons I decided I could put that energy to better use as a transportation cyclist. Transportation cycling is safer than racing and makes better use of resources than a recreational quest for ephemeral glory. I basically just wanted to be able to snack freely as well as saving money and having a lighter environmental impact. But over the years I became an efficient partner with my machine in ways many less experienced cyclists might view as beyond them. Or maybe a lot of them just don't think it's worth it. Who am I to choose their values? All I can do is share what I have learned with anyone who wants to know it.

Learning can be an endless process if you keep yourself open to it. So I watch other riders wherever I see them. I think some of them really do belong on the sidewalk. They'll never be up to the rigors of vehicular cycling. Of course that does make them the terrorists of the sidewalk the way motor vehicles are the terrorists of the roadway. Perhaps most of them will not consciously ride in a malicious fashion, enjoying their dominion over mere pedestrians, but they still beg the indulgence of the walkers for whom the sidewalk is constructed. Why should the pedestrians have to accommodate them any more than cyclists should have to step aside every time someone wants to shove a motor vehicle past them?

The bike industry is happy to sell anyone a bike. You want to hang it on your car rack and let it bake in the sun? You want to ride on the sidewalk? You want to dedicate yourself fully to mountain biking and run roadies into the ditch with your SUV when you see them? No problem. At least you bought a bike. Business is business. Advocating too forcefully for "correct" cycling would probably reduce bike sales. You're telling me I can't ride on the sidewalk? Fine, I quit. I'll get a Segway or an electric scooter. You can't order me to get out there and block traffic like some selfish idiot.

Another rider, a man in his 30s, rode his hybrid in the lane with traffic until he came to the corner. He cut deep inside to turn left, yanking his bike quickly across in front of some oncoming traffic to cut into the cross street on the wrong side of the road. If a car had been coming up to the stop sign it would have peened him. But there was no car and he was not peened and so he will recall that the maneuver worked. He was not close enough to the oncoming drivers on Main Street to make them slow down, swerve or honk. But does he think about how he rides? Does he critique his tactics, acknowledge his luck? Or does he just run like a squirrel until his luck runs out?

Today the clouds built up steadily in advance of Hurricane Irene, or whatever will be left of it by the time it gets here. People still came to shop. Since most of them come from places the hurricane is supposed to hit harder than us, they might as well stay here.

Repair Classes

2011-08-23T12:11:00.002-05:00

Customers frequently ask if we have repair classes. What most of them don't realize is that they really don't want to take a repair class, they just want to know how to do repairs. They hope that the instructor can sum up two or three decades of experience in one very short presentation which will magically download to their brain all the nuances of procedure we have developed over an entire career devoted to the trivial pursuit of bicycle maintenance and repair.

True, I learned the essentials in a lot less than twenty or thirty years. As with any discipline, you do a lot better with the new stuff if you know something about the old stuff. When I got into bikes, technology had been relatively stable for many years. A lock nut was a lock nut, ball bearings were ball bearings, freewheel ratchets were freewheel ratchets and so forth. I had ample time to master the basics of bearing adjustment and wheel building before the obsessive-compulsive innovators took over in the late 1980s. Thus if I want to teach someone how to work on things now I have to go through some of the simple concepts from back then. Most of these concepts still apply, but they are often deeply buried or thoroughly camouflaged. The novice mechanic will do better knowing they are there and how they work rather than simply working with the new surface.

"Just because you know the latest thing doesn't mean you know everything," as I used to say to smartass punks in the 1990s when they tried to bury me under a pile of articles and hip jargon from bike magazines.

Wow. Magazines. There's a dated reference.

Nothing makes people's eyes glaze faster than a full explanation of how even a simple mechanical thing like a bicycle goes together and works. So where I used to try to rise to the occasion and actually answer people's questions now I grunt and change the subject. Or I give the short, misleading answer instead of the convoluted and boring one because, let's face it, the person who asked wasn't planning on listening to either one.

Most of my bike clientele is glad I know what I know even if they don't want to hear it. They want to see the result in high quality service and good advice. If they wanted to know the details they would have studied them already. Upon occasion a true student arrives. I am ready to respond. But such a student never asks for a repair class. They usually come in with a specific issue because their curiosity and aptitude have already led them into it.

Classes are a symptom of the human tendency to want to fix it and forget it. A bike repair class is like a climbing class or a kayaking class or any of a host of specific activity-related short courses. The participant wants to pay the fee, go in a novice and come out an intermediate, properly instructed.

Almost all school is set up the same way. Kids go in one end. Educated near-adults are supposed to come out the other, equipped with specific knowledge and a standardized version of the facts of life and certain historical events, officially prepared for the next phase of life. Some are, some aren't. Certainly a canned preparation received from an accredited institution is liable to make you think that certain social and national goals are good ideas when in fact they may not be. Because it all happens on a conveyor belt, even if the student tries to jazz it up with some well-thought-out questions and a bit of independent research, they'd better do it within the time allotted -- or faster -- in order to keep up with the rest of their cohort. Otherwise there will be a lot less left on your generation's buffet of opportunities by the time you find your way to it. And these tables have less and less for more and more people as it is.

Actually, those of us who live somewhat outside the norms have certain advantages. We learn skills and live according to our values while avoiding the worst mass hysterics based on unquestioned pre-packaged norms and values. The norm may crush us physically, but we hold sole title to our spirit.

Personally I don't like to talk about nothing but bikes. Much of the time I'd like to talk about anything but bikes. I love to use bikes to get around. I've had some great little adventures on bikes. Riding one adds a lot of good elements to my daily life. But life is life. It's packed with all kinds of things to learn and do. Bikes are part of my Utopian fantasy, but so is personal creativity and a moderate, sustainable lifestyle including local agriculture and a reverence for the local environment wherever you live, not just in the spectacular places or those deemed absolutely necessary to preserve a meager supply of fresh water for a paved-over Hell of Megalopolis.

Forget the helmet cam

2011-08-15T14:37:00.003-05:00

I'm giving up on the helmet cam for now. No computer I own can be coaxed into showing the bulky videos at anything like a reasonable speed. You can't edit what you can't see.

I did shoot some stuff for the local TV guy who is working on the bike safety video project I instigated last summer. I'm supposed to be working on the script at this very moment. It all seems pretty disjointed.

It's hard to get a camera to see what the cyclist sees or what you want the motorist to see. It's very difficult to set up single-camera shots that show traffic behavior when the camera vehicle takes up the space you want the other drivers to use.

It's hard to come up with an interesting voice-over when all you really want to say to drivers is "just give me space." All you want to say to other cyclists is, "Don't ride on the sidewalk, idiot! Don't ride against traffic!"

On Saturday I rode on the sidewalk for about ten feet to zip behind a pedestrian who had just committed to the crosswalk as I came blasting down a hill at an inconvenient speed. I twitched the bike to the right into a driveway, slipped behind the walker and shot back out through the handicapped ramp of the crosswalk to regain the street. It was one of those battlefield decisions you can't teach anyone or advise that they do. Sort of like the time I snapped the old Triumph Spitfire into a near death-roll, yanking it into a very fortunately placed side street as the gap I had merged into suddenly started to disappear. On the bike I had more options. The only thing I couldn't have done in the time available was stop short of the crosswalk like a good do-bee.

Anyway, the camera. I guess I thought with so much amateur video out there the technology would be as user friendly as digital still photography and music have been. I had not considered that wearable camcorders come to us from the world of Professional Videographers. The early adopters had professional backgrounds or hefty budgets and sophisticated amateur setups. This is in stark contrast to the fact that the first digital still cameras most of us knew about were very crude point-and-shoots. Home computers and digital cameras have co-evolved for well over a decade now. Meanwhile, little video cameras deliver either a jumpy, grainy image due to the limitations of the camera or a halting high-definition slide show on any but the very latest and greatest home computers. Minimum processor speed 3.2 GHz? Three gigs of RAM?

The first company that invents a competitively sized camera that will not only shoot HD but will also play nicely with elderly computers deserves all the business anyone can send them. I don't foresee being able to afford major computer upgrades anytime soon. By the time I do this video camera format will probably have been abandoned.

So much for video vanity.

Bicycle Hypochondria

2011-07-31T18:31:00.006-05:00

Bicycle Hypochondria has crept up to saturatingly high levels among road cyclists.

When I raced in the late 1970s and early 1980s no one had bicycle hypochondria. Racers and the posers who wanted to look like them beat the crap out of their bikes back then, just as they do today. If anyone was feeling neurotic they might go through a bout of position paranoia. That might lead them to fiddle with their seat height or stem length. Anyone with sufficient funds might indulge in a little component envy if they didn't already own the best of the best or they wanted to buy some obscure brand of brake arch or crankset to turn heads at the next race or group ride.

Hypochondria starts with a genuine fear of real illness. Bicycle hypochondria starts with a justified anxiety about real mechanical problems.

I never heard anyone whinge about their shifting when the shift levers were held on with primitive wing nuts. Accurate shifting was one more skill a racer needed to master. Less skilled riders might have whinged in general about how difficult friction shifting was, but they didn't have to worry about whether it would work if they ever managed to develop the dexterity. If you blew a shift it was because you blew a shift, not because your expensive mechanical servant let you down.

The simple equipment put the focus squarely on the rider. No one got ridiculously neurotic about chain noise, shifting systems or whether your bike was as well-dressed as the next guy's. Shift cables did not have to wind their way through a labyrinth of housing.

When everything is working perfectly, modern shifting systems allow a rider to maintain a more constant cadence by facilitating frequent, precise shifts among closely-spaced gears. This creates a dependence on frequent, precise shifts among closely-spaced gears. What was once an indulgence becomes a necessity. The rider now lives in a world of much more precise tolerances. It takes a lot less to disrupt their mood and confidence, whether they realize it or not.

Some riders manage to blunder along happily oblivious to the feedback from their abused machinery. They may be mentally better off than the bicycle hypochondriac but they still fall victim to the genuine needs of the temperamental modern system.

A moderate approach to the vulnerabilities of modern bicycle crap still requires that the victim of modern componentry open the wallet and dump out money as frequently as the finicky bullshit requires it. A wise rider might accept a little more noise or a slightly crunchier shift for the sake of a more durable chain that's easier to service. At the very least the rider who insists on having the quieter tinsel chain with the Magic Pin has to accept frequent expensive replacement as the price of that noise level.

Shifting systems are just the beginning of the bicycle hypochondriac's concerns. Bikes and parts failed in the era of steel and traditionally spoked wheels, but it was less common. Things got gradually more exciting as aluminum became more common. Now in an age when no self-respecting performance rider will be seen on steel, and titanium seems to be a plaything for the rich, carbon fiber has brought the fear of sudden structural collapse to the nervous rider's list of woes. Sure, it's hardly a daily occurrence, but you have to admit you see more outright snapped-off frame and fork parts than you ever saw in the Iron Age. It's in the back of the mind of every rider on a carbon frame. Is that noise serious?

Bottom brackets with bearings pressed into the frame call for more perfect tolerances in the bottom bracket shell. When cups threaded into the frame, the shell could be faced and tapped even if it was itself slightly misaligned with the rest of the frame. Cartridge bottom bracket bearing units maintain their own alignment, so the BB shell does not even have to be faced. Bearings pressed into the shell eat themselves in no time with even a misalignment of a few thousandths of an inch. If the bike doesn't have it when it's new, it can develop it from a few seasons of vigorous riding. A fellow mechanic in Florida is trying to fix a titanium bike that came from the factory with a misaligned BB 30 shell. It eats a set of bearings in about 50 miles. A rider who uses my shop has noticed that his bike has started chewing through BB 30 bearings now that he's had the frame a while. He gets a little further than 50 miles before he notices the play, but compare that to the cartridge BB in my Cross Check, which I've ridden a lot, which is still running smoothly after almost 11 years.

Whether you think the bike industry started complicating the machinery to make life simpler for the dedicated athletes who use it to express the highest level of human achievement or that they did it to suck ever greater amounts of money from as much of the cycling public as they could ensnare, modern riders have to maintain complex, temperamental equipment or pay someone else to do it for them. I see a lot of haunted expressions on the victims of bicycle hypochondria listening tensely to creaks, pops, squeaks, rattles, chatters, sproings, cracks, crunches... you get the idea.

Near Death Experience

2011-07-26T18:45:00.004-05:00

For this lucky brifter it was a brush with death. I may have noted before that a failing shift wire can cause irreparable brain damage to brifters, particularly Shimano's. Since Campy shifters can be completely disassembled, fragments of a damaged shift cable could probably be removed. I'm betting SRAM shrouds the interior of their modern horrors in mystery similarly to Shimano, but I haven't dealt with enough of it to say for sure.

All three major suppliers of brifters now route the shift cable housing under the tape. While that gives a lovely clean look to the bars it makes checking the condition of the cables inside the shifter harder because you can't get a lot of slack by popping the housings out of the frame stops. Similarly it is difficult to check whether the ferrules on the linear-wire housing are failing, which is a common cause of erratic shifting. Linear housing wires can also push into the brains of the shifter and jam things completely.

Fortunately for this rider, his shifters have external routing. He noticed a sudden decline in shifting performance and brought the bike right in.

Adventure Commuting

2011-07-25T13:47:00.007-05:00

It starts with a line on a map.
That line circled in yellow highlighter indicates a public right of way still listed as current. It looks like any other road on the map. Any explorer of rural New England knows that the truth on the ground may look quite different.

Looking for an alternate route home after a tiring week, I examined a topographic map of the area around Stoddard Road, which had been my woodsy escape route through North Wolfeboro. Lately, cyclists had reported some bad dog incidents on Stoddard. Some dog owners have a way of relying on the public to train their unruly mutts for them. Cyclists often bear the brunt of this because we're not locked safely in an armored vehicle. I was in no mood to grind my way up Stoddard's considerable climbs only to have to deal with aggressive dogs as I wobbled over the crest.

I knew that Bickford Road goes to Haines Hill Road. It arrives there with a different name. The contours on the topographic map indicated that it comes into Haines Hill at the bottom of a tough climb that eventually leads to the same four-way intersection in North Wolfeboro that Stoddard Road enters. The contours also showed that the discontinued section of Bickford Road runs up a valley between the height of Stoddard Road and the rise of Haines Hill. It looked like a very agreeable gradient. Interesting that the two tougher roads have survived to the modern day while the easier one has fallen into disuse.

Typically I reach the Stoddard Road area by riding out the Cotton Valley Trail. Despite its many shortcomings, the Cotton Valley Trail follows a very convenient line. It is certainly free of motor vehicle traffic except if you encounter one of the rail cars for which the rails were left in place. These encounters are fairly rare.

Bickford Road began with a milder climb than the first one on Stoddard. That brought me to a beautiful little valley with a wetland in it, surrounded by the hills I would not be climbing.

Sometimes when a road changes names you will find a sign indicating the change, even if there is no obvious intersection or direction change. I hoped such a sign might nail down for sure which set of ruts I should follow into the woods to come out where I expected to on Stoddard, where I'd passed the other end of the old road many times. I knew it would be pretty rough, but that's why I bought the Cross Check. Lately I'd stuck mostly to pavement, but that was more a matter of scheduling than a formal decision to give up absurd bushwhacks as a whole.

There was no sign when I reached the turn. It had to be the right one. The ruts were overgrown with encroaching growth and had obviously channeled some pretty healthy streams of water during the last big rainstorm. Immediately after I entered them I caught something under the thick grass and fell to the left. I yanked a foot out in time to prevent a full crash.

I was a few yards in when I decided to stop for a picture of the prospect.
A little further on I snapped this shot of emergent rocks.

I pressed on without taking pictures of the two fallen trees that made me dismount and carry, or of some of the more thickly jungled sections in which saplings, tree branches, shrubbery and grasses stroked various insect life all over me.

For all of its obstacles it delivered on the promise of very gradual climbing. If the surface had been smooth I would have felt almost guilty about how completely I was cheating the hills.

Before I reached the junction with Stoddard Road I saw the back of a farm house I'd only ever seen from the front. By that I could tell that I had almost reached the maintained road.

The ruts diverged as Bickford Road met Stoddard. The first shot shows the direction in which I continued.
The second shot shows the direction from which I had always come. It also shows the contrast between a Class V maintained road and a Class VI right of way.

A Class VI right of way is still retained for public use, but nothing is done to ease passage through it. Some of them manage to keep looking a lot like a road because so many people use them. Others disappear into stands of trees and the imagination of cartographers.

I plucked a tick off my leg and crushed it between my fingernails before continuing on the familiar route home to a thorough shower.

Next time I try one of these routes I will wear more suitable shoes than my road cleats and bring some means of making fire so I can torch any ticks that get on me.

Gilford Run Wrap-up

2011-07-25T13:07:00.002-05:00

Some days you just can't avoid eating supper after 10 p.m.

In spite of the heat and the work day that preceded the ride, I felt okay heading out on the Gilford run to retrieve my car from the mechanic who is worth the trip. I was nicely wired from the Kenyan coffee Lydia's had served that day. I was also getting fired up to face potential motorist hassles in the known trouble spots.

Okay does not mean great. I did not feel fast and bulletproof, as I once did. However, the motoring public chose this day to be extraordinarily cooperative. For my part, I did not stick much of an elbow into the lane on the long grind from the center of town to the Kingswood Regional High School complex, where the road bends right and tends down. Even on that stretch, where I can maintain 30 miles per hour much of the time, motorists are more than ready to exceed 40 down to the hard 90-degree (or tighter) right turn where King's Highway departs to the left and Route dives down a bit more before slamming into the bottom of the climb the locals call Old Perk. No one has ever explained the name to me. I call it Alpe de Suez as a tribute to the legendary climb in the French Alps and a play on the name of the restaurant East of Suez, situated at the top. It's a restaurant with an undeservedly good reputation, but it has survived decades to be a landmark I will miss if people finally start being underwhelmed by the food and the service. What will I call the hill?

I got a great run through the 90. My size and persistence in the rear-view mirrors of a Nissan that had just passed me caused the driver to punch the gas to gain a gap on me. I appreciated that, since I wanted to hold as much speed as possible going into the beginning of the climb. I knew darn well I was going to head for the low gears and crawl once my momentum ran out. And so it was. Still, I arrived at the crest feeling less sapped than I expected.

The headwind on 28 soon took that out of me. It's a boring slog to Chestnut Cove Road at the best of times. I trudged along to that junction.

It occurred to me as I left Chestnut Cove Road to enter Route 28A that it's the only peaceful little road on the whole route. Route 28A isn't bad for a numbered highway, but it still draws its share of throttle-pushers. Addicted to cornering in whatever vehicle I'm piloting, I understand the lure of 28A's curves. On the bike I can enjoy them without guilt.

I kept thinking about pulling out my camera, but when I have to get somewhere I hate to slow down. Alton Bay bustled with classic summer activity. Smells of fried food hung in the air, reminding me how long I would have to wait for my own supper. Best not to think about it.

The wind seemed to be bent by the hills to a helpful direction I had not expected. I was starting to feel minor twinges from the steady pace, but nothing dire.

Two modern roadies passed me just before the shoulder widened to a full breakdown lane on Route 11. They were courteous, but clearly pulling a pace I had no interest in matching. They didn't really give any hint that I would be welcome, either. I was in the mood to ride alone, so it worked out for all of us.

The first wide bit on 11 gives views of Alton Bay and the lake below. The roadies took 11D, which runs along the shore. I stuck to the high road with its scenic vistas. If they returned from 11D where it rejoins 11 just before the narrows, they were far enough ahead that I never saw them.

Even in the narrows, the motoring public remained eerily courteous. I continued to ride to the right, in no mood to engage in any debate over road rights. I got lucky, because none of the drivers felt like crowding me. In fact, where the narrows end with a fast drop to Ellacoya State Park, I rejoined the flow as my speed approached 40 miles per hour. No one contested my merge. Near the bottom I heard the hiss of truck brakes. I swung to the right as the road widened, which is my normal routine there. After a gracious moment, a tractor trailer that had been waiting politely behind me passed comfortably to the left with a generous margin. Some days humanity seems halfway decent.

The wind shifted gradually against me. The sun angled in. I started to get that out-of-body feeling as fatigue built up and the glare reduced my vision to an approximation, in spite of my polarized sunglasses.

The stretch past Laconia Airport is always a slog. The last bit, on Lily Pond Road drags it out for another mile or so. I was certainly ready to stop by the time I arrived. But once again I had managed to avoid putting more than 40 miles on another car when all I really needed to do was convey a driver to this one.

Today's Challenge

2011-07-21T06:28:00.003-05:00

On the hottest day so far this summer (maybe) I'll be heading out on the 27-mile hilly course to Gilford to complete the July auto service event.

Last week I rode from Gilford to Wolfeboro in the morning. Today I ride the route the other way, starting at 5:30 p.m.

The road heading south out of Wolfeboro is the worst part of the trip. There's another tight, tense section on Route 11 on the other side of the lake, but South Main Street out of Wolfe City has more angry jerks driving on it. They are already irritable because two state highways, 109 and 28, get squeezed through the amazingly congested downtown area. South Main Street shows these sufferers their first glimpse of clearer running room. Every cyclist I know has had ugly encounters on this part of the road, going either way.

The climax of this love fest is a nasty hill to climb, with narrow lanes and no shoulder. Past the crest of it the road widens.

Last week I got to ride down that hill. I hit almost 45 miles per hour. Your average car, idling, drops down it at more than 50 unless the driver rides the brakes. Not much makes a driver ride the brakes. A few sensible types might downshift, but most people just put the car in "go" and proceed to. Forty-five miles per hour gives me a little bargaining power and a good excuse to stay in the center of the lane.

The climb is a different story. I'll take enough lane to assert my presence, but even at a speed that would fry my competition on bicycles I look like a pathetic, crawling ant to the motoring public.

The late starting time is another issue. Last week I rode my heavy commuting bike at an average speed that surprised me. It was first thing in the morning after two days of rest. I don't expect to be as spunky after a work day. Sunset is not early, but it's earlier than at the height of June. So the lights on the commuting bike are a good idea. In summer twilight, active lighting is very important. But the bike, with its amenities, is heavy.

Yvon Chouinard wrote somewhere, "If you carry bivouac gear you will bivouac." He advocated going light and fast, forcing yourself to complete the route rather than dawdle and set up camp. I used to do these runs on my light road bike. It seemed sensible. After I had done it on the Cross Check, though, I discovered it did not make the ride significantly longer. The Cross Check is very comfortable and sure-footed in the rough bits. I will debate the choice until the last second.

Nursing things along

2011-07-12T16:20:00.004-05:00

The old commuting bike was making some funny noises on Sunday when I rode home from work. The chain was making a strange little jingling noise in the high gears. It sounded like I had not lined the derailleur up quite accurately, but I couldn't get the noise to go away completely by adjusting the shifter.

Today I investigated the problem, because tomorrow I have to drop one of our cars off at the mechanic's place in Gilford before riding 25 miles back to Wolfe City to work. At the end of the day I'll ride the remaining 15 miles back home. I want the bike in good form, even though I feel old and tired.

The noise could have been a loose cassette. The cause of that could be as simple as a loose lock ring or as dire as a cracked freehub body. The old Sachs Quartz hub in that wheel was a warranty replacement after the freehub body cracked on the first Sachs Quartz hub I'd bought for a mountain bike wheel set I was building.

The freehub body was fine. The lock ring had not been particularly loose. The cogs aren't badly worn, even though they're seen the coming and going of more chains than I can remember. I try to change the chain soon enough to avoid bad cog wear. I did add a washer under the axle spacer on the right side to try to keep a seal from binding on the freehub body. To fit the space I used one of those annoying chainring spacers that came on badly designed Shimano cranks in the late 1980s and early 1990s. They're the perfect ID and OD to fit little jobs like this.

The derailleur pulleys were quite worn. That would cause sloppy shifting and provide space for random jingling noises from the chain. I scavenged an old Bullseye pulley and an off-brand alloy pulley from old Campy derailleurs in my bin of potentially useful items.

The ninja throwing star on the right used to look like the plump and healthy derailleur pulley on the left, several thousand miles ago.

The nice thing is, shifting in friction I don't have to worry about micro-millimetric perfection. It just has to line up pretty well. I get a lot of care-free miles out of my primitive junk.

The Week in Review

2011-07-12T15:25:00.005-05:00

Things could be worse. You could be battling cancer and trying to get over a broken pelvis.

The shop owner/manager rode the Prouty cancer benefit on Saturday. I had hoped he would have only wonderful tales to share with us, since the weather was so much better than last year. Instead he reported that the cancer patient for whom their team was named, who has been fighting some weird intestinal cancer for 11 years crashed 18 miles from the finish of their hundred-mile ride and broke her pelvis. Her brother did an endo over her, cracking her bike frame and landing on his face.

No one knows for sure whether she scrubbed the rear tire of a bike in front of her or had some other problem to cause her to lose control.

That cast a pall over Sunday.

Summer has hit Wolfe City, and various things seem to keep hitting cyclists. A guy from New Jersey who comes up to New Hampshire brought his Cannondale touring bike so we could examine it and do an estimate for his insurance company after he got tee-boned by a car he said was going about 55 miles per hour.

Front and rear views of the twisted but not crushed Cannondale.

No charges were filed against the driver because he was not exceeding the speed limit or chemically impaired. You do have to wonder what that big windshield is for if you're not going to look out through it for obstacles in your path -- like other human beings, for instance -- but apparently peening a cyclist crossing your path can be okay. If the cyclist was crossing from a side street without scanning properly for oncoming traffic, the crash would be the rider's own fault. It's called failure to yield.

The rider in this case looks pretty darn good for someone who did some serious air time over the hood of the impacting auto. He did have a broken scapula and five broken ribs, as well as other injuries. I don't remember the whole catalog. The crash was in May and he's up and around now, looking for repairs or a new bike.

The rider for whom I did the Campy repairs last month came in to report that someone had gone into her garage and stolen the bike along with her boyfriendianceusband's mountain bike. (I'm not sure of their relationship status.) That's ominous, because Wolfeboro had not seen such interest in bike theft since the mountain bike boom of the 1990s. Back then reports of brazen daytime theft were common, from homes as well as out on the streets. Of course back then you could park any road bike almost anywhere. Thieves only wanted mountain bikes.

Classing up the joint, a customer brought us his Pashley 5-speed to tune up. I'm glad it didn't need much, because the enclosed chain case, drum brakes, internal gears and dynamo front hub would make removing the wheels quite a pain.

After I finished the adjustments I did a quick, unimaginative photo shoot:

The big chrome tone-burger. It has a classy double ding.

On Thursday someone's kid defecated on the floor of the dressing room. The father offered to clean it up, and even made an attempt, but he did the job you would expect from someone who really just wanted to get out of there, with no intention of ever returning. It would have been good cover for a shoplifting spree, as we had the week before, when a couple brought in rambunctious kids while an adult member of their group switched tags on some clothes and brought them to the checkout. I believe Poop Kid and his father had no other agenda. It was just an unfortunate accident, as they say.

Our own much more thorough cleanup lasted well into the following afternoon. The little whipper not only let it go on the floor, he also walked in it and tracked it around.

These are the work weeks that make the heart of summer disappear, dumping us into late August, or even September, wondering where that chunk of our lives went. The work can be interesting. The studies in human nature can be equally illuminating. But it's a lot like being stuck in the coat room while the real party takes place out where we can only see and hear little scraps of it.

It's a bike! It's a rain gauge!

2011-07-07T09:10:00.006-05:00

Wait! It's BOTH!

The owner of this bike came up with a clever way to keep his seat dry when the weather is rainy. I've seen other people try the same maneuver, but I haven't managed to grab a picture of them. It always cracks me up.

Declaration of Independence

2011-07-04T14:39:00.004-05:00

When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for a people to dissolve the bands that have connected them to utter dependence on motorized transportation, and to assume among the users of the road the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self evident, that all road users are created equal and are endowed with certain unalienable rights -- that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. -- that a human being propelling a vehicle by muscle power shall not be subject to the whim, coercion or threat of harm from the operator of a larger vehicle unwilling to share the public right of way. -- that citizens should not feel compelled to purchase and maintain motor vehicles because they do not feel safe outside them. -- that any citizen shall be encouraged to enjoy the advantages economical, physical and environmental, of transportation by bicycle.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Okay, the grievances that led to the real Declaration of Independence lent themselves to the territorial solution the Declaration laid out, and the bloody war that followed. The Americans wanted their own turf because the British government wasn't meeting their needs. But I was thinking about how choosing the bicycle sets us so firmly apart from people who, for various reasons, wouldn't dream of it. We're not declaring war, but in a way we're fighting one every day, to be seen, respected and accommodated on the public travel ways all our taxes pay for.

The shop actually had a party of renters cancel their reservation while they were driving from the shop to their motel because they were scared by the narrow roads, the traffic volume and the crash they had just witnessed in which a motorcycle had run into the back end of a car.

At least once a week someone tells me they think I'm crazy or stupid or braver than average because I ride on the road. Far more frequently than that I deal with customers selecting their bike specifically to avoid the road. Some of those customers say they would ride the road "if they could." Others say they are perfectly happy to ride only on recreational paths "where they belong."

Meeting the needs of all road users is not easy, especially here in the land of narrow, hilly, winding roads. That doesn't mean it should not be done. When I'm on my bike I slow down for motor vehicle congestion and stop for pedestrians. I don't feel I have the right to rip along at my best speed at all times. Nor do I accept that I should always have to step aside or risk annihilation whenever someone else in a vehicle of any size wants to gain a few seconds by blasting past me in a tight spot. Nowhere is it written in traffic law that a motorist has the right (often expressed as if it was a compulsion) to pass a slower vehicle without changing course or reducing speed wherever the encounter should happen to take place. But that's common practice. Motorists do it around each other and often collide. As cyclists we notice careless or risky behavior because we are more vulnerable to it. We also get to hear from passing critics who might be completely muffled if we were in a car with the windows rolled up.

I've had the idea a few times to quit biking and just drive annoyingly. More effective than Critical Mass might be for all the cyclists one day to drive, adding that many cars to the traffic mix to show the resentful motorists what we have spared them all these years by pedaling.

Freedom isn't free. Most people just pay lip service to that, sending someone else's kids overseas to fight for our national interests and saying nice things about them when they get back. It does not occur to them that you can put yourself on the line for what you believe in just by biking to the grocery store or to work. It just looks foolishly risky compared to riding the roller coaster of oil prices, polluting the air, hating each other in traffic, circling in search of parking, paying off car loans, dealing with repairs and upkeep and spending all that time sitting in a confined space.

Know Thyself

2011-06-27T19:43:00.002-05:00

For some weird reason my seatpost managed to creep down incrementally over several rides. I had not loosened it, so I had no reason to suspect anything was wrong. I just started to notice that the seat felt low. After a couple of days off the bike I hopped on to ride the morning commute and the change was finally obvious. I hoped off again by the side of the road, pulled the multi-tool out of my seat pack and raised the seat.

In the course of fine-tuning -- not to say fiddling with -- my position, I had made at least a couple of height marks on the post. Friction in the frame had obscured these scratches, but I could discern a couple. I chose the one that put the seat highest, about three millimeters higher than the other mark I could find.

Right away the seat felt kind of high, and slightly crooked. I have a lot of trouble lining my seat up with the top tube. That's one reason I purposely avoid messing with it, making a mysteriously loose seat binder even more strange. I figured it was good enough to get to work on.

On the ride home that evening I really felt the height. I felt knee pain, crotch discomfort, loss of power, and foot alignment problems. When I lowered the seat three (3) millimeters, all that went away.

The "science" of bike fit is complicated by the fact that humans are flexible and elastic and we fidget around on our bikes. Fit is not so much a matter of exact position to the millimeter, but rather finding the range in which a particular rider can operate most efficiently for their style of riding. In almost any dimension, most riders have a centimeter or two of leeway. However, as soon as you go beyond that range, you feel as if you're off by a huge amount. Thus I did not notice as the seat crept down, even as it crept well below the optimum position. I only noticed after I'd been completely away from the bike for a couple of days. Then it was obvious. Then, when I raised the seat again, I went that tiny bit beyond my functional range and started to feel all kinds of symptoms that might drive a less experienced rider to question multiple systems on the bike: cleat alignment, saddle choice or angle, and padding in the shorts, just to name a few. Yet it all stemmed from three millimeters of seatpost height.

The tiny amount, three millimeters, might seem to give some credence to the micro-engineering bike fitters. I say avoid getting too neurotic. Once I was back in range I could sit farther back on the saddle, which returned me to my familiar contact points. I could go three millimeters lower and probably feel fine as well. I just have an inferiority complex about my long torso and short legs, so I hate to bury the seatpost any more than I have to. Hence my choice of the higher height mark in the first place when I discovered the seat was too low.

The tiny increment does give you something to think about if you're chasing down an elusive lack of comfort or power.

Once you do get a position dialed in, measure every possible dimension to help you recover that position if the bike is ever disassembled or to reproduce the fit when getting a new bike. Pick measurements that don't depend on other things being equal between your old bike and your new one. For instance, if you drop a plumb line from the nose of the saddle to see how far it falls behind the bottom bracket shell, make sure you're using the same saddle on both bikes or have compensated for any difference. A wider saddle will put you in a different position, probably farther forward, than a narrower one. Measure every wacky thing you can think of before you disrupt the position on a bike that fits you well.

Between one thing and another...

2011-06-23T06:47:00.006-05:00

Even now I'm stealing time from something else to slap up a hasty post on the blog.

Distractions include my continuing attempts to learn to play a musical instrument late in life:

And cartooning, obviously.

I've also spent considerable computer time trying to get the new wearable camera and my old computers to play nicely together. Still working on that. Meanwhile, shooting began on the bike safety TV segment.

Ryan from Wolfeboro Community Television prepares to shoot action footage of a cyclist in the wild.

The repair shop continues to dish up time-consuming challenges. Yesterday's involved a Campagnolo 10-speed shifter. My most recent manual for Ergopower may go as late as 2000. I estimated this shifter at about 2007. Campy's website does not provide the usual metric ton of PDFs for the grunts who actually fix things to download. I had to settle for an exploded diagram from the spare parts catalog.

You want your shifter? I got your shifter right here. Explooooooded view of Campy Record Ultra 10-speed shifter guts.

The Road Map to Pieces

The reassembled shifter sitting on the outdated manual. Campy being Campy, not only do the parts more or less go together the same way, some specific parts actually still work in shifters almost 10 years newer. Shimano? Are you listening? Of course not.
The flip side of the reassembled shifter.

Parts inside there are worn, so I would not rate the shifter 100 percent reliable. The rider is going to get a new one, since this one was part of a salvaged gruppo put on her bike several years ago. This rider is 5'5". The cranks she inherited are 175s. So the problems go further than just an old, tired shifter. Since Campy goes to 11 now, the remaining 10-speed shifters are surprisingly affordable.

And now I'm late leaving for work. Nothing new there. It's the down side of having a lot of interests.

Slick little video about urban bike infrastructure

2011-06-14T07:54:00.002-05:00

A friend on Facebook shared this video by a cyclist who was ticketed for NOT riding in a bike lane. The stunt work shows real commitment and durability. It also raises questions about the effectiveness of helmets, since the guy takes all his stunt falls without one. He has excellent technique. Hard to say if he would fare as well if the crash came as a complete surprise. But let's not lapse into the endless helmet debate.

Oh Boy, Helmet Cam

2011-06-09T13:32:00.004-05:00

My new helmet cam arrived yesterday. Quality Bicycle Products was dumping the Contour HD 1080p for a reduced price, so I went ahead and used some accumulated shop credit. I figure if nothing else I can use video from it on the bike safety TV show project that's crawling ever so slowly forward.

It turns out both my computers are too stupid to show HD video. Unless I figure out how to shoot something they can eat, I have just bought a really expensive laser pointer for the cats. That's okay. I love my cats. And the TV producer who is working on the safety show with me can probably use the good stuff. I just don't have a ton of time to work on everything I need to work on right now.

Once I get everything running right I hope to put up a few vids of favorite bits of local rides.

Another day, another piece of weird, home-built crap

2011-06-09T12:45:00.002-05:00

People will try all kinds of sketchy rigs to get their handlebars higher. With quill stems they could raise it way above the maximum height line. Supposedly that increases the risk that the stem might bend or break or that the steerer tube of the fork could crack because the stem no longer reinforced it at the end of the threaded part. Sure, it's possible, but has anyone ever seen it happen? I haven't. I don't advise raising the stem to ridiculous heights. I'm just saying that people who do it seem to avoid any negative consequences.

With threadless headsets, the home hobbyist has to get more creative. We've all seen the bikes with the bar ends sticking straight up. That was the 1990s version of the ten-speed with the drop bars turned upside down.

The owner of this bike assembled his custom handlebar out of PVC. It isn't even fastened together securely. If the rider hits a bump while leaning on that top section it will quickly become the bottom section. If the rider even leans heavily on it, it will move.

This setup takes its place alongside the sheet-metal home-built pant guard a man made for himself, which was basically just a meat-slicer blade going around next to his ankle, and the home-made chopper fork a kid welded and installed on his bike without a headset at all.

Help Wanted

2011-06-01T10:59:00.003-05:00

Wanted: Bicycle Mechanic. Must have spent the last three decades working for crap money, keeping up with the endless flow of weird mechanical bullshit spewed out by the bike industry. The ideal candidate will be able to remember basic specifications of bikes and parts from the 1970s to the near future and be able to analyze and troubleshoot bizarre new designs on sight.

Work load will vary from nonexistent to ridiculous within minutes.

Applicant must be a highly intelligent, creative problem solver who is also enough of an idiot to get stuck in this business.

Pay somewhat exceeds minimum wage.

Apply today!

Expensive Gas and Bla Bla Bla

2011-05-17T07:21:00.003-05:00

With the industrialized world disappearing in its own fat rolls and gas prices in this country skyrocketing to half of what other developed nations have been paying for years (heaven forbid!), the US Department of Transportation's Two Mile Challenge is promoting the use of your own two feet, public transportation or bicycles for trips less than two miles. The DOT cites the benefits for your wallet, the environment and your health if you leave the car parked and find one of the better ways to get around on short errands.

It all sounds great, but no one wants to be this kid:

http://youtu.be/tF9Ky6EYCZM

His miraculous escape from death has been featured on Good Morning America and other news outlets. So maybe you DO want to be that kid, since he came out with a few bumps and scrapes instead of being completely mashed and scrambled by his impact with a speeding car. However, the dramatic crash reinforces what's in many people's minds when they think of going onto the street in anything less than a Humvee.

The lad in Colorado made the classic little kid move, dashing headlong into the path of a moving car. As a kid I was told to avoid that very mistake. Later, as a young driver I was told to look out for kids making exactly that mistake. The driver who was clearly going sociopathically fast on a residential street should have been going more slowly and certainly should have stopped after peening the kid. But then, if you're someone who drives selfishly, self preservation is your first reflex. Get the hell out of sight and hope to avoid the consequences. Maybe guilt will inspire later good works. We may never know.

Even in the cute little town of Wolfeboro there are streets I prefer not to ride. People under the influence of horsepower have such a sense of entitlement that they feel they're doing you a favor if they miss you at all, let alone slow down and give you a reasonable amount of space. There is no worst class of offender. Drivers of large commercial vehicles are scarier when they get aggressive, but they seem no more prone to aggression than drivers in pickup trucks, sporty sports in sporty cars, texting teens, busy entrepreneurs driving their offices and the host of other scurrying hardshell crabs one might encounter as a soft shrimp sharing the rushing current with them.

The fact remains that high(ish) gas prices will have a little influence on a few people, but most drivers will simply bitch and pay. They might look upon the cyclists with a little more understanding for a while, but the ranks of cyclists will shrink back as the newcomers have to deal with the harsh realities of a life unshelled. I wish it would work out differently. All we can do is keep talking it up and keep setting the example. But just as few people actually volunteer for hazardous but commendable duties while praising those who do, so do they perhaps admire our pluck and appreciate the parking spaces we leave for them, while most of them view cycling as unacceptably dangerous and inconvenient.

Maybe the many arguments in favor of expanded use of human-powered transportation will actually prevail before civilization collapses under its own unsupportable weight. History shows no example of any culture in our species that did avoid galloping into a disaster, but past performance does not guarantee future results. It only provides strong indicators. Throughout the millennia, it's been the pushy bastards who dominate the gene pool for better or for worse. The grabby, greedy, guzzling, short-sighted hordes of thugs whose might makes right force the course of events into a series of crash landings. These have steadily led to increasing standards of living in some parts of the world, so the method is viewed as prevailing wisdom. It's really just making the best of things as we blunder into them.

Expensive Slapstick Moment

2011-05-02T13:41:00.005-05:00

A local rider took offense at an illegal advertising sign placed on his residential street near his house, so he snatched it up as he rode by at the end of his morning training ride. The sign was one of those temporary ones used by politicians and other questionable enterprises, cardboard over a wire frame. The wind caught the sign and blew it into his front wheel. He crashed immediately.

The wire sign frame bent one spoke in his Shimano Dura Ace front wheel. That had to be ordered. Only later did he notice that the end of the wire had punched a hole in his carbon fiber fork.

Hole is marked with an arrow

Here is a closeup of the damage.

A steel fork might have bent when the sign stopped the front wheel. An aluminum one might have bent or cracked depending on the forces involved. Anyway, it was an expensive morning for the guy.

Spring Retraining

2011-05-01T08:27:00.002-05:00

Life is war. Despite all protestations of peace and love, nothing reminds you that humans really don't like each other more than a simple bike ride during the early season.

After months of having the road to themselves, drivers have to get used to seeing cyclists again. We the cyclists have to reestablish our claim by using the road, while a certain number of the motorists try to discourage us from doing so.

This year, drivers of large pickup trucks seem to be trying to see how close they can brush a cyclist regardless of the rider's lane position. Few of them honk. No one has yelled. The offenders have passed with inches to spare when they had ample room to shift over, or have blasted through dangerous gaps at the risk of collision not only with the cyclist but with the oncoming motorists they have forced to the curb. It's not just me. Most of the cyclists I know have reported that behavior.

Every morning news broadcast brings reports of motor vehicle accidents causing injury or death to the motorists. Motorists are not a unified bloc set against cyclists. Driving behavior simply points out the pervasive selfishness of people that finds its expression on the road.

Not enough people want to ride bikes for transportation to make high-quality infrastructure engineering worth the money. If people felt safer from traffic, more of them would ride, but probably not in impressive numbers. I wish that was not true. I doubt the theory will ever be tested, because I doubt that this country or any significant portions thereof will ever make the investment to find out. So we're left with our imperfect system. Cyclists stitch together what routes they can and endure continuous harassment.

Most drivers pass a cyclist at what they think is the safest distance they can manage without slowing down. A traffic herding cyclist can force them to slow down and plan a little better, but most of them will still take chances around a cyclist that they would not take around a slow-moving motorized vehicle. Size matters. So does the perception of speed. A motorist knows that a cyclist probably will never catch them to retaliate for any aggression on the open road or a fairly fast-flowing street.

Whenever possible I release the following vehicles if they have not already pushed past. Unfortunately, certain sections of road do not offer this opportunity soon enough to satisfy an aggressive driver. Most drivers don't appreciate that a cyclist is working hard to get them through a bottleneck at 20 miles per hour when 30 miles per hour already feels creepingly slow to them.

One stressful section of my morning route runs parallel to the notorious rail trail in Wolfe City. Unfortunately, that trail is clotted with pedestrians and cyclists at almost any daylight hour during the milder seasons. The clumps of strolling humanity can bring a rider nearly to a stop. Riders meeting from opposite directions have to fit past each other with inches of clearance between their handlebars. Overtaking a slower cyclist is similarly tricky. Then when a rider wants to rejoin the street flow it means ratcheting up to full combat readiness instantly. The sight of cyclists in the cross walk also reinforces the stereotype in motorists' minds that cyclists belong on a segregated play path.

My evening route winds out through a different set of streets and roads to avoid the uphill grind through the stressful, curb-lined canyon of Center Street. That does not mean it's vastly better, only somewhat better. The route still grinds up a grade, slowing my speed relative to traffic. The road is narrow enough to require gate-keeping. Impatient drivers get pushy. Some display obvious anger with horn or words while others satisfy themselves by passing with a noisy downshift and abrupt swerves.

As I age, regular exercise is more and more vital to maintain vitality. As I negotiate the shaky economy and my own questionable life choices, I can really use the money I save by riding instead of driving most of the time. However, the human race being what it is, I have to fight just as hard as ever for benefits I thought anyone would be glad to join me in claiming. Most people don't see the sense of it. They just see an obstinate jerk who could drive like a normal person if he wanted to. Who would want to be that guy?

How Blogs Languish

2011-04-21T20:45:00.004-05:00

Writing doesn't have to be a solitary occupation as long as you leave me the hell alone. I have no trouble concentrating when people are around. They just seem to have trouble letting me.

At work they keep expecting me to, well, work. It's a huge impediment to literary -- or even journalistic -- achievement. On the other hand, my servitude in the bike business has provided most of my actual material, so I shouldn't bitch too much. I intended to be a writer who cycles more than a cyclist who writes, but whatever my day job I always insisted on biking to it, so here I am. Whatever might be teeming in my brain during the day, it has to get through many obstacles just to make it home with me.

At home I fully embrace the concept that I did not marry the cellist just so I could ignore her. In fact, I defy anyone to try. I might come home to hear her running through a Bach sonata with or without the TV on. The house might smell like fresh-baked bread or any number of delectable creations, or she might be poking moodily at her computer in a sit-down strike because she's tired of having to come up with meals all the time. My kitchen wizardry is rudimentary at best. My expertise extends more to cleaning up.

Since her illness makes her a definite limited-time offer, I spend time with her when she's around unless she's working on something of her own. Medical intervention might extend her span, but it will depend a great deal on luck. And, of course, we live in a world that is proven to be 100 percent fatal anyway. If you find someone you like to be with, be with them.

Good writing takes time. I'm not a link-farmer and a news junkie. I'm a thinker. From a single dropped cigarette butt I can extrapolate the entire future of the human race. I would rather sit and watch a dewdrop sparkle than go to a major sporting event. What can I say? I'm a boring nerd. And not even the science-wizard, geeky millionaire kind of nerd. So I usually have to sit a spell to craft good sentences and build them into paragraphs worth posting.

When I get some time to myself I have decades of ideas jammed in a tangle in the closet/playroom that passes for my brain. New ones come from life every day, and every day most of them get stuffed into the pile with the others.

When the cellist goes away I can spend my time as I choose. For instance, tonight I was going to ride straight home from work, take care of necessary domestic chores, shower, stretch, suck down a simple supper and start writing.

The temperature was 43 degrees F, the wind was gusting over 40 miles per hour and turbulent gray clouds released scattered snowflakes into the gale as I prepared to ride home. Then the sky cleared. The wind didn't drop, but the snow ceased and the sun lit the scene with golden light. And then the clouds came back. And left again. All the while the wind swirled around, hitting me from the side, the front, the back, helping, impeding, harassing.

I got home shortly before 7 p.m. I had to scoop the cat boxes, grab some dry firewood, get the wood stove going, shower, stretch, put away clean dishes and figure out that supper. I sat down to eat at about 8:40. So then it's after 9.

The cellist called. She's having a bit of an emotional time because she's playing a gig in the church where her brother's funeral was held about a month and a half ago. When she scheduled the trip months ago he was still alive. They were going to get together. There are other things, too. When someone calls with stuff like that you listen.

And so we close in on midnight.

During the brief times in which I didn't have a job and could turn entirely to creativity I would frequently stay up late because that's when people finally quieted down. With a day job it's still easy to stay up too late and then resort to coffee and will power to get through the next day and the next and the next until stamina runs out, at least when my night noises won't disturb someone else who has to get up early the next day. I find it much harder to pound out the bike commute day after day on short sleep, though.

Maybe I'll have a little better luck tomorrow night.

Pointless Fashion Strikes Again

2011-04-13T13:25:00.002-05:00

A few new bikes this year have arrived with handlebar stems with the bar clamp bolts threaded into the face plate from the back. This serves absolutely no practical function. It does add several minutes to assembly time because it's awkward to maneuver wrenches alongside the stem. It's especially fun when you're juggling the bars with one hand as you try to assemble the stem clamp with the other.

A Pint Low

2011-04-07T12:15:00.003-05:00

The information package they gave me to read at the blood drive yesterday said I should avoid strenuous exercise for five hours after donating. Does riding 15 miles in wind, snow and rain count?

I had never donated before. Because I planned to drive today, I wanted to ride yesterday. The forecast called for a chance of showers in the late afternoon. Chance. Showers. I have fenders. It'll be fine. So I rode to town. At noon I went to the church where the blood drawing was set up.

The screeners liked my pulse rate, blood pressure, hemoglobin level and general fitness. They raved over my large veins. Then they had trouble establishing a satisfactory flow, or so I gathered from the conversation between the phlebotomist and her supervisor as they jiggled the needle around. I wasn't watching.

"You'll feel a little poke," the technician had said. Indeed I did, followed by a strong impression that they were digging for my humerus with a hot wire.

"Keep taking deep, relaxing breaths," they told me. What else could I do? I had a mission and they'd already made the hole. After a minute or two they got things settled. I squeezed the little rubber thingie in my hand periodically to enhance the flow and wake up that hot wire sensation again.

By donating blood I not only contribute to the lifesaving stocks of blood in reserve, I also get to find out my blood type for free. I need to know my blood type as part of the compatibility criteria to see if I can throw my wife a kidney or if we need to get involved in one of those chain-reaction donations becoming popular with the live-donor set. Once it becomes totally routine, people may even do it at parties. Imagine swapping all sorts of body parts at a wild revel on a Saturday night.

"I woke up with one green eye and one blue one. Is one of them yours?"

"Yeah, the green one, but you got it all red."

You could actually have two left feet.

As a first-time donor I took seriously all the stories I'd heard about people jumping up too quickly and keeling over right afterward. I lay there a bit before walking carefully to the snack table, where I drank a pint of water and ate some excellent crunchy stuff, a small bag of raisins and a chocolate chip cookie. Then I walked back to work, where I drank more water and stuffed down lunch while I assembled a bike.

I couldn't linger at closing time because I needed to rip home to get to a zoning board meeting. It hadn't been quite five hours yet, but I had no other options.

The chance of showers had turned into dark gray skies dumping wet snowflakes into a gusty wind. At 36 degrees, nothing was sticking to the road. It would just be raw and unpleasant. And so it was.

I kept meaning to get out my camera to document how nasty it was, but I never did. Pictures can't convey the feeling of a raw wind slapping fat snowflakes in your face. They don't portray the creeping wetness, the steady chilling of arms and legs. I didn't want to change my position and give that wind another way into my collar, so I faced front and kept pushing the pedals.

The snow and rain passed to the south after ten miles or so, but the wind still cut. By the time I got home I really wanted to take a hot shower, put on comfy lounging attire and put my feet up. Instead I just had time to feed the cats, put on some dry clothing and drive off to my meeting.

Today is dry and milder but I have an evening engagement, so I did not ride. A warming trend promises improving conditions for the weekend. I'll have regenerated my blood by then, too.

The Great April Fool's Day Blizzard

2011-04-02T06:48:00.002-05:00

We didn't get a foot of snow. We didn't get six inches of snow. We probably got four or five inches that snapped a few tree limbs around the area. I've heard that 25,000 customers were without power in the state. And of course people smashed up their cars. But that's a national pastime.

I drove to work on the slick roads without incident. A small shipment of Surly bikes awaited my attention along with some early season repairs. Since I had jumped into the full commute with no base miles, I needed a couple of rest days.

The snow continued to fall as the morning went on, but it melted on contact. It even seemed to melt on contact with the snow that had fallen overnight. Some days are like that: the air is thick with flakes that vanish when they land. A day of snowfall leaves nothing on the ground. It's fine with me. Snowblowing the muddy, rutted driveway would just gunk up the machine. Slop like we got yesterday just splatters out a few feet beyond the chute. Better to leave it to melt.

The highway crews laid down a new layer of abrasive sand and corrosive salt. Even if the roads are clear of snow and slush it's a setback. Cold mornings and rough, messy roads add several minutes to travel time by bike.

The sun is strong. Conditions improve.

Packing on the pounds

2011-03-24T06:25:00.003-05:00

My commuting bike has gotten heavier over the winter. As so often happens, the gains were gradual. Some were invisible.

Over the years I have added a tool or two to the emergency kit. I made cleat covers to carry in case I have a bad mechanical breakdown and have to walk a while, or need to go into the grocery store. Even in the bright months I was carrying a small headlight, a blinky tail light and some reflector leg bands. A mesh shopping bag and a plastic bag line the bottom of the rack pack, over top of the spare shift cable or two.

I resisted full fenders for years, but the comfort and cleanliness for both rider and bike make too much sense. They went on last fall.

The move to generator lighting added a measurable amount of weight and a minor amount of complexity. The sidewall generator wasn't too heavy, but mounting it was fiddly and marred the frame. The hub dynamo seems a little heavier than the sidewall unit, but the wiring is neater. With full-power lighting available I can probably ditch the little battery light. I might also switch back to my regular front wheel for the height of summer, disabling the generator light but reducing weight and resistance. It's a tough call. All the things I've added have turned my lean, mean, dirt-spattered exploring bike into a dreadnought of considerable capability.

Surly offers the Big Dummy cargo bike. All my modifications have turned my Cross Check into at least a Little Idiot.

Last Sunday I rode the first full commute of 2011. I didn't get to ride on the day we saw temperatures in the low 60s. As always, when we get a warm shot like that in March we get punished for weeks afterward. We keep getting little nuisance snowstorms that make a treacherous mess out of my commuting route. I'll defend my right of way with all the power of the law and my middle finger when conditions are even remotely reasonable, but sudden blinding snow laying down a slippery paste on a sometimes busy highway puts more than myself at risk. Then the icy rind left over, or the dry morning that leads to a wet or snowy afternoon further complicates the early season.

My bike and I are both avoiding the scale. April sneaks up on us under cover of the stubborn snow still piled around the house and covering the ground in the woods and our home clearing. It would be too easy to stay in the den, napping. It would be too easy to forget to do my taxes!

Sitting here writing it's also easy to be late to work. Oops.

Electrifying News

2011-03-13T21:01:00.004-05:00

The dynamo hub is on. The sidewall generator is off. The transfer of power was orderly and peaceful. The procedure was gratifyingly easy compared to some jobs that seem like they'll only take a few minutes and end up at midnight.

The dynamo bracket left a nasty little dent in the seat stay. That's an unfortunate souvenir. For the most part, though, it was a great experiment that led me to take this step. I haven't road tested the rig yet, but it works well on the stand. The power is a little jumpy at first up to about five or six miles per hour (according to the bike computer as I spun the wheel). This may improve as the hub wears in.

I like that I can turn it on and off with the switch on the light. I like that nothing wears against the tire. And, of course, power is continuous for as long as I want to ride. There will be no dead weight of expended batteries. The hub is heavier than a regular hub, but any light system requires adding weight.

So...now I just have to go ride.

Commuting Season Approaches

2011-03-09T14:58:00.003-05:00

Daylight Relocating Time begins this Sunday. With my groovy light system I should be more independent of daylight, but people worry about me and the dark rural highway is riskier at night.

Two weeks ago we got a foot of snow in Wolfe City. The shop owner declared loudly and confidently that we had so much snow that we would certainly be skiing well into the spring. In 20 years I have seen that prediction come true a mere handful of times. Sure enough, torrential rain within a couple of days of his brash statement scoured away a foot of snow in 24 hours. More rain and thaw weather have continued the attack.

Years ago I would have thrown my body across the snow to protect it. I would have raged against the gods. I'm too practical to keep that up, though. I soon learned to adapt to conditions. Conditions obviously were not going to adapt to me.

The early commuting season demands patience. Snowbanks and encroaching ice still narrow the roads in critical places. Deep drifts of sand fill the margins of the pavement. Blocked drains lead to flooding with briny melt water. I won't charge out and abuse my bike when I can abuse the car. Soon enough the weather will shift completely to the gray gap after winter has been dismantled. Then comes the gradual green of spring. All the while the sun vaults higher, so you get a good long look at the fugly and the early hints of returning life.

The toughest part is slogging through the slush in leafless woods to answer inopportune calls of nature on the long commute. Fluid balance is an art.

It's time to set up the rollers. I have to get my favorite old training tunes from vinyl and cassette tape to MP3. That could be cumbersome. I think I know a way, but I don't know if I have the requisite cords to play amp output into laptop input. I'm not even sure it would work. I certainly can't use that project as an excuse to delay training. I can always use the old Walkman.

The recent sudden death of Jon (who was a regular reader and frequent commenter on this blog) has taken a lot of the fun out of things. As much as you might tell yourself that life is fragile and can end in an instant, when a loved one is snatched away it creates concentric waves of distress from everyone who knew him. These waves cross each other, blend and reflect. They wash in from odd angles at unexpected times. Jon was a son, a brother, a husband and a father. His loss affects each person differently because of these roles and the ages of each person left behind. Because other family members have the illness that took him, we wonder who might be next. It's a pretty nasty frame of mind.

Aside from taking reasonable precautions to avoid the obvious, stupid things, you can't spend your life wondering when and how you are going to die, or how and when someone close to you will die.

The most dangerous thing you will ever do is love someone. You can't really control that,though. We humans tend to clump together.

I can't say much for 2011 so far

2011-03-05T07:22:00.003-05:00

My exercise has consisted of shoveling snow, skiing a handful of times and carrying a friend's coffin. He was one of my wife's brothers, 47 years old, with a wife and three children. The oldest child was from his previous marriage.

Averages are made of highs and lows. Since the beginning of the year, events have been more crap-heavy. No one can say how long this period might last. I don't believe things come in threes. And who's to say you don't get multiples of three or overlapping threes? Crap is crap. You prevent what you can, but some will find you. Then you find your way out unless, as in dead Jon's case, it is your terminal issue of crap. Guess what! Your heart's fucked! Sayonara.

This is why I try to have policies, not plans. Plans get wrecked. A policy merely states your intent given a certain set of circumstances. If it has to be adjusted, it's easier than digging your way out from under the collapsed structure of elaborate arrangements. A policy is based on principle: I will ride. I will eat reasonably nutritiously. I will think. I will write. I will draw. I will practice the violin. I will get the household chores done. I will keep going to work. You can't be disappointed if you weren't looking forward to anything.

New items get added: I will comfort the grieving. I will go where I am needed.

We had just completed the first year after the cellist's mother's death when her brother dropped. I will hope that we don't have to deal with such a thing again for a long, long time. However, I know that absolutely nothing is guaranteed. Whatever happens will be dealt with.

Thought for the day

2011-01-29T07:27:00.001-05:00

As a cyclist I never say I'm feeling run down. It's not that I'm superstitious. I just couldn't stand the irony.

Hangin' out in the glacier

2011-01-24T13:34:00.003-05:00

Today started at 17 degrees below zero (F). Winter made a New Year's resolution to be cold and snowy, so January has been marked by some of the conditions that have made New England legendary.

Not that we have not had some of the other conditions that have made New England legendary as well. I've logged several rides toward my 2011 total. We had a wet snowstorm that ended with more outright rain than was forecast. Since then, however, the snowfalls have been dry. The arctic air has come to visit.

Some sort of snow event is lining up for Wednesday. Most sources won't declare anything, but the cellist heard a rumor of 16-18 inches when she was at her Maine gig this morning. That could be a left-field prediction from a daring forecaster or just your typical panic in the streets before something more mundane. Maybe someone caught a glimpse of 6 to 8 out of the corner of their eye when running past the TV this morning.

This winter's pattern does closely resemble the winter of 1992-'93. That one shifted to snowy in early January. The climax was the Blizzard of '93 in March. It has been called the Storm of the Century. A Google search on it turns up many accounts of its effects from the deep south to Canada. We got more than 24 inches here in the 'ham. Other places got much more. And we got another big storm after that. As a marginally employed back-country skier, I was all over that stuff. Not so much anymore.

One or two die-hards around here are trying to ride. One of them has good studded tires and some sense, but another one who came to me last week is learning about extreme cold and salty roads the hard way. I keep saying "fixed gear, fixed gear" to these people, but they'd rather torment themselves by trying to keep a lot of moving parts moving in highly adverse conditions.

I might get to do some skiing. It's very difficult to get a decent workout on a work day. If I don't get a regular schedule going, it's pointlessly destructive to try to go hard on two days back-to-back, only to go back to normal sloth for the next five. Bike commuting season makes it all so much easier. But that brings its own logistical limitations. I won't be dashing off to play fiddle on Thursday evenings in a town 15 miles out of my way if I have to get there by bike in the time available.

Cut off from the activities that make winter worthwhile I think about liquidating all my assets and going on a world tour of tropical beaches until the money runs out.

Whatever we get for snow, I know I'll be up on my roof next Monday, shoveling to keep ahead of whatever the winter brings next. That's kind of like mountaineering, especially because I set up a belay. I don't want to end up like countless gimpy roof heroes who sneer at safety lines. If I'm going to get busted up I want it to be for something more glorious than that.

Eventually the crevasse I'm in will reach the face of the glacier in March or April. I'll tumble out, blinking in the spring sunshine, brush off the slush and go looking for my bike. If the weather shifts toward hard frozen snow in the woods and clear, dry roads any time between now and then I'll head out on the fixed gear. Right now it's just good weather for hot chocolate and imagination.

(De)Cafiend

2011-01-10T17:07:00.002-05:00

The cellist and I went out for a really nice evening on New Year's Eve. Some friends of ours were performing music at one of the First Night venues in Wolfe City. Some other friends of ours were serving vegetarian chili and other tasty foods to benefit a local organization promoting such things as hanging your laundry on a clothes line and riding a bike for transportation.

Yes, First Night was delightful.

Second Night it all went to hell. We hoped to entice some neighbors over for dinner before they returned to their real lives, teaching at a prep school in Massachusetts. The cellist/chef had made a dish with prosciutto and Parmesan. We were serving a better-than-average wine we'd received for Christmas to go with it. As luck would have it, the neighbors couldn't make it. That turned out to be a good thing, because it turned out the cellist was only renting dinner.

Norovirus stalks the land of Wolfe. The cellist never made it to dessert. Thus began a long night for us both. How could I hope to escape? It must only be a matter of time. She'd made our food, including a salad. The cooked stuff might be okay, but the raw vegetables?

Alas, that delightful dish she made for Saturday night will now live forever in our lexicon as Death Meal.

Symptoms manifest within four to 48 hours of exposure, according to the Centers for Disease Control. We did check symptoms of other things like kidney failure and gall bladder obstruction, but if the choice was between something extremely expensive and possibly fatal, or something really miserable, highly contagious but self-limiting, I knew which way I had to vote.

Sunday morning, still part of the Christmas Week work marathon for those of us in the winter tourism business, I awoke still unharmed. I drank only enough coffee to start basic brain functioning and ate a few crumbs of breakfast. I was not about to give the virus the satisfaction of taking from me anything delicious and filling. This is WAR. The virus is an invader. I will strip the landscape sooner than give it any succor.

During the day I drank water and nibbled bland crumbly things. In the afternoon, the cellist actually went to the emergency room because she had run out of actual food and beverage items to expel from her body and was now producing things better left unseen. Some of it was probably school snacks from when she was in kindergarten. Strangely, when I said I would come home to drive her to the hospital, she insisted she would do it herself. She was feeling much better between the virus's last improvised explosive devices as it torched the countryside on its way to the border.

"If I wait for you it will take me twice as long to get there," she said. It was true. I would be driving out from town only to drive all the way back to town once I had her on board.

Even though Norovirus is for the most part just a fantastically unpleasant nuisance, it is fantastically unpleasant enough to make every moment one does NOT have it precious, especially when one expects it any minute.

Day one passed. I remained healthy. Day two followed it. I continued my reduced caffeine and extremely sparse eating. Needless to say, I had no alcohol, either.

I know I drink too much coffee. During bike season I can get away with a certain amount of excess. The 75% hydration value you get from a caffeinated beverage is at least some help. My faster metabolism during self-propelled season helps me use up the stimulant effects as well. In decades past I could withstand the overload of off-season coffee saturation if I skied enough. Now, though, I notice that less is more. So even though I made it through the week without getting the plague, I'm sticking with the calorie reduction and the plain water. I dropped a couple of pesky pounds, too.

As for the Norovirus, we continue to practice "due diligence," as a friend of mine in the natural food store downstairs put it.

A Taxing Ride

2011-01-04T14:06:00.003-05:00

It's true. You don't forget how to ride a bike.

Taking advantage of dry roads this morning, I rode the fixed gear to the town offices to pay the property tax bill. It seemed like a huge waste to drive a whole car over there when I was only carrying some pieces of paper.

On winter rides I typically do not wear cleated shoes. Using toe clips and straps I have the intermediate option of wearing some sort of walkable footwear while retaining some power because I have the strap. A step-in pedal with a flat side only gives you the flat side, unless you want to drag a toeclip around. It would get all dug up from scraping the road, and could even get snagged in a corner or while hopping a curb.

Without a cleat I have less to worry about if I need to get off into the snow on the roadside or walk a half-mile, as I did once when I flatted just that far from home on a January day. Home being tantalizingly close, I opted not to crouch in a snowbank to fix the flat, but that meant walking gingerly the whole way in my cleats. That was when I officially decided to go cleatless on winter rides.

If it's a snowless year, cleats are fine. The woods are brown. Mud and water are only as much problem as they are in the late fall.

We're really attached to our bikes. We dedicated riders like to have that full-power feeling. Whether you use step-in pedals or clips and straps, footwear choice often makes you act like one of those birds that can do amazing things in flight, but waddles and flaps awkwardly on the ground.

Many practical riders -- probably the majority, world-wide -- don't bother to attach their feet to the pedals. Their average speed when cycling is lower, but their versatility is greater than that of a rider with cycling-specific shoes.

In 1980 I saw a sturdy young German guy touring up the California coast wearing combat boots, riding a three-speed and carrying his gear in a canvas backpack. It was the Age of the Toe Clip, so riders at the campsites showed up most often in either the cleated shoes of the day or regular sneakers. I carried both. I only saw the German guy arriving and departing, so I don't know what sort of speed he averaged, but as long as he was satisfied that's all that matters.

Over the past decade or so I have heard from a lot of riders. Wolfe City has a substantial retired population. A lot of your older types get into riding late in life to satisfy the doctor's directive to get some exercise. Most of them hate to ride among traffic, so they avoid using the roads. The ones who do ride on the road are quite likely to get off it whenever vehicles start passing them. Some will stand there and wait. Others will ride in the dirt until they feel safe going back onto the pavement. For various good reasons, these riders are not going to try to herd traffic. They accept a slower pace and interrupted progress for the sake of personal safety. At least it's the perception of personal safety. Traffic herding certainly is not for everyone. I hate that it has to be this way, but in most of this country it's how things are. If you can't throw elbows with the big boys or get out there like Gandhi and appeal to their morality, you have to adapt to life on the fringe.

How did I get to this from shoes? If your ride could easily become a walk or include a significant percentage of walking, your whole mount changes. Even saddle height changes if you'd rather be able to drop the landing gear in a hurry than have the most efficient pedal stroke. If, for whatever reason, you don't view the paved travel way as your natural habitat you develop a style based on what you see in front of you. You adapt to where you feel you belong.

Happy New Year, by the way

2010-12-26T12:07:00.002-05:00

Although the calendar doesn't change for another few days, I think of the new year beginning at the moment the Earth passes the point at which sunlight begins its long crawl back toward the northern hemisphere. From the winter solstice onward, those who variously like or seriously crave daylight get a little more each day.

The change is imperceptible at first. By the second week of January the change is obvious. As much as short little February seems to stretch eternally, followed by about 40 days of March, the lengthening days of winter hold quite a bit of hope and energy.

This year I had a very sluggish late fall. Every year I want to sit quietly and think during the ultimate slowing of the year, but this year I really crunched to a halt, mentally and physically. All my plans for creative activity by lamp light came to nothing. Based on conversations with people I know, I was not the only one.

One friend of mine, a sort of Episco-Buddhist-Zen-Wiccan, told me she was unbelievably torpid this year. But, she said, on the next day after the winter solstice, she suddenly felt a return of energy. She acknowledges the many reasons she could feel this way. Knowing that the corner has been turned heads the list. But she and I had both experienced the phenomenon with a more rounded bottom curve in most years. I, too, felt unaccountably perky the day after the solstice.

Mind you, it's no miracle cure. It's far from complete. But for the first time in weeks, on December 23 I actually felt like moving my body in a more constructive way than simply dragging it from bed to coffee pot, coffee pot to work, work to home and flopping into bed for an unsatisfying doze ending in joint pain and another crawl toward caffeine. Perhaps soon I will follow the transitory feeling with action.

Big snow is apparently on its way, to open the ski trails and stimulate some needed cash flow into the company coffers. Whether winter will truly build and maintain usable ski conditions remains to be seen. Somehow, no matter what the winter does these days, it's still easier to scrape up a sense of purpose once December is piled by the curb.

You're never alone in your car

2010-12-23T22:15:00.004-05:00

Most people need a little time to themselves.

The bike commute serves that vital function for me. It combines transportation to work with healthful exercise and energized thinking. The mind works differently when the body is working too, as opposed to just sitting.

When you're driving, you're never alone, even if you're alone in your car. Everyone is in their tin cans, buzzing along nose to tail, often pissed off at each other for miles of forced company. Whatever they think of me on my bike, the encounter doesn't last long. Mostly they ignore me. Except when I have to control the traffic, I get them past me as quickly as possible. That's a lot harder to do when I'm driving the same size vehicle they are, at roughly the same speed.

For the next couple of months I will not have a fraction of the exercise or the justifiable separate but equal use of the public right of way that make life much more endurable in bike season. Even on a back road I could see the unwelcome glare of lights coming up fast behind me. On the major roads I can count on getting embedded in crazy trains of drivers who learn more from watching close tactics in NASCAR races than from the wisdom of following distance when driving in the real world.

Division of labor

2010-12-16T14:44:00.002-05:00

More years ago than I like to count, when I was just starting at this temporary job, the manager came into the back shop to find me reading the Quality catalog or some other technically rich publication.

"I don't mind you educating yourself," he said. "But my mother and father don't understand why you're back here reading a magazine."

This was on a day during the busy 1990s, when innovation swept the bike industry like projectile vomiting and diarrhea through a cruise ship. I wasn't just wasting time with a romance novel. I was reloading with vital ammunition for both the sales and service departments.

During that era, the manager raced road bikes fairly regularly and mountain bikes very casually. A skier by preference, he had taken to cycling as off-season training with a little more dedication than many skiers show, but he cared little more for the technicalities than I did, and I didn't care too deeply. We soon acquired a younger mechanic who was a much more active mountain bike racer who helped his two geezer shop mates keep in touch with trends. I, in turn, helped him put his mania for new technology in perspective, with the help of a lot of that very same technology.

One day in or around 1995 he was just finishing the assembly of a Cannondale full suspension bike.

"A year ago I would have thought this bike was just totally cool. I would have wanted one," he said. "Now I just look at it and wonder where it's going to break."

I've never been so proud.

In the passing years, the management grew accustomed to my apparent lack of industriousness when it kept paying off. When people came in looking for answers, I could provide them. It may not have been what they wanted to hear, but I did my best to be sure it was well thought out, solid and consistent.

Meanwhile, the shop has to run. The manager withdrew more from the wrenching side of the business as the business side took more attention. He also enjoys the sales floor more than I do. Despite the fact that he's been through three carbon frames and a trip to the ICU in the past five years, he's still fully confident in the material. He's down to earth enough to have avoided getting caught up in the tubular tire craze, but he has no complaints about brifters and skinny, expensive chains made out of tinsel. He finds the bright side of the products the industry insists on producing rather than wasting his time on resistance and subversion.

Each of us has a full-time job keeping this battered lifeboat afloat. Aside from the manager's parents, the other staff members also have vital tasks, but they haven't been in skiing, cycling or the related industries long enough to have the fluency that comes from a lifetime thoroughly squandered in self-propelled travel sports. If I'd known this was all I was going to amount to, I would have paid more attention. It was, after all, just a temporary job for rent and beer money while I got ready for much cooler things to happen to me. Even so, rolling along like a ball of rubber cement, a lot of stuff has stuck to me. Maybe feeling like an outsider all this time has given me the perspective to stay out of the industry's seductive web of addictive doodads and obsessively narrow focus.

The manager now piles up publications for us all to read. There's more to work than just looking like you're working.

We learn from our customers

2010-12-15T15:23:00.003-05:00

I'm not a gear addict. During the innovation avalanches of the 1990s I just waited for the rubble to settle and then learned how to fix all the crap that landed on the pile. I let customer inquiries guide my research. It still seems like the best approach. Whatever someone brings to my attention I judge by the same basic principles.

I really appreciate the enthusiasts who bring us the news. They help gather and filter more results than we could on our own. The ones who actually buy things from us also help us decide what to keep in stock.

In the 1990s the interaction was more hostile. The challenging customer would come in with an attitude, to see if we were hip enough to deserve his business. We still get a little of that, but not for long, because we rapdly fail the hipness test and see them no more. Competition between shops was harsh. Customers played shops against each other. Gossip was rampant. We still gathered intelligence using field operatives and informants, both willing and unwitting. It was simply more defensive. I don't miss that.

Driven to Distraction

2010-12-02T12:20:00.004-05:00

My last ride was November 23. It seems longer ago than that.

We went to visit my wife's foodie relatives in Vermont for Thanksgiving. That involved a lot of fine food and drink and no major exertion at all. I'm not complaining. They don't trust us with the really good wine, but they didn't hold back on a highly satisfactory single malt scotch. The turkey was locally raised and very fresh. Their palates wouldn't let them serve utter swill for table wine, even though they didn't present the pride of their cellars.

Speaking of utter swill, I've decided to order the SRAM iLight generator hub. Using the wine analogy, in order to discover for yourself that great $2 bottle, you risk drinking a lot of swill. The only information I've been able to dig up on the iLight has indicated it might be a really good value. The only way to know for sure is to build up a wheel and put it to the test.

Other factors than my aversion to swallowing the Shimano Kool Aid went into this decision. Of the three major contenders for my hub dollar, Schmidt, Shimano and SRAM, only Schmidt and SRAM offered a rim-brake hub with 36 holes. Overkill? Perhaps. But what if I move the rig to a loaded tourer? It might still be overkill, given that front wheels just seem to go forever. I still want to support the vanishing 36-hole species.

I got additional support for the beefier wheel when I stepped onto the scale at my doctor's office yesterday and faced the effects of the decadent living in Vermont and my own reduced riding and depressive snacking. Even though I don't get caught up in a lot of holiday madness, I seem to lose my whole routine during the time between mid November and the beginning of January. It must be endemic to the winter solstice. If I lived on a tropical island with no calendar, I wonder if I would be able to float along in a steady routine without these unrequested fluctuations.

I actually enjoy a little hibernation. It's unnatural to be buffed and aggressive all year. Nothing like the end of November and most of December to provoke quiet contemplation. And comfort eating.

I've been on the rollers a couple of times. No doubt I'll figure out what to do as the winter evolves. If the roads stay clear enough I'll get out on the faithful fixed gear as well.

Nothing up my sleeve...except the rest of my jacket

2010-11-18T10:10:00.003-05:00

For what it's worth, I came up with this simple, obvious way to turn my wind jacket into a streamlined bundle for easier carrying on the rear rack of my wet weather bike.

As easy as 1

2

3

I usually just roll it and tie it around my waist, but the day was a little warm and I didn't want to block my jersey pockets.

Sleeve-stuffing turns the jacket into a more tubular bundle than any other method, and perfectly restrains extraneous flappy bits.

Thinking about the hub

2010-11-15T11:06:00.005-05:00

The dynamo hub seems like a good move to streamline my on-board light system. The bottle generator won't go to waste. It can move to the rain bike, on which I already run more rugged tires that may stand up to the wire-brush wet weather drive roller offered by Peter White.

In the world of generator hubs, the Schmidt SON seems to be the gold standard. My budget does not extend to gold, so I have to shop around. This economic fact has guided every cycling purchase since I started my adult cycling habit in college. In my racing years it was a point of pride to find cool components for your bike that looked good and functioned well for less than the price of the legendary Campagnolo. It was also great to find sweet deals on the Campy itself.

Contenders for a bargain gem in the dyno-hub market include the Sanyo H27, the SRAM i-Light and several models by Shimano.

My first impulse is to avoid Shimano. I developed that habit in the 1990s, when they were basically a malignancy in the cycling industry, spreading fast, killing other companies not just on the basis of product quality, but unfairly on the basis of size or less aggressive marketing. Their devotion to obsolescence preyed on consumers and retailers alike. Most of their stuff was not as awesome as the advertising said it was, it was merely good enough. It was shoved down the cycling world's throat on the end of a battering ram of marketing and preferential pricing for OEM spec. However, the big ugly behemoth has also continued to offer some nice basic components for those of us who like to mix, match and roll our own. You just have to remember two things: don't buy their proprietary crap that does not play well with others and stock up on the stuff you like, for the day when they quit making it at their whim.

I can get the SRAM or Shimano hubs wholesale. SRAM isn't exactly the good guys when it comes to obsolescence and tweaky innovation. They actually offer less to the tinkering cyclist than Shimano does, because their barcons are index-only. I have no brand loyalty, I have individual product loyalty. I suggest you do the same.

In the end, what matters is function for price. That's where I may have to roll the dice and do my own product testing, one wheel at a time. So it's not a question of what hub to buy, it may be what hub to buy first. Or scrape up the coin for the Schmidt, assuming the high price really does indicate the best long-term investment.

Of course I will welcome any input from users with a tale to tell. I'm not doing this right away.

It's all fun and games until you hit a skunk (and other observations from the night commute)

2010-11-12T12:49:00.005-05:00

Chortling merrily at the power of my new light system I ventured into the deepening dusk of late October and November on the park-and-ride version of my commute. On this route I am only exposed to traffic for a couple of blocks between the shop and the beginning of the trail, and again briefly where the trail crosses Center Street. After that it's just me and the wildlife for several miles.

Regardless of apocryphal cougar sightings, none by me, my wildlife encounters have been limited to small birds at close range and some waterfowl at a distance on the sections of lake I get to see. I gave passing thought to deer, moose and coyotes. Only the moose really worried me. In some places the trail runs on a high embankment with a steep dropoff on either side into wetland. If I startled a moose on one of those I could get stomped before I could get away. They're not exactly quick-witted. But you can ride for many years without encountering a moose at all, let alone at close range. So I've felt pretty serene on my car-free private pathway.

Two nights ago, zipping along in the darkness, I rode into a fresh cloud of skunk spray. It wasn't aimed at me. It wasn't enough to leave a scent on me or my equipment. It is enough to make me peer with a bit more urgency into the shadows beside my patch of light. The whiff I got was only a warning shot. Imagine what a mess a real skunk hit would make.

Fallen leaves have also gotten deeper as autumn has advanced. They make the rail crossings harder to see, especially at night. I overshot one the other night, bouncing over the railroad ties for several bike lengths as I slowed to a stop.

The fun turns where the trail goes toward the Allen A town beach also get more interesting in total darkness. I'd been feeling pretty cocky in deep dusk, because the faint remaining light gave me a slightly wider picture. On my first run through there after the time change turned twilight into night, I found out I don't know the turns as well as I thought I did. I managed to avoid hooking a tree, but not by much.

Wednesday and Thursday nights I took Route 109 past Lake Wentworth to Bryant Road rather than stick to the possibly skunky trail through the spooky forest. A sliver of moon reflected off the smooth waters of the lake. I did have to herd traffic a little. The Superflash still smartens 'em up, but I don't think I'll make the detour a regular thing.

Herding in darkness is trickier than in daylight because I don't have full use of my peripheral vision when doing head checks at night. On Wednesday I left my helmet light on. On Thursday I turned it off because I felt it confused drivers behind me and might also blind them. Without the helmet light I no longer had light aimed where I was looking when I checked the margins of my light patch or looked for obstacles extending in from the sides. On the plus side, drivers seemed less squirrelly.

The generator is about to eat its second drive roller since I installed it. The first one probably wore prematurely because I had not dialed in the alignment perfectly. The second one lasted longer, but it's nearly gone after about a month. The alignment seemed to have drifted very slightly, but I wonder if it also wears faster because the tire is slightly irregular. The uneven pressure has a greater effect as the roller wears down.

I ordered four of them when the first one wore out. I carry a fresh one in the trunk so I can replace it anywhere. I carry spare shift cables for the same reason. I've had some very pleasant roadside breaks while replacing a shift cable. I much prefer it to replacing tires. Tire replacement is a dirtier job.

A dyno hub will alleviate this problem. It would mean building another wheel, though. I don't know how much longer I will push the commute for this year. I have enough rollers to last a while.

Seasonal Reconfigurations

2010-11-07T19:14:00.004-05:00

As part of our preparation for ski rental season I cleaned up the high performance rental boots and freshened up their size markings.

Turning heads

2010-10-24T16:30:00.003-05:00

For various reasons I have made my autumn conversion from full road commutes to park-and-rides. This puts me on the Cotton Valley Trail, aka the DERT (Disappointing Example of a Rail Trail) for almost six miles each way.

The DERT was built with the rails in place. Long sections run between the rails, giving inadequate space for comfortable, safe passing when bikes meet from opposite directions. The fill varies from firm packed mineral products to loose granules that are only secure to ride on after a soaking rain gives them temporary consolidation. Numerous rail crossings challenge the rider throughout the trail's length. There have been many injuries. In spite of these statistics, the rail users responsible for its shortcomings are quite defensive of their role in its construction. Such ironies seem to make up much of life.

For me it boils down to this: I get the best use out of the path when cold weather has driven nearly all other users off it. I can deal with the crossings at my own speed and nearly never have to accommodate oncoming bike traffic. It angles away from my regular route, so it doesn't tempt me in the warmer, lighter months unless I take a fun but lengthy detour over a mostly dirt road. I used to ride that detour a lot. Now I want the time more than the pretty, traffic-free route. But in the dark and chilly end of the commuting season I can salvage bike miles and save some gasoline by resorting to the path.

Only the first mile of the ride home uses streets. For those I run the whole light array in all its flashing splendor. Once on the path, however, I don't need all the flashing lights because no motor vehicles are going to mow me down. If one does, the operator has to be pretty messed up to get on the path in the first place. The only somewhat likely candidate would be a dirt biker or someone poaching the path on an ATV.

By reducing my lights to the single head and tail light powered by the generator I present a more vehicular aspect. I've noticed cars slow way down when they're on a road that crosses the path and I'm coming up to the intersection in the dark. I wonder if I have been reported as a motor vehicle on the path. One car that slowed almost to a stop while crossing was far enough along to have passed without the slightest risk to either of us. Only the strength of my headlight drew their eye and sparked their curiosity. Coming out of a dark path where they probably expect no one at this time of year makes it particularly conspicuous.

Does your bottom bracket respect you?

2010-10-22T21:35:00.004-05:00

What you thought was your faithful servant could be insulting you behind your crankset. This one came out of an early 1980s Peugeot road bike. Apparently it never got past junior high school gym class.

Final modifications

2010-10-20T20:42:00.004-05:00

I wanted to nudge the generator roller a little higher on the sidewall of the rear tire to see if it would run a little more quietly and hold up better. To do this I had to cut away some of the fender.

I had tried using files and a Dremel tool to remove some plastic. Those methods removed almost no material. Rather than use more force, sharper blades or coarser implements at higher RPMs I went to the elegant power of the light saber.

Cafiend home and shop mechanic light saber kit

The trusty Chinese knock-off of a Swiss army knife has served as my light saber many times.

Lighting it up

I had to repeat the heating process numerous times to maintain a heat level that provided a smooth cut. Light saber technology is rather primitive as yet.

The roller has plenty of clearance in this smooth arc.

Setting the generator height and angle made me scrutinize the rear rim. A telltale small hop directed my gaze to the section where a small stress crack has developed at one spoke eyelet. This is the life cycle of the modern wheel. This rim is six years old and has more than 12,000 hard miles on it. It's the third wheel on the Cross Check since I built the bike in 2000. Since 2000 I have ridden this bike more than any of my other options. The rainy-day fixed gear probably comes second.

New rim is on order. The Salsa Delgado Cross served me pretty well, but I'm liking the Sun CR 18 these days. It has a triple-box construction and is still lighter than the Delgado. They all crack eventually. We'll see how it goes.

Running with the bull (moose)

2010-10-13T12:54:00.003-05:00

I've compared traffic riding to running with the bulls and other metaphors involving large animals, but once in a while the metaphor comes to life.

This morning on Route 28 a bull moose sauntered out of the woods about a hundred yards ahead of me. He stopped in the lane as if trying to remember whether he'd turned off the gas stove before he left the house this morning. Then he spotted me. He took a step or two toward me, then started moving away, but still in the road.

A truck crested the rise. This turned the moose back toward me. Great! decades of successful commuting, and now I'm going to get stomped to death by a large, panicked herbivore.

I was next to a steep embankment I would have to scramble up in my cleats in a vain attempt to get out of the path of this beast. Fortunately he had only taken a few trotting strides before he saw a better route back into the forest.

As usual, the last motorists on the scene had no idea why other cars were all askew in the vicinity of a lone bicyclist. The moose had disappeared completely, the way they do.

The Courtesy Switch

2010-10-10T19:45:00.004-05:00

On the commute this morning, once we got into town, drivers were passing too fast and too close, as usual.

I reached back and flipped the switch on the Superflash.

Instant courtesy. It was bizarre.

Big G, riding ahead of me, did not know what I had done. When we got onto a quieter street I pulled up to him and explained. I switched off the light. I don't want to waste it where I don't need it.

Look! Up ahead! It's SUPERFLASH!

2010-10-08T21:09:00.002-05:00

Today I got my Planet Bike Superflash blinky light. I put it in the middle of the three lights I wear on my bum bag, retiring the loyal but less flashy unit that had served there for several years.

I'd been impressed by the Superflash when I saw the one on my brother's Trice this summer. In full daylight I could see the flash from as far away as I could see the trike at all.

Turbulent clouds created dramatic light effects as the sun went down tonight. Bright sun would break through to illuminate colorful leaves or white buildings, highlighting the contrast with the slate-gray clouds. As the sun dropped below the western hills, twilight advanced.

Drivers rushed past me on this Friday of a holiday weekend. Finally I got tired of it. I hit the button on the Superflash.

The result was immediate and gratifying. I could tell by the sound of tires on chip seal, and grumbling engines, that drivers were slowing down five or ten miles an hour. Almost without exception, they swung wide as well. They passed politely and sedately before resuming speed.

A few minutes later I had activated the whole system: generator light, Beamers, and the flanking blinkies.

The whir of the dynamo gets higher as my speed increases. The light becomes incrementally brighter as well, urging me to ride even harder. The beam is strong and white. It seems to intrigue drivers. The sharp power of the Superflash and the steady, relentless illumination of the generator light indicate a power disproportionate to a cyclist's size.

In a more populated area where life is plentiful and cheap, the mass of drivers would probably shove on past with their usual disregard. Around here, though, a transportation cyclist is a strange bird, worthy of a second look, especially when equipped with something better than the typical toy light. When the novelty wears off I may get less respect from drivers here, too. Right now, though, the difference is night and day.

Refinements

2010-10-08T05:56:00.004-05:00

While I was replacing the generator drive roller I figured out how to make the tail light mounting work better. The generic seat stay clamps I'd put back there pulled the light crooked. For some reason I could not get them to bend exactly the way I wanted. I was able to adjust the angle and get a more solid mount by inserting the thinner set of spacers from a linear-pull brake pad. We've accumulated a large coffee can full of these. They come in handy for all sorts of little tricks like this.

With the generator remounted and carefully aligned, the light works better than it has since the first night. It impressed me then. Now I realize its true power.

I'm so eager for darkness to fall, I start my ride home with my eyes closed.

People perceive night riding as more dangerous than riding in daylight. With inadequate lights that is certainly true. On rural roads without many other sources of light, a good set of cyclist's lights stands out. With fewer distractions from the scenery, the night driver tends to look where the headlights point.

At intersections the cyclist's small lights may not catch the eye of an impatient motorist. Flashing modes help there, but the wise cyclist assumes no one has seen, and rides with appropriate caution. But in the darkness a cyclist can see headlights coming around bends or approaching from cross streets, giving better warning of other vehicles than we get in daylight.

Motorists react to the sight of something different. Because bicycles don't have a standard light configuration, each little variation may serve to engage the motorist's curiosity. That's probably a bicycle up there, but it could be some weird space alien thingy. You have to hope then that the motorist does not subscribe to the "kill it before it multiplies!" school of thought popular in 1950s sci-fi flicks. Tinfoil helmet covers and cheesy ray guns may buy you crucial seconds in which to make a getaway. Extra points if you ride in a closely-tailored pastel colored jumpsuit.

Those of us who pedal get treated like an alien species anyway. Our garb often inspires harsh commentary. It might as well be a space suit.

Talk about mud flaps, my bike's got 'em

2010-10-05T10:37:00.003-05:00

Last week was not a good one for riding. I had a bad cold, so I missed the day with the nicest weather. The next two days brought nastier weather than I felt like riding in, especially finishing up in deep dusk, regardless of the lights. But I finished off the week with a ride on Saturday.

I spent a few hours yesterday getting the fenders on the Cross Check. I won't expose it to road salt, but I will have to take some rain with it if I intend to try commuting into the darker months. Either that or get a thermonuclear light set on Silver the rain bike. I'm sorely tempted. I have to pay off the first light before I can get another one.

Maybe I'll try to revive my ancient set from the 1980s for Silver. If I do that it will probably prevent me from flipping the wheel because it needs to stay in the same position relative to the generator. I would use the Sanyo bottom bracket generator, so maybe I could rig a sliding bracket. I just don't know if everything works. I'll probably just wuss out and take the car in case of real rain.

The front derailleur presses on the fender when I shift to the outer ring. It's not bad enough to prevent shifting or move the fender significantly, but it's annoying. If I space the fender back from the seat tube I can't get the rear wheel in and out of the dropouts. Mildly annoying since I tend to be a bit neurotic about function and aesthetics within my own strange standards. I hate for things to be just slapped in there. I just need to ride it to see if it will bug me.

Cross Checks are prone to toe overlap. It already made the bike a bit tricky on technical terrain. The fenders increase the overlap. I was surprised how little I encountered it on test-circles in my driveway, however. On low speed, tight turns I would have nipped the front wheel even without the fender. Again, only riding will tell me whether I can put up with it. I know how great it feels to hit a wet stretch of road and not have a spray of water and grit come squirting up all over everything.

On the way home on Saturday I discovered my generator drive roller wasn't turning consistently. The drawback to the stand light feature is that in less than full darkness you might not notice that the generator's output is repeatedly interrupted. The backup power kicks in to keep the beam shining, albeit at less than full intensity. I happened to notice the odd rhythm coming from the generator, so I stopped to investigate. The rubber roller was almost completely worn away in just a few rides. I nursed it the rest of the way home because I had to.

I believe I did not have the bracket tight enough. I was trying to keep from marring the paint too badly, using a rubber shim under the radius of the clamp. I accepted that the set screw on the inside of the seat stay would have to bite in. I hoped to limit the damage to that. As a result, the generator could wiggle out of alignment and lose contact with the tire. Or I could have a bad generator, but it will cost me another roller to find out.

I have not had the best luck with prompt shipping from Peter White Cycles. Neither of my orders so far have shipped on the day they were placed. The first order included all the equipment for the light set, so I accepted the delay. But this one is four rollers in a padded envelope. If I had planned to ride tomorrow I would be out of luck. Shipping from such a short distance definitely only takes overnight, but that's from the time it actually ships.

Fortunately the weather is supposed to be wet again and I carpool with the cellist on Wednesdays. With luck the errant rollers will have rolled in with tomorrow's mail.

Day of the British Tourists

2010-09-29T12:17:00.002-05:00

A large group seems to be passing through the area today. I've already replaced one front derailleur, straightened a rear derailleur hanger, provided a convenient refill of chain lube and consulted on modernization of one rider's brake system.

I do like to see people really getting out on a trip.

Tropical Diseases of Handlebars

2010-09-21T18:23:00.003-05:00

The owner of the Bike from Singapore wants to keep the bike.

"So it just needs a handlebar," he said when he finally got a look at it. True, the bar was just one more item on the list already compiled. He's really attached to this bike. It's my job to see that he can be securely attached.

After he left I stress-tested the bars to see how close they were to failure.

One side was more oxidized than the other. I hit the drop portion of that side sharply with a hammer. With each blow the weakened upper area split a little more.

After that I used a leverage bar to apply steadier force, because I didn't have a heavy glove to protect me from cuts if the whole thing crumpled into jagged bits. It actually broke pretty cleanly.

If you live in a tropical maritime environment and you have drop handlebars you might want to consider using clear tape so you can see what's going on under there. But I think there's more to this mystery than just that. Like maybe he forgot to mention the time it sank aboard an overloaded ferry boat or something. Wherever you live, check your bars every so often. It can't hurt.

People vote with their cars

2010-09-18T06:09:00.002-05:00

I wondered if I imagined the increase in aggressive driving every September, but a professional delivery driver confirmed it.

"You think it's the tourists that make it bad, but these are just the regular people," he said. "I think they're just used to fighting it all summer, so they're still fighting."

I have my own theory that the end of summer, the beginning of school and work schedules, shortening days and the urgency of early preparations for the season of cold and dark make people jumpy. Whatever the reason, I get a much more resentful vibe off of drivers for much of September.

If I can keep up the commute into fall, I become a roadside (or lane-covering) attraction. "Geez, look at that guy still riding." In fact, many people, even ones I don't really know, will ask me, "did you bike today?" when they see me in a store or at events and activities around the local area. I can only hope these aren't the same people trying to brush me back with the broad hood of the F-150 or GMC Yukon. Hard to say, really. People can innocently act out amazing double standards.

For now I have to be prepared for people expressing themselves with two tons of metal, slicing unnecessarily close and fast to let me know that, in their opinion, bike season is over. They still respond to herding. I just can't be lax about it.

Foliage tour buses can be the worst. The economy seems to have diminished their numbers, so there's a plus side to the rocky financial climate. I still keep an ear out for the distinctive smooth diesel of a box car full of gawkers.

Lights! Camera! Action!

2010-09-17T20:45:00.003-05:00

As reported earlier, the light project ironically cost me the bike ride this morning.

I left the house with the bike ready to ride. I had everything I needed except sufficient time to arrive at work within even my highly flexible standards of punctuality. So when I finally got home for good at 8:30 p.m., there was plenty of darkness, and no reason not to tool up and down in front of the house to see if this rig is as good as I hoped it would be.
The generator is so much lighter and more compact than my ancient Union. The Sanyo that mounted to the bottom bracket was pretty cool, and new versions are available, but I'll probably go with a dyno hub if I move away from this sidewall model.
The tail light would not mount centered on my ancient Blackburn Expedition rack. I have an Axiom rack in my salvage pile in the crawl space, but the tail light bracket is tucked up under the projecting end of the rack. That protects the light from such mishaps as accidental breakage and possibly being seen by overtaking vehicles. Mounting this thing made me think about the problems with bike tail lights. They should really be mounted higher than any part of your average bike. Thus I maintain my large (and growing) collection of blinking lights on myself.

My two Beamer 3 headlights added useful fill light to the patch thrown by the IQ Cyo R Plus. Even without them, though, the generator light alone threw a subtly ample field of light down the road. The R version has a reflector and is hooded to direct light near the bike. This is very useful at low speeds on rougher surfaces. It still directed enough light down the road for me to feel secure in an upper-mid-range gear on this brief trial. Further supplemented by my helmet light this should be a formidable array.

LEDs don't put down the hard white light of a halogen bulb. That's what I meant by subtly ample. At first the bluish tint seems too close a kin to the navy blue of night itself. But then you realize that night has been negotiated with, rather than banished in the hard-edged way of filament lighting. I love the long useful life of LEDs and the endless energy of the generator as opposed to the helpless anxiety of fading batteries when you clearly have more ride than electricity left.

Wires present one of two drawbacks to installed on board lighting, weight and clutter collectively being the other one. I understand why sexy randonnée bikes have internal wiring. But I often think our vain habit of hiding the plumbing and wiring inside the walls of our houses is just a fussy invitation to really expensive problems when something goes wrong. I did the best I could to lead the wires simply and directly, with only sufficient slack to avoid straining splices and connections. After dark, the feeling of power and the fact that the details of the mounting are largely invisible cancel out any remaining aesthetic qualms.

I haven't put on the permanent fenders yet. I try to avoid wet weather on the multi-gear bike. Realistically, however, wet weather finds me. I also go forth on wet mornings when fair afternoons are predicted. I'm starting to view the clip-on fenders as hypocritical and insufficient. Nothing like a spatter of wet grit to remind you that the vanity of fenderlessness is not worth the crap that gets all over you and your bike.

I have to say, it was still gross cleaning the crud out of the fenders. And I had to remind myself to look at my tires when I didn't have a view of the top of them all the time.

In any case, the bike is ready to go. I can refine the setup as needed.

Day of the Lost Commute

2010-09-17T13:30:00.008-05:00

The cellist spent a restless night last night. She has to get up at 5 on the days she teaches in Maine. On this particular day she has to dash home, grab her luggage and jet off to Baltimore to take a praxis test so she can finish renewing her Maine teacher certification for the job she unexpectedly got back this summer after being laid off last year. Don't get me started on the capricious nature of individual states' teacher certification requirements. It's good to have a job. But she had to hit the ground running from a low-flying aircraft to jump into the slot being offered back to her less than a month before school was due to start.

The cellist is a bit of a restless night specialist. She asks me exasperatedly how I can make myself fall asleep seemingly at will. I can tell you how I do it, but I cannot teach you how.

Last night I did not let myself drop off. I'd poured much of the evening into the Generator Light Project on my commuting bike. It kept enticing me on, as bike projects do. Just one more widget will be the key to the perfect setup. I can finish in a few minutes!

It's almost never that simple.

I have no idea when we fell asleep. Midnight? Her alarm went off at 5. I let her get through the shower and into the kitchen before I crawled out around 5:30. She had to leave by 6, and then I could put in the few more minutes needed to complete the perfect light setup. Yeah!

I had (and still have, now at 2:40 p.m.) that sick, queasy feeling you get from too little sleep. It combined nicely with the buyer's remorse I nearly always get when I buy expensive equipment. Even if I know it's great I ask myself if I can justify it. And my clean-lined bike gets more stuff hung on it. But racks and lights and fenders make a bike stronger in the wild. This is not some spindly thoroughbred, fun to ride fast but not built for the tough haul. And certainly neither am I.

With my first cup of coffee I went downstairs to my laboratory to resume my Experiments with Electricity. I need a Van de Graaf generator in the corner, safely distant from the gas hot water heater.

Every aspect of the installation has been disturbingly improvised. I wished Surly included a dynamo bracket, because the Dymotec would bolt cleanly to it. Instead I had to use the brutal dynamohalter provided by Peter White. It comes with dire warnings about crushing your seat stays. The Cross Check is not made of tinfoil, but I still care for it. In spite of all the fumblings (to be reported in detail in a separate post), the system was finally coming together.

Examining the alignment and pressure of the dynamo as the wheel rotated, I finally noticed the big sidewall gash my rear tire has been sporting for who knows how long. I made a note to change that for the new one I had in stock before I left for work.

Sometime during all this I went upstairs for a moment and noticed it was about 7:10. Good. I would finish in minutes, you see. I could shove down some toast, guzzle the rest of the coffee, load up and head out into the foggy, damp morning.

Back down I went. I just had to do this and that, and maybe this and that and I'd be out of here! Yeah! Done!

I went up the stairs, looked at the clock.

Nine fifteen. NINE FIFTEEN!?!?! I hadn't even had breakfast and I was already late for work?

Alien abduction. Missing time. That was it. I don't know how they did it, but they did. Funny. I didn't feel probed.

Some latent sense of responsibility kicked in. I came to work by car.

With everything else cleared from the queue, it was time to work on the bike described in Freeze Frame earlier this summer.

Remember this one?
Closeup of that fattie with the crimps blown right out of it. The tire rubbed the frame.

I had consulted with my favorite expert in July when the bike came in. She had suggested I try pressing the crimp back into the stay using something like a socket (goes with socket wrench) and a C-clamp or a vise. Since the job wasn't urgent and the process sounded like it might require some elbow room I waited until now to take a whack at it.

Stage 1: C-clamp, old Rock Shox tool kit vise blocks and nondescript piece of metal.
Actually that is the sawed-off stub of a brace bit we cut to fit an electric drill in some other insane project. Never throw anything away!

After starting the shaping with the C-clamp I needed more power to press it deeper and fine-tune the shape. The outside of the stay needed to be able to flatten more than the vise block would let it. It needed to be able to assume its shape with minimal interference from its support, but not be pressed directly against the hard vise jaws.

These two views show the stay supported on the outside with a stub of hockey stick (nice hard wood) while a vise block holds one of several shaping cylinders.

Shaping forms included a crappy 9-millimeter socket and unidentified pieces from one of our useful Buckets of Bolts.

9mm socket held in vise block with double-stick carpet tape so it won't fall out before vise pressure takes over. Sacrificial rubber bands held the whole sandwich together until I could tighten the vise. To keep the bike frame from tipping, I tied the front end up with an old shoelace
Bucket of Bolts

After a couple of sessions in the vise, tire clearance was restored. Rear triangle alignment was undistorted.

Ta Daaaa!

And here is the Cafiend stay-recrimping kit:
Projects like this help keep the end of bike season from being tedious. Tomorrow I get to consult with Singapore Guy about whether he wants to dress up a frame with his surviving componentry or go completely modern with a new bike.

Blame Singapore

2010-09-17T12:35:00.004-05:00

It started with a broken flange on a Bonerager rear hub. An athletic-looking guy who looked to be somewhere in his flurfties -- what do you call the age we're getting to now? We're not middle aged. That sounds so stodgy. But we're not ferocious young athletes anymore, either. In good shape for our age? That sounds like something you say about 95-year-olds who don't need a walker. Anyway, this guy comes in with his late-1990s LeMond road bike with this cracked hub flange. He said he was grunting up a climb.

I told him the wheel was toast. We discussed his options. He selected a built wheel from a reputable supplier rather than engage my talents for a custom build. Because his bike was very rusty that seemed like a good compromise.

He requested an overhaul on the bike while we waited for delivery of the wheel. We discussed the rust.

I've seen some nasty rust on bikes people ride on their trainers. He admitted to some of that, but he and his wife blamed most of it on the time the bike had spent with them in Singapore, with its tropical humidity and surrounding salt water.

He loves how the bike handles. I said I would check the frame for cracks before proceeding. This I did, in due time, when I finally started the repair a few days later. For some reason the frame was intact. For how much longer, I could not say.

I'm so glad I unwrapped the handlebars before I went too far on any other work. I've seen trainer corrosion, I've seen metal fatigue. This was the first time I had seen handlebars that had literally turned to powder inside the bar tape.

POWDER!

I was able to poke a screwdriver through the handlebars in many places. See?

Screwdriver inserted into bars

I called a halt to this repair until the customer can see what we're up against. I've suggested he transfer the many good surviving parts and his groovy new rear wheel to a Surly Pacer or similar sporty road frame.

I can't believe he was riding this. He was one good pothole away from collapsing those bars.

Light up

2010-09-13T11:17:00.004-05:00

The cellist starts putting pressure on me this time of year to quit cycling and start driving because of the darkness. Eventually I heed, but a really good light system still makes sense.

I had fiddled around with my 1982-vintage generator light system a few times over the years, but its performance did not seem to be worth the complication of mounting it. Technology really has improved in some areas. Dynamo lighting releases the night rider from concerns about battery life and dead battery disposal. Systems that include a standlight keep the light on at short stops. My old system used a battery pack to provide the standlight. It weighed about a pound and occupied a box mounted on the down tube. The new systems incorporate the circuitry into the light itself.

After seeing the setup on my brother's Trice, I knew I would get myself another dynamo light set. As the days shorten, I have just ordered a Busch & Mueller system from Peter White Cycles in Hillsborough, NH.

Peter seems like my kind of cyclist. He also builds wheels. It's another case of parallel evolution, in which different forms of the same organism develop in different places. Peter obviously stuck with the cycling thing more closely than I did. Even so, we developed similar opinions about bling versus substance and realistic wheels as opposed to impressive-looking dispo-a-wheels. Everyone read his Wheel Rant.

This stuff is not cheap. I did not buy anywhere near the top end, and I laid out just over $200 US. But a really hot rechargeable battery set would cost at least that much and has limited life.

Some of the systems on Peter's site include battery chargers for NiMH batteries in the lights themselves or for powering and charging the batteries of other devices. If you get out more than I do, you probably already know about all this. It only makes sense, considering how many electronic types are out there innovating like crazy.

I will still use the Beamers for supplemental lighting and unplanned dusk and dark riding on the bikes not equipped with the new system. The helmet light and blinkies complete the array.

Because Hillsborough is so close, I hope to receive my new lights tomorrow. UPS doesn't usually show up until late in the day, so I may not get them installed right away.

Forget the rules

2010-09-07T10:48:00.003-05:00

People who ride their bikes against traffic make me wish I had a grenade launcher. This is just one of several reasons I don't have a grenade launcher, regardless of my Second Amendment rights.

Blame my short index fingers: I have an anger problem. In the course of a single day I drop enough F-bombs to level a small city. Catastrophes leave me unmoved, but petty annoyances hot wire my brain. Sparks fly.

Wednesday morning, when I rode up Main Street to work I met a gray-haired woman on her hybrid riding against traffic. I never know exactly what to do with those people. If I go to the right to shove them into oncoming traffic, I'm closer to parked cars or the debris field in the gutter. I might not want to go farther to the left at that moment. Even if I do, I hate to enable the wrong-way rider.

This morning we had a clear sight line for quite a distance, so I sat up, hands off the bars, and pointed, first at her, then at the proper side of the street, several times.

She just laughed at me and rode by.

"Ha ha ha, ya dumb b#&*^!!" I said in a loud conversational tone. It was a tone appropriate to conversation at, say, a rock concert. Glancing back I thought I saw her swing over to the proper side of the street. I turned my attention back to my own course.

It only occurred to me later that I might know this person. I still don't know for sure, but I did see her riding back to the coffee shop. I reflected glumly on my short fuse and blunt language.

In town traffic I ride in the lane anyway. The wrong-way cyclist is therefore no more trouble for me than for a motorist. The rider will pass my right elbow, no doubt oblivious to my sneer of contempt.

Out on the busy highway it's more of a problem. I have run a wrong-way cyclist into the ditch because I could not shoulder into traffic in the only available lane and I wasn't going to take the ditch myself. Fortunately there WAS a ditch. It would have been much uglier in one of the sections hemmed in by guard rails. The offender, a regular commuter who rides my route in the opposite direction, has not ridden against traffic again, at least not around me.

At the end of the day, riding out Route 28, I heard a strange engine behind me. It turned out to be a fat man on a large ATV. Riding an ATV on the highway is illegal enough. Then he whipped it across the highway and started heading down the throat of oncoming cars. I started cheering, laughing and applauding that display of sheer selfishness and brass balls. The fat man turned his bald head to see where that noise was coming from. Meanwhile, cars flashed their lights and slowed sharply as he turned into his driveway.

I had a revelation in that moment. Who cares which side of the road you ride on? Everyone has a moral obligation to watch out for people doing stupid things. Enough people get away with stupid things to make all the whining and preaching about "proper" behavior seem a little ridiculous. What's the big deal? Any driver who knows what they're doing will see you no matter what direction you're coming from.

Road rage mostly stems from our deceived expectation that other people will do "the right thing" in a given situation. Many of our operating rules are based on the principle of taking turns. It's my turn. It's your turn. Hey! Don't cut in on my turn! Don't take that! It's MINE! You get to go AFTER me! I'm telling!!

If we dump the rules, everyone has to watch out. If you come into an intersection with no idea who will do what, you bet you'll pay attention.

During the transition period, traditionalists will righteously kill other road users. After the initial bloodbath, things will settle down to a new norm.

You're already free to act as if the rules do not exist. Even if you ride legally, if a motorist kills you they will probably face no charges at all. Bicyclists are tolerated at best, never welcomed, as part of the traffic mix. There's an automatic assumption that anyone who ventures out there without massive horsepower and armor plating is simply asking for inevitable catastrophe. When the worst happens it is simply nature's cruel justice. Soft little animals get crushed by larger, harder ones.

Soft little animals proliferated by exploiting niches the large ones could not. They did it by breeding in large numbers to offset large losses. They survive by agility and by appearing in any number of ways unappetizing.

Coincidentally, I finally started reading Traffic by Tom Vanderbilt today. It addresses questions I had been pondering for years. For instance, I wondered if there was buggy rage and competitive driving when conveyances were horse-drawn. The answer is yes. Humans on wheels have always had a tendency to turn into jerks. That includes past and present bicyclists. I knew from other reading that draisine (Laufmaschine) riders had engaged in antics worthy of any rowdy crowd on a weekend night, annoying people with reckless operation. People have many different temperaments, but nearly everyone has been some kind of a jerk at some time while operating a vehicle. I guarantee I have. I've barely started the book. It's fascinating.

Innovate with the Dead

2010-09-05T07:20:00.002-05:00

Yesterday, The Backshop Academy of Sciences considered an idea for self-inflating inner tubes. Because most bike owners only inflate their tires (or have them inflated) when they get a tube replaced after a pinch flat from under-inflation, they would benefit greatly from a tire that maintains its pressure longer.

It occurred to us that if you put a dead rat in the tire, the gases of putrefaction would build up on their own until that phase of decomposition had ended. Then we realized that the weight of the rat carcass would cause the wheel to rotate unevenly. We would have to put the rat in a blender to create a rat slurry that would then decompose anaerobically inside the tube. We would use special apparatus to inject the slurry and change it for new mixture when the old batch was exhausted.

Larger tires would require a larger carcass, like a 'possum, or multiple rats. Of course, the use of slurry would simplify the process. A certain number of milliliters of any species of animal should suffice for a given volume of inner tube.

The idea of sticking a dead rat in someone's tire has a certain appeal for certain customers. Although the system needs quite a bit of work before it can be implemented widely, we may try some preliminary experiments.

Attack attack

2010-08-30T13:50:00.007-05:00

Back in April I reported on my repair of a mid-1990s Pro Flex Attack with flattened elastomers. I found a couple of elastomers and a spacer to restore the rear suspension to its former travel and height.

A few days ago the bike came back looking like this:

One of the elastomers flattened out like the first set. The other had liquefied. The spacer has disappeared without a trace.

I found a blog on which the writer reported using old inner tube, wrapped and held with zip ties, to replace the absent elastomers on his Pro Flex. We used the technique to fix this one.

What do these people do to liquefy an elastomer? Was somebody playing with a torch? Splashing caustic chemicals around? Storing nuclear waste next to the bike?

Sorry, I didn't grab a pic of the inner tube shock repair. The day turned kind of hectic.

"I found this stuff on line!"

2010-08-25T15:49:00.004-05:00

All-carbon Bianchi Mono-Q frame, two pounds

See?

Steel track bars that would withstand a fully-doped Eastern Bloc sprinter from the 1980s, about a pound and a half. Go figure.

Mr. On-line Shopper brought us his prizes to assemble into a bicycle for him.

The fork with alloy steerer and less-than-svelte seat post bring the frame weight to more like four pounds.

Other details to iron out include the braze-on type front derailleur with no frame bracket or adapting clamp.

Cranks, BB, derailleur and brakes are all Campy Record.

I'm really tempted to half-tape those track bars and bury the stem.

The bike shop, of course!

2010-08-21T19:53:00.005-05:00

People bring us all sorts of mechanical things to fix. Shown here is one of two drive units from water bikes someone dumped on us this week. Aside from the fact that it has pedals and has the word "bike" in its name, it's not something we can service extensively in our facility. Sure, we could provide a crank arm to replace the one that got mangled because the owner neglected to keep the bolt tight. We could tighten the other crank arm bolts. We aren't set up to dispose of any amount of rusty, water-contaminated heavy gear oil. We had no service manual. Undoing obvious things only got us a little way into the dark, stinking interior.

When I popped the top on this, a smell like an oily sewer oozed forth. The congealed remains of its lubricating oil sat like filthy pudding at the bottom of the casing. I looked in with a flashlight. It's sparse and simple. The chain makes a 90-degree twist to go around the propeller shaft. It seemed tight enough. Everything was rusty, but what do you want? This thing gets used in water. I topped up the oil from a bottle of it the customer had provided.

This is the view deep into the second drive unit. The chain disappears into the sludge. The chain was a little loose on this one, but I couldn't get the prop off to see if there was any way to tighten it from the lower end. The upper end only fastened in one position as far as I could tell. The prop was secured with two set screws, which came out easily, over the ends of a pin, which would not budge. Because the unit still functioned I did not want to risk disabling it if things went wrong while disassembling it. I added oil and closed the lid.

People bring us any pin and roller chain, no matter what size, because it looks like a bike chain. They come to us for cables for everything from lawn mowers to go karts to ultralight aircraft. Of course we get the garden cart wheels, too. The bike shop was the birthplace of modern mass-produced personal transportation. The idea that we can fix anything is not so far-fetched. If we had a better machine shop we could really get crazy.

Third Week of August

2010-08-19T06:18:00.003-05:00

Third week of August
The peak of insanity
before they all leave.

This is the big one. With two triathlons and the Mt. Washington Hill Climb this weekend, plus a bunch of last hurrah vacationers, bikes in need of immediate attention are piled all around the workshop. I wanted to arrange them as anti-personnel barriers. Before long it became obvious I would only have to let them accumulate naturally to form an impenetrable tangle of metal, plastic and carbon fiber.

Featured guests include a hill climb conversion, two tunes on other bikes from the same family for the same event and a guy who broke a spoke and tried to fix his own wheel by loosening all the other spokes before he surrendered and brought the mess to us. He also disassembled his rear brake pads and lost some parts. Late in the day a woman brought in her snazzy Trek full suspension bike. The rear derailleur bore telltale signs that the man in her life had been trying to "fix" things.

Did I mention that this is all urgent?

The wheel I'm building for a touring bike is on its third day of de-stressing and retensioning. For some reason it is taking a ridiculous amount of time to settle in. Another wheel job waits in the queue. I've built many more than usual this year.

Time to get back in there. After this weekend -- probably by Sunday, in fact -- everyone will suddenly disappear. We'll have repair work, but nothing like this.

Harnessing the Medium

2010-08-12T19:54:00.002-05:00

The local TV guy has embraced the idea of a program on bicycling. I won't have time to devote to it until early September, but he's cool with that. We had a meeting Wednesday to discuss more of the content and some shooting ideas. He's got some good ones for setting up situations in the empty parking lot of the high school, where his operation is headquartered. We're going to enlist local riders of all ages and types for the various segments.

Because it's a local show, it will feature local situations. I want to come up with material that informs cyclists and motorists without burying them in too much information.

Right now I don't have time to concentrate on it. We haven't cleared the pile at work yet. It should get a lot deeper as the local triathlon and the Mt. Washington Hill Climb approach.

I'm guessing everyone waited until August to see if they would have enough money to go on vacation. It suddenly went insane in town. So now they want it to be a good one. Quick!

August with a vengeance

2010-08-10T20:20:00.002-05:00

Between my observation on July 28 that traffic seems light this year and my brief last post, everyone seemed to hit town at once.

Not complaining, just observing: even if you love your work, getting a blast of it so strong you can't even do it all is like having your favorite food shoved down your throat with a toilet plunger. The next idiot who says, "but it's great to be busy, right?" is getting a wrench in the teeth.

The quality of drivers dropped noticeably with the coming of August as well. There are more of them and they resist herding. You have to make early, large moves to control them or give it up and dive for the ditch. I've been making the moves.

Even the crotch-rocket riders are making a late bid to reclaim their badass image.

Bursts of gunfire erupt from neighboring properties around my home. Unlicensed dirt bikes were screeching up and down the road on Saturday. It's so peaceful here.

In the midst of all this the cellist and I celebrated our seventh anniversary on 8-9-10, making it 7-8-9-10. The way the festivities evolved I only had to take an extra half-day away from work. We had a mixed group of musicians ranging from professional to complete novice jamming on the deck for a few hours on Saturday evening. Selections ranged from Beethoven and Pachelbel to Irish jigs, drumming, blues, bluegrass and Jimi Hendrix. Take that, screechy dirt bikers.

On Monday the cellist and I went to dinner and a concert by Bela Fleck, Zakir Hussain and Edgar Meyer at Stone Mountain Arts Center, a remarkable little venue in Brownfield, Maine. It's a small place. The performers tend to hang around afterward so you can meet them if you're interested. We certainly were.

Interesting projects wait in the workshop. They're a nice interlude between figuring out snap, crackle pops in expensive carbon fiber road bikes and resurrecting greasy wreckage.

The Cure-All

2010-08-08T13:50:00.001-05:00

"My bike fell off the car rack as we were driving up a steep hill. It might need a tune-up."

The Front Man

2010-08-01T15:49:00.003-05:00

Every band needs a front man. He can sing. He's acceptable to look at. Some of them substitute a bizarre charisma for actual good looks. In any case, he has to have crowd appeal.

A bike shop is no different. The front man keeps the customers from bothering the mechanics. Ours is great. He's a true believer in modern cycling technology, so he can stand out there with a big smile and say sincerely that what he's selling is great. He can check in repairs, answer questions and turn a wrench when he gets a chance. If he doesn't get the chance he still intercepts most of the people who interrupt the flow of work through the repair shop.

As July turns into August the flow of work through the repair shop is like a swollen river full of abused bikes jamming against a bridge. We really need to keep mechanics working.

Our front man is about to take a little vacationy trip. He totally deserves it. But that means someone else has to be the front man. On his regular days off almost nothing gets done in the repair shop during the height of summer. We've learned to work around it simply by putting things off. So if you bring a bike in this week, don't expect to see it until sometime between the 13th and the 20th.

If, by chance, people suddenly stop dragging their ailing hardware in here we will be able to turn things around more quickly. A tattered sign on the wall behind some tools on the pegboard reads, "It's ready when it's RIGHT." In smaller letters it says, "or as right as you can make it." This acknowledges that for several reasons we can't always achieve perfection. But the primary goal is always solid work that won't hurt the customer or embarrass us. I can't say I like all the customers, but I absolutely hate to be embarrassed.

On the worst days I chant monotonous profanity as I try to uphold the quality standard against the insistent schedule of the vacationing enthusiast. There's no time to enjoy the challenges because each runs into the next. Then the day ends and I grind slowly out the back streets that the rich, the famous and the colorful seldom use, riding out into the countryside they never see.

Livin' la vie de mocha

2010-07-28T21:04:00.005-05:00

When the alarm scratched at my eardrums this morning I slid down the side of the bed, hauled myself upright and lurched out to turn on the coffee pot. We'd had a house guest Sunday night to Monday evening. Monday morning I had gotten up to test two different river sites for a largely volunteer environmental organization and then met with a subcommittee of the conservation commission before heading home for a very late breakfast. Then we hiked the neighborhood mountain. After an early supper our friend left to return to the music camp in Maine where she teaches in the summer. We stayed up watching Frost/Nixon.

In high school I hung out with the brainiac kids. I was the token underachiever. We actually watched the Watergate hearings. It all seemed like a tangled mess to me at the time. It's interesting to see the current events of my youth turned into streamlined historical fiction.

Tuesday started with a ride. The cellist wanted to knock one out before she headed to town to teach. After she left I put in a couple of hours stacking the last of the firewood in the baking mid-day sun. In and around that I got a load of laundry on the line. Monday and Tuesday were superb drying days. The rest of the afternoon was filled with errands and other tasks I wanted to get through before the work week swept me up again. Late Tuesday night I was trying to draw one deceptively simple commissioned piece for the environmental group. It didn't go well. And so I flopped into bed near midnight, to rise at the buzzer just after six.

Summer traffic is light this year. Even the crotch-rocket riders seem subdued. But morning traffic is morning traffic. I had to spin it up and shove my elbow in to hold a place in the flow.

I had plenty of jobs waiting, but those were pushed aside by a visit from The Seven with No Stem Bolt.
That's right. This bike has no stem bolt. I originally reported on it in the article "In Rust We Trust" in August 2006. The owner continues to ride it. Today I dealt with more Shimano compatibility antics. He has a Flight Dork computer with the two control buttons on the right lever body. The original lever has been replaced with a newer one set up for one button, The rubber hood only has one pimple to accommodate a button instead the the two he had before. In addition, I believe the contacts inside don't recognize input from the B button. I could not get a response from it. The A button worked. I also saw some damage to the insulation on some of the wiring. Of course the wiring harness is not available as a separate part.

Just another day. I did what I could, informed the customer and worked on the other bike he had brought in. Between the jobs the other techs can't do and the jobs they won't do, my plate is completely full through the weekend.

On the plus side, Lydia's Cafe had Kenyan today. Its distinctive flavor and acidity, combined with enough caffeine for an elephant make it my absolute favorite. A Kenyan day can't be a bad day.

A strong southwesterly wind pushed me home. I missed the green light at 16 and 28, so I didn't get to wail through the corner at 30, but I did get to phone in a camper towing a flat bed trailer with two canoes full of firewood on it. I would not have cared except that one of the canoes was not going to be on the trailer much longer. It was sliding out of the straps. The bow scraped the pavement as the trailer bounced over the smallest undulations. Of course the driver did not notice a gesticulating cyclist. There were a lot of other vehicles behind him. One of them might have realized what was up and signaled him. In case they did not, I had alerted the cavalry. A canoe full of firewood spilling across the highway could ruin someone's day.

No later than tomorrow night I have to finish drawing a frog in an inner tube. That's in addition to the complete overhaul, two wheel builds, assorted tune-ups and whatever comes limping in. I should start angling toward bed.