Crescendo

This is the week when everyone needs their bike repaired immediately. I should have left for work an hour ago. At one time I would have.

We're also expecting a dozen French-fried rental bikes to come back. They tore a derailleur off within the first day or two. Steve made a pickup and delivery run to "the compound." Assured that the security detail on the gate had been told to expect him, he drove confidently down. Of course the guards had heard nothing.

Can you say "homeland security?"

One cavity search later...not really. But I'm sure the dump truck full of rental bikes will pull in at an inopportune time.

And now I really must go.

Just Another Day in International Affairs

If a Secret Service agent tells you he's a Secret Service agent it isn't a secret anymore, is it?

Midnight suppers are romantic, but they don't mix well with 6 a.m. alarm clocks, 30-mile bike commutes and long days on your feet in the workshop. Sundays we open two hours later, but somehow I still manage to be rushed. This morning I pounded down a big stack of peach pancakes and a quart of coffee before bolting out on the road bike to sprint to town. It's been a week of midnight suppers and early mornings as the cellist worked a show gig in Tamworth. The show closed last night.

On 28, I was just feeling for the right pace to keep me on schedule to get to work while still keeping my pancakes down, when a decked-out road rider flashed up on my right.

"Allez! Allez!" he yelled, but it was a local rider, leading the few who had made it on the Sunday morning ride. He pulled the pace back to something I could manage, so I hung in the pace line to the height of land. Then the others slowed to wait for a straggler, but I had a good start and a route mostly downhill the rest of the way. My pancakes and my punctuality were safe.

At the shop, a Secret Service agent came in to check on some arrangements we'd been helping with, and to pick up a couple more helmets. The French will be maneuvering. More I cannot say. But I did chuckle to myself about the term Secret Service. Shouldn't they try to convince us they're something else, like dog-walkers or house painters?

Back to the old workstand. I'll be working late today.

One Never Knows

Someone seems to have kicked the celebrity puffball. Sighting reports are coming in from all points as the cloud of spores spreads. They land in darkness and quickly germinate so they are visible by morning.

I envision these other-worldly visitors drifting down on the night breeze like Mary Poppins or dandelion seeds. Surely they don't just drive here. And we don't hear nearly enough helicopter traffic for that to be the delivery method.

Between Paris and Hollywood, the town is apparently fully occupied. Meanwhile, in my little foxhole of this vacation Dien Bien Phu, we're seeing only the usual crowd. Since I remain the only full-time wrench on staff, the 9-plus-hour day I put in today is probably still less than I could and should put in, as the golden heart of yet another summer gets devoured by my default occupation.

At least the rain held off this morning. I wore a wind vest and those nice CWX tights in the somewhat chilly morning air. Fatigue and the chance of rain made me more susceptible to the idea of chill. Without chemical intervention, I actually managed to stomp out a few good moves on final approach through town. Traffic was light. Maybe the clouds kept people at their cottages for an extra English muffin and coffee.

The sun had set before I got home, but the summer twilight is still long and light. With a gut full of Kona I felt a little like riding north until I ran out of road, then walking until I ran out of land, then sitting on a sea cliff, staring out over the ocean until my skin shrank to leather against my bones and the wind played a tune in my empty eye sockets.

Rentin' to the French

A group from the presidential party came late this afternoon to claim the bikes they had reserved. The parents did not come, but we had been led to believe several Sarkozy offspring were in the group. One teen-aged lad did resemble the pictures I've seen of the president himself, but turns out not to be related.

Steve had been a bit nervous as we waited for their imminent arrival. I assured him I would tackle whatever needed to be done. Since I had six years of first-year French over the course of my long and undistinguished academic career, and I have a great ability to let people find their own equilibrium before trying to shuffle them on their way, I figured I could tell them the library is across from the church and that the lunch menu surely included "des saucisses." Neither of these statements were true, but I was pretty sure I remembered how to say them. But then, as almost always happens, Steve swung smoothly into action. The visitors' excellent command of multiple languages simultaneously put us to shame and made our job as easy as a large-party rental could be.

I don't know how they'll handle the logistics of actually riding around here. But no one's made that my problem yet.

Initially I was disappointed not to get to see the president and his wife, but their decision makes perfect sense. What vacationing couple wouldn't take a chance to get the kids the heck out of the house for a while? Apparently the actual Sarkozy kids stayed across the street with the security team in the SUV.

In the aftermath of their departure we all just sort of fumbled around waiting for closing time. It was too late to dig into a project, but too early just to lock up and bolt.

I want news photographers to get a picture of me wearing my Surly tee shirt next to the president. Send Surly around the world on wings of the tabloids. Maybe later. I've been washing and wearing it all week.

Avec Moi, Le Deluge

"This radar view shows some heavier embedded showers moving eastward over the central part of the state, but it should already be starting to break up. The back edge should move through in the mid-morning hours, bringing some partial sunshine, although the chance will remain for scattered showers throughout the rest of the day," said the weather man.

Breaking up. Scattered showers. Despite the heavy rain drumming on the roof, I should look forward to improving conditions. Still, I'd better start out on the fixed gear.

Fat, soaking drops drummed straight down as I left home. The wind flung stinging darts as I reached Wolfe City. I ended up about as wet as I have ever been. Some of my gear was still wet when I set out for home more than eight hours later.

It was a warm wet. Perfect for the fixed gear.

Do all bike shops get weird jobs, or do I attract them? If I think I can fix something, I will take it on without considering the economics. In this way I ended up with a ten-year-old Hugi hub completely ripped apart on the bench. It's just old enough to have dropped off the map for spare parts. The bearings are standard, but the freehub body is no longer made. All that needs is some bearings in it, but I can't coax them out. The body was listed as a complete assembly in all the catalogs, so I don't think it was meant to come apart. It's much simpler and more serviceable than anything from Shimano, but nothing's perfect. It's just a splined tube with some bearings in it. And I think some previous mechanic lost a spacer out of it, which adds to the play in it.

Our supplier sent the wrong bearings, so I couldn't reassemble it anyway.

Sweeping all that aside I moved on to the next project. That was only mildly weird. The customer wanted to replace dried, crusty 700x28 tires with new 700x 23, but insisted on using the old, fat tubes. The bike was also gobbed with ambergris from countless applications of White Lightning. Most of my time went to de-gobbing the frame and drive train.

We stayed busy as we waited to see if anything exciting would happen. Nothing did.

The rain moved out in the later afternoon. I welcomed the pleasant summer evening. The wind seemed mostly to help me on the route home.

At Route 16 I saw another rider headed north. When I got the green to come out of 28 he was gone. But when I turned at Elm Street, there he was. Pushing my higher gear, I quickly caught up.

The other rider said he was on his way to a conservation commission meeting for his town, which borders mine. I told him I was the cyclist on my town's commission. He mentioned that he works with another rider I know, who rides the same commute I do in the opposite direction.

"He just today asked if I'd ever met you," said the other rider. "And now, six hours later, here we are."

We traveled together for about three miles to his next turn. He used to ride a fixed gear. Most of it hangs in his basement or garage. Maybe he'll re-commission it.

And what will happen tomorrow?

Trying to go easy

Saturdays are traditionally hectic, but yesterday we actually had a chance to catch our breath after the bustling activity earlier in the week.

When I woke up, I felt like I still needed another night's sleep. I was down to my last ibbie, too. Mostly for placebo effect, I downed it half an hour before I started on the morning commute. I felt good as long as I didn't try to push. No insane sprints through closing gaps today.

After an unremarkable day, I set out at a very quiet pace to ride the long route home. With very little car traffic I didn't need to maintain an aggressive cadence and body language for self defense. The humidity had broken. I rode through cool breezes out past Lake Wentworth.

Approaching the turn for Bryant Road, I exchanged friendly smiles with a sporty-looking blonde woman turning a snappy cadence on a Cannondale road bike. As I entered Bryant, a lean, silver-haired gentleman on a dark gray, carbon fiber Trek road bike was coming out. I waved.

Bryant rises slightly before dropping down a fast little grade to a wetland. From there it climbs again, steadily, slightly steeply at times, but only in short pitches, to level off shortly before the intersection with Cotton Valley Road. It's a good approach to the roads from Cotton Valley, because you get to keep all the elevation it makes you gain.

In my sluggish state, I idled up the little rise, crested, and clicked through the gears to my largest one as I settled into a tight tuck to accept the gift of gravity. At the bottom, instead of hammering as I often do, I let the bike slow naturally as I shifted back down to low gears.

Somewhere in this process I glanced back to see the Trek rider coming up behind me. He came past me as I worked into the first real steepening of the climb.

"Nice day, eh?" he said. He seemed to have a French accent. I agreed that the day was a fine one, but we exchanged no more words, as he accelerated into the climb. Was he throwing down the gauntlet?

I let him move out a bit as I took stock of my condition. He wore cycling shorts with a dark tee shirt. A very small leather fanny pack must have held whatever essentials he felt he needed. His shoes and socks looked very businesslike. He rode with precision. I was not about to let him drop me.

On the other hand, I didn't want to start anything, either. My bike weighed half again what his did, with my commuting load. I still have one more day of the commuter stage race, too. But I could at least limit the time gap. I would hang, not too close, to let him know I was there, but didn't need to lead.

He glanced back a couple of times. He stood up for a couple of short jumps. I just hung back there like the thing he was trying to forget, and refused to go away. When the road leveled near the end I bridged the few yards to his wheel to await the next move. In case he really was French, I had been rehearsing what little I could recall of the language to try to explain where I planned to go next, and what a poor surface for a road bike he could expect there.

The other rider made no attempt to speak to me. He rode straight to a parked mini van, seeming to avoid eye contact. I waved, but got no acknowledgment, so I floated on past and dropped into the right turn onto the gravel of Stoddard Road. If he chose to come along, so be it. It was obviously a dirt road, but maybe he won Paris Roubaix some time in the last 20 years.

He did not come that way by bike or by car. But now I felt challenged. I didn't charge the wall of 20% up to the highland, but I did click up through the gears and dive down the other side of it, where the paved grade gives way to dirt again. On the Surly Cross Check, it's fun to bomb down into the dirt there. The road is nearly straight, so tuck and go for it. Make sure you're in a big enough gear when you hit the bottom, so you can power through any loose bits. Weight back, but not too far back. I've done it dozens of times and hardly ever come close to biffing.

Bang! Fssfssfssfssfssfss! A damn pinch flat! I feathered the brakes to slow the bike before the front end got too washy. Fortunately, it was the front tire, easier to change. I looked around for the Trek rider, but of course he never came by. Short of resounding victory, an honorable mechanical looks good. I had all the glow to myself, just me and the mosquitoes. And some unfeeling bastard in a fancy silver SUV who thundered by without a sideways glance. Not that I would have accepted help, but it's polite to ask, at least.

The flat got me to examine the long-suffering Panaracer T-Serv for Messenger I've had on there for a couple of years. Front tires never wear out, but this one had quietly developed cracks. The stone that flatted the tube also nicked the sidewall, so now I can justify putting on a new tire.

The pump was acting up and my spare tube was a patched one. I got it to some sort of pressure to tiptoe out of the dirt section, and put more into it when I reached a place where I could lean the bike against a utility pole and put some muscle into it.

After a few kilometers of caution, I trusted the tire enough to hit the throttle a bit more. Nothing too frisky, just getting home to put my feet up. Then, at the intersection of 28 and 16, the light was staying green as if waiting for me. I dug down for the strength to sprint into the corner and lay the bike over as the light went yellow. Delightful.

Back at my secret headquarters, I put the fatty front wheel on the Surly and switched the computer over to Wheel Size II (Sigma. Heh heh heh.) But I'm riding the road bike today. Light bike, light wheels, heavy legs.

Bonjour.

Agents Track Me Down

French security forces entered the shop at 1630 and promptly closed in on the workshop area. There's no back door. They had me trapped.

Steve pointed to me.

"That's him!" he said.

Okay, I made that up. French security forces did enter the shop with the local man who has been handling their arrangements. Steve fitted them to three rental bikes to be picked up later. Aside from the language barrier, eased considerably by one fluent English-speaker among them, it was much like any rental. The French know cycling, so these guys wanted a sporty fit, but Steve filled the order.

WMUR, the state's only commercial television station, has finally picked up on the excitement. No sign of Le Grand Fromage himself.

Traffic has been nasty this week. It's been one crit after another. I've ridden too hard in the heat. I need some of that stuff the racer boys use, even just the legal stuff. Vitamin injections, massage, it's all good.

Dream on. Slam a couple of ibbies and some more coffee and get out of here.

Bike Shop and State Dept. Annex

French President Nicolas Sarkozy is apparently vacationing here. While such momentous events would normally have almost no effect on us, because celebrities are almost never seen sweating on a bike or cross-country skis unless being paid to do so, Sarkozy is a cyclist. We were informed a couple of weeks ago that elements of his entourage would need to do business with us.

Strangely, this information came not from a State Department official but from a local real estate agent. At first he didn't say which country this unnamed chief executive ran, so we figured it was probably some rinky-dink Joe-Bob's Republic of the Backwater Swamp in some unfashionable corner of one of your less-developed continents. But then the rumors heated up. It was a real, brand-name country. Maybe France.

The Secret Service contacted us. The detail was going to need bikes to ride herd on the President during his pedaling forays. That was rescinded when they decided they could cram their own bikes into the fleet of bulletproof Suburbans they were driving up from D.C. But that still left us with the needs of the visitors themselves.

All this took shape with surprisingly little supervision. Personally, I thought the powerful people involved would appreciate a little discretion. However, the town turned into a seething pit of gossip. The Visit became one of those worst-kept secrets, like the way every local near a Secret Government Base always knows all about it and uses it as a landmark when directing strangers around town.

"Go three miles down this road until you see the fence of the Secret Government Base. You can't miss it, it's ten feet high with razor wire on top. Go along that to the left until you see the guarded gate where the two guys sit in the bulletproof shack..."

I couldn't say whether we will actually see the French President. George W. Bush was supposed to use our restroom during the 2000 primary campaign, because upper management at the shop had close ties to the campaign, but they canceled it. I suspect they were afraid I would embarrass them because I did not share their views. See how you can change history, even if you're just an obscure grunt? George had to go pee somewhere else. Take that, George.

Not like it did any good. Now he just wipes his ass with the Constitution.

But I digress.

First and foremost, I'm here to help people get on bikes. When the day is done, I get on my own and I go home. I wouldn't recognize most famous people anyway. In my limited experience they only look vaguely like themselves when you see them out of context. If they want me to fawn and grovel, they'll have to tell me. I'm really bad at that shit, so give me a hint, okay?

The gossip reached such a crescendo on our own sales floor on Wednesday that I sent a spoof email to the shop saying that, due to massive breaches of security leading up to the visit, it had to be called off. Then I forgot to send a really ridiculous follow-up so The Management would realize it was a joke.

I spent most of Thursday on the shit list. I just managed to stop Steve from forwarding my spoof to the Secret Service. Probably they would just have chastised me for being an asshole, but I didn't want to take any chances. If I'm going to be sent to Gitmo, I want to go in the winter, when I'll appreciate a little getaway in the Caribbean.

The real estate agent who has been our contact dropped by to make sure everything was still on track. He told us a television news crew from Boston had already crashed the gate and been surrounded by Secret Service agents with automatic weapons. The camera crew had come busting down the driveway without a pause. When stopped, the person in charge said, "we just want to get some shots of the president, and the house."

Someone claiming to be a French journalist called the shop during the afternoon and started asking questions. They met no cooperation. Information flows freely among familiar friends, but stops cold when strangers with foreign accents call from unlisted numbers.

It looks like we're in for a crazy week or two. Or maybe it will turn out like every other celebrity presence in town and we'll never know the difference. John Lithgow was supposed to drop by when he did the commencement speech at Brewster a few years ago. Yeah, right. Still waiting...

Meanwhile, bikes still need fixing and I'm sitting here writing instead of going to work.