But I just discovered the Surly Bicycle Builds Pool of photos on Flickr.
No, I NEED to go to bed.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Wheel Guru Says:
"First of all, try decaf :) It isn't you. Since they started heat-treating rims, they have become very brittle and prone to cracking. Most of the ones I see cracked are Mavics, but that may be because they are more common. Heat treating is a VERY precise process- the machinist's handbook devotes chapters to it- if anything in the process is not perfect the alloy will assume characteristics that may be undesirable. Sometimes it is intergranular corrosion and sometimes it may be over brittle. Heat treating is about making the molecules do what you want them to do and some days they just want to p---s you off. The rear wheels crack more often because they take more strain. Simple. I bet if the companies could track cracked rims, they would find out they were in the same batches of heat treatment. Corroded wing spars recently found on 1946 aircraft were traced to a bad batch of heat treat in 1945. I am glad your Quartz hub is still working, I had really bad luck with a couple a few years back and swore off them. Relax, it is not your wheelbuilding. Blame the lack of spokes and glass-like rims."
She also said she's been invited to an estate clearance of sorts.
"The last time I did that I came home with two Paramount track tandems, a Lejeune track bike and a van load of TA cranks and Simplex derailleurs."
I love her garage.
She also said she's been invited to an estate clearance of sorts.
"The last time I did that I came home with two Paramount track tandems, a Lejeune track bike and a van load of TA cranks and Simplex derailleurs."
I love her garage.
My Wheels Never Taco
I rode another rim into the ground yesterday. It's become a familiar scenario. I notice that the bike feels wobbly, I glance down and see that the rear rim has developed a waggle. Close inspection reveals cracks in the rim.
On the way to that final shimmy into the junkyard (or recycling bin), the wheels run round and true with little or no intervention after I build them. But the cracking bothers me.
I'm not one of those who believes in ultra-high tension. It needs to be high enough to hold the structural integrity of the wheel, not ratcheted several notches above that to ultimate rigidity.
Any time equipment fails I want to know why. Do I have to accept a steady rate of rim loss, given the roads I ride and the way I ride them? That wheel definitely saw hard miles on rough terrain. It held about 60 pounds of groceries in the panniers one day, and 30 or so on numerous other occasions before I got the BOB. But it might have had as little as 10,000 miles on it. I start to dredge my memory, reviewing the career of every wheel I ever built for myself. How did they do, under what circumstances?
It's harder with multiple bikes. Stuff gets put in service at different times. Use hours don't get logged. Looking back I have to estimate how much of each season's mileage goes to each bike.
Racing I expected to burn through equipment. And since I wasn't much of a racer, I didn't really burn through gear that much even then. Crashes took the most toll, if you don't count trashed sewup tires. I rebuilt the race wheels I bought used when those rims cracked, but I inherited all the fatigue they brought with them from the previous owner. He had been a very aggressive rider.
My longest-running rims are Weinmann concaves. I still have a set built in the early 1980s, which have been on and off bikes and now reside in the spare wheel pile because I don't run 27-inch tires anymore. Another set sees regular hard use on the fixed gear. Maybe it's time to revive that rugged design. It's definitely stronger than any box-section rim. I should have stocked up on all the available sizes. Early in the mountain bike boom, there was even a 26-inch model. They're heavy, but they go and go.
Speaking of go, it's time to head off for work. I need to order a rim.
On the way to that final shimmy into the junkyard (or recycling bin), the wheels run round and true with little or no intervention after I build them. But the cracking bothers me.
I'm not one of those who believes in ultra-high tension. It needs to be high enough to hold the structural integrity of the wheel, not ratcheted several notches above that to ultimate rigidity.
Any time equipment fails I want to know why. Do I have to accept a steady rate of rim loss, given the roads I ride and the way I ride them? That wheel definitely saw hard miles on rough terrain. It held about 60 pounds of groceries in the panniers one day, and 30 or so on numerous other occasions before I got the BOB. But it might have had as little as 10,000 miles on it. I start to dredge my memory, reviewing the career of every wheel I ever built for myself. How did they do, under what circumstances?
It's harder with multiple bikes. Stuff gets put in service at different times. Use hours don't get logged. Looking back I have to estimate how much of each season's mileage goes to each bike.
Racing I expected to burn through equipment. And since I wasn't much of a racer, I didn't really burn through gear that much even then. Crashes took the most toll, if you don't count trashed sewup tires. I rebuilt the race wheels I bought used when those rims cracked, but I inherited all the fatigue they brought with them from the previous owner. He had been a very aggressive rider.
My longest-running rims are Weinmann concaves. I still have a set built in the early 1980s, which have been on and off bikes and now reside in the spare wheel pile because I don't run 27-inch tires anymore. Another set sees regular hard use on the fixed gear. Maybe it's time to revive that rugged design. It's definitely stronger than any box-section rim. I should have stocked up on all the available sizes. Early in the mountain bike boom, there was even a 26-inch model. They're heavy, but they go and go.
Speaking of go, it's time to head off for work. I need to order a rim.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
LSD meets jet propulsion
Feeling a little worn down by a six-day week and short nights, I resolved to ride Monday's commute at an easy pace.
I'd gotten up before 5:30 to get the instruments ready for the bi-weekly river testing I do. After testing I shoved down some eggs and toast before beating into a headwind all the way to town. This was after a short night's sleep due to a writing deadline and having one of the cats throw up on me at about 3 a.m.
At the shop I found out the management had decided to shut early. That just meant I would have more than an hour to myself while I caught up on the most urgent repairs.
There was nothing to bring for lunch. I was going to figure something out when lunch time came. That turned out to be three out-of-date energy bars and a handful of saltine crackers. I've been wanting to lose a little of the flab that crept on when I got knocked off the bike for about 10 days in April. That lunch and an LSD pace on the ride home should help.
Looking at the weather radar at 4 p.m. I would have guaranteed that I would get hammered by a deluge before I was half way home. I planned to take the long way, through the woods, because I didn't feel like putting on a good show for traffic. If it rained, it rained.
This dry airmass over us is amazing. The heavy echoes on the radar display were on our doorstep. I could see the dark clouds and curtains of rain to the west. They hung there, unable to advance.
After riding out my usual escape route to Route 28, I dove down the first gravel road to reach the SERT. This far from town, late in the day, I felt confident I would not have to deal with too many other riders.
Someone had fed their horse a laxative and then encouraged it to a pointy-hoofed canter down the left center of the path. The hardened hoof dents jolted me whenever I wandered into their course. Despite that, it was still more peaceful than the highway.
The SERT intersects Bryant Road, which brings me to Cotton Valley. From there I take Stoddard Road over to North Wolfeboro.
Stoddard was in rough shape. The first rise had been nicely packed and dampened to hold down the dust, but beyond there it was rougher and looser than the worst of the SERT had been. Unpaved surfaces need a good soaking rain to firm them up. On the paved wall to the height of land on Stoddard, the winter's sand still stood in drifts, narrowing the lane. Shoals of it lay on the pavement as well. I zigzagged among them to take the edge off the gradient.
On the plateau I could see the storm hanging over the Ossipee Range and feel the gusts of a tailwind. I reentered the shelter of the trees for the rest of the unpaved stretch.
From North Wolfeboro I coasted down on more sand-drifted, hummocky pavement to rejoin 28.
At that point I caught Southwest Flight 10-20. The tailwind lifted me to the crest of 28 and launched me into the descent.
I love the feeling when your air speed suddenly drops to near zero and your ground speed surges. Click, click, click through the gears and glance over at the people in cars wondering why it's taking so long to pass you. "That dude on the bike is still there!"
Moving almost effortlessly inside the rush of a gust I felt trippy and detached. Hunger and fatigue combined with the rhythm of relentless pedaling to make me feel like I was just watching it all happen by itself. No wonder mystics fast and wander.
On a perfect ride home a motor vehicle would trip the green light for me at Route 16 as I roared down the runway toward it. When that happens I can lay into the left turn fast enough to scare myself and easily keep up with the most impatient motorist.
This was not a perfect ride home. My car servant arrived too late, so I had to slow to a brief track stand and accelerate from the stop. The tailwind helped my tired legs on 16, but it wasn't as good as a searing corner at 30+ followed by the tailwind boot.
I did achieve enough speed to make the turn into Elm Street snappy. There's a pothole in the apex, so I can't drop in smoothly. With traffic on the highway and a busy parking lot to the right, I have to carry a straight line to the pothole and then snap the bike down hard while keeping my torso up to snap it back up again. If I clip the pothole I'm probably going down. If I carry too far before snapping the turn I will go into the left lane of Elm Street, which is often occupied by vehicles waiting to pull out. It's like taking a hard right turn into a keyhole.
Elm Street can be a chore. A mere three miles separates me from home at that point, but it can be a busy little road full of pushy drivers. One did push past in the last 200 meters before the end of the road, and then had to run the stop sign to stay ahead of me. And I was just rolling with the terrain.
A regular commuting route becomes a dance routine you can practice over and over, polishing and embellishing, refining and improving. It's a long-running show. Some performances will be better than others, but the run goes on.
I'd gotten up before 5:30 to get the instruments ready for the bi-weekly river testing I do. After testing I shoved down some eggs and toast before beating into a headwind all the way to town. This was after a short night's sleep due to a writing deadline and having one of the cats throw up on me at about 3 a.m.
At the shop I found out the management had decided to shut early. That just meant I would have more than an hour to myself while I caught up on the most urgent repairs.
There was nothing to bring for lunch. I was going to figure something out when lunch time came. That turned out to be three out-of-date energy bars and a handful of saltine crackers. I've been wanting to lose a little of the flab that crept on when I got knocked off the bike for about 10 days in April. That lunch and an LSD pace on the ride home should help.
Looking at the weather radar at 4 p.m. I would have guaranteed that I would get hammered by a deluge before I was half way home. I planned to take the long way, through the woods, because I didn't feel like putting on a good show for traffic. If it rained, it rained.
This dry airmass over us is amazing. The heavy echoes on the radar display were on our doorstep. I could see the dark clouds and curtains of rain to the west. They hung there, unable to advance.
After riding out my usual escape route to Route 28, I dove down the first gravel road to reach the SERT. This far from town, late in the day, I felt confident I would not have to deal with too many other riders.
Someone had fed their horse a laxative and then encouraged it to a pointy-hoofed canter down the left center of the path. The hardened hoof dents jolted me whenever I wandered into their course. Despite that, it was still more peaceful than the highway.
The SERT intersects Bryant Road, which brings me to Cotton Valley. From there I take Stoddard Road over to North Wolfeboro.
Stoddard was in rough shape. The first rise had been nicely packed and dampened to hold down the dust, but beyond there it was rougher and looser than the worst of the SERT had been. Unpaved surfaces need a good soaking rain to firm them up. On the paved wall to the height of land on Stoddard, the winter's sand still stood in drifts, narrowing the lane. Shoals of it lay on the pavement as well. I zigzagged among them to take the edge off the gradient.
On the plateau I could see the storm hanging over the Ossipee Range and feel the gusts of a tailwind. I reentered the shelter of the trees for the rest of the unpaved stretch.
From North Wolfeboro I coasted down on more sand-drifted, hummocky pavement to rejoin 28.
At that point I caught Southwest Flight 10-20. The tailwind lifted me to the crest of 28 and launched me into the descent.
I love the feeling when your air speed suddenly drops to near zero and your ground speed surges. Click, click, click through the gears and glance over at the people in cars wondering why it's taking so long to pass you. "That dude on the bike is still there!"
Moving almost effortlessly inside the rush of a gust I felt trippy and detached. Hunger and fatigue combined with the rhythm of relentless pedaling to make me feel like I was just watching it all happen by itself. No wonder mystics fast and wander.
On a perfect ride home a motor vehicle would trip the green light for me at Route 16 as I roared down the runway toward it. When that happens I can lay into the left turn fast enough to scare myself and easily keep up with the most impatient motorist.
This was not a perfect ride home. My car servant arrived too late, so I had to slow to a brief track stand and accelerate from the stop. The tailwind helped my tired legs on 16, but it wasn't as good as a searing corner at 30+ followed by the tailwind boot.
I did achieve enough speed to make the turn into Elm Street snappy. There's a pothole in the apex, so I can't drop in smoothly. With traffic on the highway and a busy parking lot to the right, I have to carry a straight line to the pothole and then snap the bike down hard while keeping my torso up to snap it back up again. If I clip the pothole I'm probably going down. If I carry too far before snapping the turn I will go into the left lane of Elm Street, which is often occupied by vehicles waiting to pull out. It's like taking a hard right turn into a keyhole.
Elm Street can be a chore. A mere three miles separates me from home at that point, but it can be a busy little road full of pushy drivers. One did push past in the last 200 meters before the end of the road, and then had to run the stop sign to stay ahead of me. And I was just rolling with the terrain.
A regular commuting route becomes a dance routine you can practice over and over, polishing and embellishing, refining and improving. It's a long-running show. Some performances will be better than others, but the run goes on.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Last Item of Business
To pick up some extra hours and tidy up the work load, I stayed late to knock out a quick spoke replacement.
The customer had come in for air and had trouble with his presta valves. I noticed the broken spoke. He left the bike.
When I removed the cassette I saw he'd tossed the chain into the spokes and chewed out all the ones on the outside of that hub flange. I methodically replaced all those and put his tire back on. The presta valve chose that moment to finish rotting out of the tube the way they do.
Got any other jobs that will only take a second?
The customer had come in for air and had trouble with his presta valves. I noticed the broken spoke. He left the bike.
When I removed the cassette I saw he'd tossed the chain into the spokes and chewed out all the ones on the outside of that hub flange. I methodically replaced all those and put his tire back on. The presta valve chose that moment to finish rotting out of the tube the way they do.
Got any other jobs that will only take a second?
Sunday, May 25, 2008
The Downside of an Upturn
For a while in the early 1990s, fixed gear stuff was pretty hard to find. I began to fear it would disappear entirely. But then the first bits of the single speed and fixie trend started showing up.
The initial relief at greater supply has worn off. You used to be able to get a perfectly serviceable fixed cog for five or ten bucks. The bids open notably higher now, and it's not just due to material and transportation costs or markedly better design and manufacturing standards.
We'll know fixed gears have really arrived when crappy ones show up for sale at Wal Mart.
The initial relief at greater supply has worn off. You used to be able to get a perfectly serviceable fixed cog for five or ten bucks. The bids open notably higher now, and it's not just due to material and transportation costs or markedly better design and manufacturing standards.
We'll know fixed gears have really arrived when crappy ones show up for sale at Wal Mart.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Blunt Cartoon about Gas Prices
This cartoon is rather anatomical, but direct. Warning: partial nudity, sexual situation.
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