Eight blocks from my apartment....Up to that point, it had been a routine ride home. But, suddenly, my rear wheel stopped dead. My feet locked in an involuntary track stand: I couldn't push the pedals forward or backward.
Fortunately, I skidded only a few feet and teetered only slightly to one side. Pulling my left foot out of my pedal, I set it down on the pavement and kept myself from falling. I had just passed through an industrial area of Long Island City where, at that hour, there was no traffic. So, I lifted the rear and looked at the rear wheel in the middle of the street, where the lights were bright enough that you could have read the instructions in a Rema patch kit.
What I saw puzzled me at first: It looked like a four-or five-centimeter gap behind the locknut on the right side of my rear wheel. I pulled the bike over to the truck bay in back of one of the buildings. Even though the trucks were gone, the loading docks and driveway were lit by large kleig lights, which allowed me to see my problem clearly: The locknut on the drive side had unscrewed from the bearing cone, which tightned against the bearings so that the wheel could not spin.
Of course, I didn't have the tools I needed to remedy the problem. (Do you carry cone wrenches on your daily commute?) So, I had to lift the rear wheel and roll the bike on its front wheel for a bit less than a kilometer to my apartment.
When I got home, of course, I hoisted the bike onto my repair stand and took the wheel off. The latter task proved difficult, as the wheel had wedged itself even more firmly between the dropouts, which made it difficult to unscrew the quick release skewer.
But once I got the wheel off, I discovered the problem: The cassette shook from side to side as I moved the wheel. Once I took off the cassette, I saw that the cassette carrier was very loose on the hub.
On most Shimano rear hubs, like the one I was riding (It came with the bike), the cassette carrier (what you slide the cogs onto and screw the lockring into) is held onto the hub body with an allen-head bolt that takes a 10 mm key.
The hub originally came with a seven-speed body; because seven-speed cassettes are becoming more difficult to find, I decided to swap the body for one that is compatible with 8, 9 and 10 speed cassettes. If you ever do such a thing, remember that the bolt has to be tight! Otherwise, you will have a mishap like the one I had. When the body loosened, it wobbled. And when it wobbled, one of its edges probably caught the edges of the locknut, which caused it to unscrew from the cone.
If that ever happens to you, you won't be able to pedal, even if you use the smallest chainring on your TA Cyclotouriste crank and the largest cog on one of those old SunTour freewheels!
As I fixed the hub (I cleaned it, packed it with fresh grease and replaced the ball bearings, for good measure), I thought of the time, years ago, when I was riding home from Bear Mountain. I was pedaling along the long flat stretch of Route 9W just south of the state line to the George Washington Bridge. In those days before indexed shifting and cassette hubs, I rode a Regina CX freewheel on my racing bike. It was one of the lightest freewheels available and, being Italian, it seemed like just the thing to ride on a Campagnolo hub.
Anyway, as the day was mild and the air was calm, I had little trouble in keeping up a high rate of RPMs, even though I had already ridden close to a hundred miles. Suddenly, I had no choice but to keep on pedaling: The ratchet mechanism inside the freewheel broke, which meant that I couldn't coast. And I couldn't stop because, behind me, about a hundred other cyclists were riding at high RPMs and I didn't want to start a pile-up, especially if I would end up at the bottom of it!
Well, I made it home, but not after riding about ten miles on what was, to my knowledge, the world's only bike with twelve fixed gears!
At least the problem I had last night wasn't a complicated fix and didn't require any expensive new parts. My Regina freewheel, on the other hand, was toast.
Meteorologists are saying that this is already the seventh-wettest year on record here in New York. And we have almost three months left in the year. So, while we may not have the wettest year ever, it seems that this year will almost certainly be among the wettest five, or even four.
Don't you just love it when TV and meteorologists talk about "going for a record," as if there's anything we can do about it? I mean, it's not like we're sprinters and this is the Olympics or the Tour de France. Or--given that this is October--it's not like we're Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera in the baseball playoffs.
It does seem, though, that anything done outdoors--whether riding a bike, playing a baseball game or holding a street fair--involves striking a balance with the risk of rain. How much of a chance do you want to take? How much can or will you do before the rain falls, and under what conditions do you want to continue?
Anyway, the other day Lakythia, Mildred and I went on one of those "playing chicken with the rain" rides where we did some miles and stopped in a couple of bike shops. Mildred didn't like the bike she'd just bought, so she wanted to exchange it. However, she also wanted to see another had to offer before going to the shop where she bought the bike.
She'd bought some absolutely hideous-looking Trek road model. I don't know how it rode, but I could understand her wanting to exchange it because of its sheer garishness (Is that an oxymoron?) alone. In its place, she got a much prettier (white with emerald green panels and black trim) Specialized Dolce, which I think also fit her better.
Anyway, our ride ended when she exchanged the bike at Bicycle Habitat in Soho, where I was fitted for, and purchased, Arielle, Helene and Tosca. I was going to ride with them to Brooklyn, then back to my place, but the Brooklyn Bridge was closed in the wake of the protests.
And it was starting to rain. I confessed, "I might just wimp out and take the train home."
"I simply can't imagine you doing that!," said Lakythia.
So, even though the rain was falling harder by the minute, I rode. The funny thing was that I somehow felt safer than I would have had the weather remained dry. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that fewer people were out than one might normally expect when it's getting dark on a Saturday.
At least I didn't suffer what this rider experienced:
No, I didn't ride with an umbrella the other night. However, I have done that trick before, and I've seen other cyclists--particularly in England and France--using one hand to navigate and the other to (perhaps futilely) keep dry.
Now, of course, everyone who's ever made deliveries on a bicycle has ridden one-handed while using his other hand to carry whatever he was delivering. Plus, I'm sure many of us have stopped, bought (or picked up) something and carried it home in one hand.
Once, I carried home a chair I picked up from a curbside. Another time, I lugged a torchiere-style floor lamp. I can recall a couple of times when I brought back pizzas that I balanced on one hand (once when I was drunk) as I piloted the bike with the other.
But, perhaps my strangest (and noblest) bit of one-handed riding came when I picked up a little dog that, apparently, got lost or was abandoned and had never been outside her home before. She looked like one of those dogs that Posh Spice might carry as an accessory. No one claimed her, and she had a collar but no tag.
I was riding home from a late class and I pedaled down one of the neighborhood's main commercial streets in the hope of finding a vet's office or animal shelter. No such luck. Even I'd found one, it might have been closed at that hour. So, after ambling down that street, and another commercial area, I brought the dog--I don't know what breed she was, exactly--to the local police precinct. I hoped that, from there, she made it home, or to a home. At least, I figured, she was off the streets, where she could easily have been run over. I have to admit, though, that I enjoyed bringing that dog in just to see the expressions on the police officers' faces: There's nothing like watching macho guys get mushy.
What have you carried during a one-handed bike ride?
Today I did something I've never done before, and may never do again: I actually read an article in Rutgers Magazine.
Why does that matter? Well, I am an alumna (I was once an alumnus...) of the school on the banks of the Raritan. I graduated a long, long time ago. And I've been back to the school maybe three or four times--the last time about twenty years ago. That, even though through most of my adult life, I've lived within a day's bike ride of the place.
The day I graduated, I wanted to get as far away from it as I could. About the only thing I liked about being there was that there was some good riding--and New York--nearby.
Today the latest edition of the alumni (Don't they realize they're being sexist when they use that term?) magazine arrived in the mail. As I normally do, I flipped through it during a potty break.
A pretty picture of a pretty shiny thing got my attention:
It's quite possibly the first photo of a bicycle ever to appear in the magazine since the days of the six-day races, if indeed Rutgers had an alumni magazine back then. I am sorry I couldn't reproduce the quality of the image in the magazine. But I think this shows how warm and eye-pleasing the color combination is.
One Jay Zand, Class of '82 (I'd never heard of him, or anyone else in the magazine, until today. Now you know why I don't read it.) purchased the bike from Eddy's Cycle City in Bayonne, New Jersey (the hometown of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons). Zand, who's an optometrist, paid 300 dollars for the bike, which was in pretty rough shape, with the intention of restoring it. He had never undertaken such a project before.
He sent the bike to California for repairs and refinishing, and even had tires custom-made for the maple rims. The bike, as it turned out, was made over 100 years ago by the Middlesex Motor Company of New Brunswick. Eddy's purchased it from the Metz Bicycle Museum in Freehold (Bruce Springsteen's hometown). Metz is dedicated to the heyday of cycling--around the time the bicycle in the photo was built--in New Jersey. Turns out, Jersey was a veritable hotbed of racing, and Newark even had a well-regarded velodrome.
All the bike needs now is a honey-ish brown saddle to go with the grips and rims, although I think it looks really nice as it is.
It's nice to see fellow alums doing good things. I might even start referring to Rutgers as "my alma mater." Now, if I start attending tailgate parties, then you should worry about me!
