How Routine Was This Repair?

Have you ever felt yourself just slogging and grinding your way on your bike for no discernible reason?  Then you realize your rear tire was slowly losing air.  Or your chain needed oil even more than the salad everyone thought was dry and lifeless.  Or that some part or another was out of alignment or adjustment.

I had such an experience on Thursday.  I wasn’t feeling very well, but I thought I could shake my lethargy by going on a ride, however short.  I started in a direction that could take me to Coney Island or the Canarsie Pier; either would have been a manageable distance and, if I needed to do so, I could take the subway home.

As I approached the Pulaski Bridge, I found myself making a left turn Jackson Avenue, then Thomson Avenue, which meant Canarsie was in the cards.  It was the sort of not-quite-conscious decision I often make on rides.  That was fine; I hadn’t gone that way in a while.  Tosca seemed to be rolling along fine through the industrial area of Long Island City and Maspeth, the now-Polish and Albanian enclaves of Ridgewood and some almost-suburban stretches of Glendale.  

Then, after descending the hill from a cemetery in Queens to another in Brooklyn, I started to feel like a paraplegic grasshopper pedaling in syrup.  I glanced down at the bike. Nothing seemed wrong.  Must be the engine, not the chassis, I thought.  In other words, I thought perhaps I was less well or in worse shape than I suspected.

Just after crossing Atlantic Avenue, I realized that the human machinery, however out-of-tune, was not to blame.  I saw the telltale sag in my rear tire. So, I did what I often do when I don’t hear a pop or a hiss:  I pumped the tire, figuring I could pedal the rest of the way to the pier and, if necessary, fix the problem there.

The plan almost worked.  I got to a flea market about three-quarters of the way to the pier.   I wended through aisles of polyester sundresses in screaming hues that make “billboard” jerseys seem as if they were designed by Brooks Brothers  (I’ve never seen a man who actually looks good in one!), electronic equipment that was discarded before the guys trying to sell it were born, CDs of bands you’ve never heard of or don’t want to hear again, and all matter of the most cheaply-made watches, appliances and accessories imaginable.  Of course, I didn’t buy anything.  But I had to pump my tire again:  It had lost about half of its pressure.

The air was just barely enough to get me to the Pier.  Then I pumped the tire to hear a hiss growing more insistent.  Turns out, a small hole in the tire’s sidewall was opening. 

I knew there was no point to fixing it:  No patch would be strong enough to keep the tube from blowing out like a bubble from a piece of gum.  So, I took the L train back.  Oh well.

After replacing the tire and tube, I took Tosca out on the same route yesterday.  Now I was riding the bike I’d always loved.  And I felt better.

And yesterday’s ride—Point Lookout, again—on Arielle felt even better.  In fact, it was nearly perfect: About the only time I noticed Arielle (I hope she doesn’t feel rejected) was when I shifted or braked.  The rest of the time, I felt as if I were sailing the air under the cloudless sky on a day that could hardly have felt more like the first of summer. 

I did nothing to maintain or adjust Arielle before the ride.  But somehow I felt I was still riding a wave, if you will, from replacing the tire on Tosca. 

What sorts of routine maintenance and repair make the most difference in the way your bikes ride?

The Longest Day

Today is, officially, the first day of Summer in the Northern Hemisphere.

That means every place north of the Equator will have more hours (and minutes) of daylight than on any other day of the year.

Not surprisingly, many rides are scheduled for this day in order to take advantage of that fact.  I have participated in such rides.  In fact, the first remains, to this day, the longest one-day ride, in terms of distance, I have ever taken.

I rode with the Central Jersey Cycling Club while I was a student at Rutgers and for several years after.  I even rode with them when I "visited" (It's kind of weird to say you're visiting your native country.) the US (i.e., family and friends) while living in France.  I did my Longest Day ride during one of those visits.

That's what the ride was called:  The Longest Day.  And, trust me, it lived up to its billing.  Through fifteen hours or so of riding, we encountered blistering heat and sun, gravel, a thunderstorm that reverberated and flashed across the West Jersey farmland, dirt paths that turned to mud, more heat, a sudden downpour and various combinations of these things.

We began at High Point at dawn. As the name indicates, it's the highest point in the state.  It stands near the point where where three states--New Jersey, New York and Pennsylvania---meet. All are visible from the top, where an obelisk to commemorate the war dead was dedicated in 1930.

If your idea of the Garden State comes from The Sopranos, 
Jersey Shore or the stories you've heard about Newark, Camden and suburban sprawl--or seeing the state's current governor (not to mention a few in the past), the ride would have dispelled such notions, even when you thought you were too tired to notice anything.

The ride took us to Cape May, in the opposite end of the state from High Point.  Someone claimed that it's the lowest point in New Jersey. It may well be the lowest land point, at 10 feet, but every guide I've seen lists the Atlantic Ocean--which roils against one side of the Cape--as the lowest.

So how far did we pedal?  According to the Huret Multito odometers some of us used--the state of the art in measuring distance in a day when the first cycle computers were being developed--we covered 234 miles.

I haven't ridden with the CJBC in years.  I must say they haven't lost their penchant for ugly cycling jerseys!  You can only wear such a thing on the Longest Day, when you're too dirty and sweaty to care, or for anyone to notice how hideous it is.  The jersey I wore on my ride was just as bad as the one on the club's website!

My Find Becomes Someone Else's Treasure

In an earlier post, I boasted of my curbside find of  a pair of Hondo/LeFol-style hammered fenders with a randonneur-style rack while riding along Kent Avenue in Brooklyn.

I really liked the look of them, and the quality seemed decent.  However, I wondered how useful that sort of rack would be to me.  And my research shows me that the fenders and rack are actually original equipment from an Electra Ticino bike.  

I don't mean to disparage their quality:  I have never used any of the company's products.  They might well be perfectly good:  After all, people rave about the bikes.

Still, I have to wonder whether using them to replace VOs would actually constitute an upgrade.  If I ever switch fenders on Helene or Vera, I think I'd want Honjos

But a cursory glance showed me that the way the mounting holes were drilled, the rack would not sit level on any of my bikes unless I drilled another mounting hole.  That would mean plugging the original drilling.  It's not only an aethetic matter:  Whatever is used to plug up the original hole will evenutally pop out and have to be replaced.  Also, if the plug is not airtight, it will never be as good as the material that was drilled out of the fender.

And, all right, I'll admit:  I'm just too lazy to change the fenders on my bikes.  So I took my fortuitous find to Recycle-A-Bicycle, who were only too happy to take them.