Saturday afternoon, right before the 57km time trial that would decide this year's tour, I went out to ride up to Lans-en-Vercors. The climb up to the resort town situated on a lovely plateau is the only gentle climb far and wide. 19km with an average of just over 4% are perfect for testing one's will. Pushing hard until my lungs, legs and will hurt equally, I made it to the top in fifty minutes flat.
After a five-minute break coughing, panting and gasping, I hopped back onto my bike to calmly finish the loop, but I soon found myself back in the zone, willing myself to speeds I was dreaming of a few days ago. I surely helps not to ride with a backpack. I got back home after two hours with my bike computer claiming 57km. My personal time trial.
In the evening, I set out to give my bike a little treat. New tape was long overdue. Nothing remained of the fresh blue-yellow pattern that once adorned my bar. It was now gooey and black from hundreds of hours of sweaty hands. Five minutes later, my bike looked like it did when I bought it, and leaned against the basement wall shimmering contently in the dim light. It had no idea of what was to come.
I bent down to examine the rear wheel. Some spokes were fairly loose and the entire wheel ran a little off-center. Nothing a spoke tool can't fix. I started turning nipples and got nowhere. Sometimes the spokes would torque because oxidation had permanently glued the nipple to it, and when I let go of the tool, it would swivel back like some spring-loaded toy. Sometimes I would loosen spokes and the rim would seems to move into the same direction. At last, the spoke wrench decided to take the square profile off a nipple or two. By this time, the wheel was decidedly out of whack and I felt frustration rising up in me.
It's not that difficult to true wheel. Why is the little red wrench not doing its job? Frustration led to anger, and anger quickly got out of the way of developing rage. I kicked the rear wheel, which did not help. I didn't hurt either, and there is nothing worse when you're at the brink of an apoplectic fit than a kick with no effect.
I took the wheel out and slammed it against the stairs, and it's appearance finally changed. Hard to say at this point if that was an improvement. I really didn't look. I was acting in affect, oblivious of consequences. When the wheel came to rest on the soft packed-earth floor, I jumped on it, and this did it in. A sad figure eight, beyond repair, stared at me with profound sadness and quiet reproach. The quick release had assumed the shape of spoke, one end angled like the head of a man in despair.
When clarity had returned to my mind, I didn't even bother trying to explain what happened to me, but I found an excuse for what happened to the misfortuned wheel. After ten years of service it was old and decrepit, and I simply delivered it from its misery. All would be good except I don't have a operational bike. Thus I'm spending Sunday writing my blog instead of riding through the Chartreuse.
2 comments:
Sounds like a roid-rage to me. Maybe someone is hitting the testosterone a little hard. Wouldn't want to have a test come back for an imbalance and then have everyone lynch you before you had a chance really examine the reason for the imbalance would you?
That's an interesting point, Nate. Like I said, I don't do drugs, but I had a glass of Pastis before 'working' on my bike. And you know how it is, one drink and your testosterone levels shoot through the roof.
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