eclectic criminals

This weekend should have been dedicated to riding, but it wasn't. It all started ambitious enough. Thursday night, I rode the Col de Porte despite looming thunderstorms. Back in town and not completely soaked I attempted the Bastille. This road is not even two kilometers long, but averages a ridiculous 17%. Every 20 meters the current gradient is written on the ground in white paint. You know it's steep when you rejoice at the sight of a big old 14. Going back down felt like falling off a cliff.

Friday, on what should have been an epic ride up the Gorges du Nan and into the Vercors, I was kept from going with any sort of effort by the most bone-chilling noise coming from my bottom breaket whenever I pedaled hard. At the base of the canyon when sixty minutes of sustained effort beckoned, I turned around and cruised back to Grenoble leisurely following the Isère.

The next day, I set out to inspect the damage on my bike, but couldn't find the tools I needed. It appears that when my mountain bike was stolen about a month ago, other random things must have been overwhelmed by a desire for freedom and taken the opportunity of an open door. It couldn't have possibly been the thieves that took what disappeared: Old cleats that I tossed into a dusty box many years ago, used bottom brackets and chains that I mistakenly thought might serve a purpose some day, and an assortment of nuts and bolts whose origins I was always curious about.

Some other things are gone that I actually miss: My bottom bracket and chain tools, my Allen and other wrenches, a handful of inner tubes. For whatever reason, my pedal wrench, all lube and my snowboard remain. Also remaining, to my great delight, are two bottles of Sangre de Torre Gran Reserva, not to be opened before 2013.

Why am I telling this story? Because exactly ALL of the tools I need to take out and clean my bottom bracket are gone, and I'm slowly getting worried.

I want to spend Wednesday at the Col de la Croix de Fer, and I need a smoothly functioning bike to get up there. When I went to the bike shop today to buy tools, it was already closed. So I might have to sacrifice watching Alpe d'Huez on TV tomorrow in order to be able to watch the race on top of the mountain the next day.

And if you turn on the TV on Wednesday, watch out for the biggest of all German flags draped around me jumping up and down like silly.