Summer’s here, which means that in order to both hang onto my house and not end up having to burn my kitchen chairs for fuel this winter, I’m cramming in as many summer jobs as I can. My favorite of these is the one in which I sell tickets to Monhegan and Squirrel Islands, because I work with wonderful, funny people, half of whom I taught. The other day, though, I made a discovery about one of these people; a girl I’ve known for five years, who can talk about nothing but sailing, and who spends most of her time trying to figure out ways to get on board any ship that comes within rowing distance of Quaint Coastal Village, casually admitted that she gets seasick. Not just queasy, but really, truly, damn-you-and-your -whale-Ahab, sick. To which I, queen of self-awareness, replied, “How can you love something that treats you so badly?”
I shouldn’t have said anything to Kim, because I really have no leg to stand on regarding this one. She loves her boats, and I love my bike. And my bike has been treating me pretty badly lately.
In the last week, I’ve had experienced more Unexpected Events than I’ve had in my entire riding career. It’s a comfort to my self-reliance to know that all of these Events have occurred well after my live-in bike mechanic hit the road. So I learn to do things on my own.
Unexpected Event Number One: I got lost. Not just, “Gee, I wonder if I should take Dairy Farm Quagmire Family Dynasty Cemetery Road, or Lake Too Small For Jet-Skis Though They’ll Never Stop Trying Road, to get home.” This lost had some definite indications that I was nowhere near Kansas. Glancing at a map in the morning, I found a good long loop that was going to take me out a main road, up to another, and drop me back on another. All clearly marked, maybe a little heavy on traffic, but with good shoulders for getting up some speed. Except as I trundled along the first main road, I began running out of landmarks. I began to think I’d missed my turnoff, and would eventually end up in Belfast, which is where this particular road leads. The primary issue here was that some trickster apparently decided to settle Belfast on top of a mountain. Lost is one thing; lost on a perpetual incline that makes you wonder if you’ll ever breathe again without sounding like an emphysema patient is another. It’s apparent that if anyone in Belfast has, say, some marbles that they suddenly need to get to my house, they can just set them on the ground, and I will eventually receive them through the grace of gravity.
But these are small troubles, easy to handle. It was my one day off a week; really, I had all day to wander around out there, or at least until my two apples ran out. But then, as the terrain continued upwards, the surroundings became more and more alarming. What might a tourist to the region expect to see on the road to Belfast? Well. First, there are big pickup trucks. I’m really fine with these. They’re all guys in their thirties with boat trailers, and while sometimes the trailers like to play little games in which they skip sideways in an attempt to befriend me after the truck’s long gone, I can deal with them. There are also many Saabs, each of which carries two kayaks. They never carry a single kayak; there are always two. Conveniently ignoring the fact that a couple years ago, I was one of these smug kayakers, I found their irritating whooshes past me good motivation for revisiting some of my old favorite curses. But then things changed. The trucks became smaller and older, and lost their trailers. They gained gun racks, and passengers who rode snuggled up next to the driver. I began to pass churches; not the nice friendly ones, but the kind of churches that have signs with changeable letters, whose messages declined from the grammatical cliffhanger “Casting your cares upon Him,” to the spiritual sledgehammer, “Your sin will find you out.” These churches had names like Road To Belfast Hellfire and Puppy Hating Meeting Hall. I began to think that I was no longer in a good place for a girl in bike shorts to be. I was grateful that I was not, in fact, a guy in bike shorts.
So I called my grandmother. I figured she’d have a map and could tell me roughly where I was. This decision, however, had a cost. My entire family is a little weirded out by my biking. On a bike, they figure, bad things can happen to you. You can, like, die. It’s probably safer to say inside all the time, is their general philosophy, or at least the philosophy hinted at by my grandmother over the years.
Anyway, I’d been afraid no one would answer. But luckily for me, the entire family was assembled in her kitchen. Which allowed my grandmother, after my discreet request for her map services, to bellow something like, “Mouse is incompetently lost!” and hand the phone to my uncle. He was heroic in getting me sorted out, but the ignominy of having to call my grandmother stayed with me, and still hasn’t died, thanks to the perpetual mocking of my friend Nick, to whom I may or may not speak again, given his tendency to keep bringing this up.
But that was that, I got home, and beat my longest distance, and was too tired to even really make myself dinner, so I was happy. And then two days later I got a flat tire. And had to call my grandmother.
Leaving my string of curses out of it for a minute, let’s assess the rest of the Flat Tire Day. After being delivered to my house, I raced through a shower, sped to the bike shop, and asked for a new tube and tire. I did not have time to have the kid at the shop put the tire on for me, because I was going to be late to work, which was still an hour’s drive from the bike shop. I managed the inn (which is another story for another time) with half my mind on how the heck I was going to change my bike tire all by myself. I got home, and at 9:30 at night, began the tire removal.
A note on changing bike tires: it can be hard. I’ve never done it before. Sam showed me once, but this was years ago, and even my friend Nick needed his friend’s dad to help him change his. Furthermore, this was the rear wheel, which meant that I had all sorts of issues with my derailleur, with which I’ve never had a really close relationship. In fact, until about four years ago, I never really knew what a derailleur was; I just knew it was back there somewhere. So yes, for grease-covered bike shop guys, this is no big. For me, it was… big.
I was done in twenty minutes.
I was covered in bike grease. And I really mean covered. I don’t know how I can have gotten bike grease on, like, my shoulder blade, but I did. The next day, a girl at the gas station said, “You’ve got something…” and I looked down to see grease I’d missed on my calf, and on my elbow, and on the back of my knee. It gets everywhere, and it’s not easy to make go away. Honestly, I’ve never looked so good. It was fantastic. I had some trouble with my quick release, which almost drove me to tears, but after becoming certain that I’d ruined my derailleur or somehow bent my rims, I eventually got it figured out.
And then, three days and three rides later, the tube went. And I had to call my mom.
This time I had time to bring in the whole tire. The guy at the bike shop said I’d put the thing together fine and something had gotten to the tube. He also said, as he was crouched over my tire, that this was a hard one to get on. He did not say this to make me feel good; he said it to make him feel good, as I did lap after lap around the shop waiting for him to lever it all back together. So I took it home, had even more trouble with my newest nemesis, Quick-Release, whose perfidy once again nearly made me scream, and I then sat in the kitchen eyeing my creation with apprehension. I knew now how Victor Frankenstein felt after piecing together his monster. Why did this seem like a good idea? What guarantee did I have that all the pieces would do all the things I wanted at the times I wanted them to do them? How did I know my bike wouldn’t, say, suddenly run amuck and strangle an innocent child with its brake cables? I didn’t know; I lived in fear.
Nevertheless, I had to set out. So I did. And for fifteen miles, everything was fine. Until my quick release fell off. Because I’d apparently loosened something too far. I don’t know how much experience you have with searching a gravelly shoulder for a tiny bolt, but my experience was certainly not all I could have hoped. I used the duct tape I’d used to attach my pump to my frame to secure the brake, and started home. The duct tape actually held up so well that I’d just decided to finish my ride the long way, when the rain started. This was fine; I can ride in rain. But then came the thunder. And the lightning. And the rain that tried to bore holes in my helmet and permanently blind me. I truly could not have been more wet if I’d jumped into a bathtub. And I was a little concerned about what kind of scorch marks an aluminum frame would leave on my lightning-struck body. So I went home. Again.
I’m still currently holding my brake on with duct tape. This decision conflicts wildly with the advice of the bike shop guy, but as he can’t fix my bike without keeping it for 48 hours, he doesn’t get a vote. Thing is, riding is a strange addiction. Riding promotes more riding. A long day does not lead to a day of rest; it leads to a longer day. Which leads to a longer day. Someday I will have to get this part fixed. But I hope this day will be a snowy one, in mistily distant months from now.
I think everything’s okay. I think things will hold together, and that there’s really no reason for me to become stranded. I’ve got a spare tube and a pump and a tire lever and my Allen keys. I’ve got my phone. I’ve got a grandmother.
But I’ve also got the knowledge that this thing I love can let me down. And I’ve got the awareness that my mechanic skills stop short and the tire-changing stage, and, in a roadside situation, may not even work then. I know that even duct tape may fail me, and that I may get stranded in a place where I’m not certain to emerge without a fixed backwoods stare on my face.
But the Tour de France is starting on Saturday, and there’s at least one guy in the peleton who hasn’t been doping. Statistically, there’s got to be one; ‘tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall, and I have faith that there’s at least one pair of legs on the Tour that still feels the old bike love in its pure state. And if you watch the footage, and watch them ride exactly the way I don’t, winging away on these bikes that are barely even there, you’ll get why a person rides. Go to www.bicycling.com and watch 1997 footage of Jan Ullrich chewing up mountains, or look at old photos of Eddie Merckx when he was young and perfect, and listen to the French announcers repeat his name with excitement that edges into frenzy. Watch Lance Armstrong attack on the Alpe d’Huez in 2001, and then watch him turn around and give a good long look to all the guys whose hearts he’s just broken.
It’s okay if bicycling treats us badly sometimes. Lightning and duct tape are nothing when compared to broken hips and collarbones, and while I may look haunted and rattled at the top of the Lake Too Small For Jet-Skis Hill, my haunted expression will need some work before it can match the expression of anyone who’s ever won the polka-dot jersey. So, as Freddie Mercury said, I want to ride my bicycle. In fact, my friend Nick just called and invited me for a ride. Keep an eye out for me. I’m the one in the lovely duct-tape-and-grease ensemble, grinding up hills slower than death, but having a pretty good time.
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