Reflections in the bike mirror

I finished a long day at work, and the weather outside is nice and warm. Instead of going for a bike ride, I decided to go for a walk and think about what I might blog about. I find walking extremely meditative, especially if I am on trails that are away from traffic – both foot and car. And today was no exception. My mind ran free and decided to back pedal many years into the past, probing my distant memories. And for some reason, it settled on the times when I trained my oldest son to ride the bike.

Now I am a teacher by profession, and I have had more than my fair share of successes in the classroom, and so you might think that I would apply the same principles towards training my own children in the sacred art of riding a bike. I mean, it is a rite of passage, for god’s sake, and not something to do lightly and haphazardly.

So you would think.

But for some reason, I did not even think to consider the proper sequence of progression that would lead to maximum success with minimum pain and frustration. These days, I read article after article about how children should scoot first, by simply removing the pedals on a bike, so that they can learn balance before they have to tackle pedaling. And really, if I had sat down and really pondered the skills necessary for proficiency on a bike, I might have even come up with such a strategy myself, thereby making me a pioneer of today’s great instruction methodologies, blazing the trails so that others might follow.

But alas, that was not the case at all. In fact, I think I purposefully gave myself a lobotomy and opted to go by sheer instinct, merely doing what seemed natural for me. Be ready to cringe, dear readers, as I reveal to you my barbaric techniques.

We started by getting him a high level and quite expensive tricycle, because nothing is too good for our first born, right? It was a pretty green and orange, making it the envy of the entire neighbourhood – not that we knew of any other kids in our neghbourhood, but if there were other kids, they would have been green (and orange) in envy.

The problem was that this tricycle, as wonderful and hip as it was, proved to be too large for our child. He could not easily reach the pedals, even when we placed blocks on the pedals to shorten the distance. (Yes, we actually put blocks on the pedals. Feel free to judge with abandon!) So, instead of riding it, he had to scoot around with his foot on the back support between the wheels. He got really good at scooting, but this was not helping him at all in the biking department.

Eventually he got tall enough to ride it, and sure enough, with some prompting and urging and pleading (and yes, even threatening – please don’t report me!), he soon was able to pedal the tricycle around the driveway. As his confidence grew, we extended this to the park behind our house. But strangely, as he grew larger and larger, he stopped biking and resumed scooting, doing it for many years until the bike was far too small for him.

Despite my love for cycling in all its forms, my oldest son did not learn to ride a two-wheeled bike until much later than his friends. I really cannot explain to you why I allowed this to protract for such a long time, and it is certainly to my shame that I didn’t act sooner. But it happened and I must accept full responsibility for it.

Anyway, when my son was about ready to shave (kidding!), I figured it was time for him to master the art and science of biking. Strangely, I did not actually buy a bike for him to celebrate this momentous event. Instead, we discovered that my wife’s cousins had an old bike kicking around, a heavy steel piece of junk that was rusting away under a porch. Oh, how things have fallen since the chic tricycle of his youth! Forget the idea of getting a bike that fits him, that is perfect for him … nope, what mattered was that it was free. (Who was I at this time? I cannot even recognize myself!!)

Again, I did not construct a master plan, where my son would progress from basic simple skills to the more advanced skills, until they all came together in a magical symphony of pedaling and balancing. Instead, I placed him in our back yard and holding him firmly by the back seat (of the bike, not my son!), I pushed him around as he mimicked the motions of pedaling. Come on. Did I really think this would lead anywhere? All we did was go in circles in the backyard and get nowhere at all.

So, I took him out to the path behind our house, under the watchful eyes of drivers and passengers of cars that went by at high speed, and once again manned the back seat like a rudder, navigating him through the choppy seas of underdeveloped balance and a complete lack of timing. It was humiliating watching him, and again, to my utter shame, I got on his case more than once, giving him a stern talking to, expressing my displeasure that he was not acquiring the skills in short order. It had never entered my mind at the time that this might have had to do with my absolutely dreadful teaching techniques.

We went back and forth on the trail relentlessly, me pushing, him trying to pedal, and then him falling to the left, to the right, forward, back, until he had absolutely no confidence and he knew that I was embarrassed to be out there with him. I think back on this and I really feel for him. I have always been a person who has gained physical skills very quickly, almost immediately, like I was meant to do most sports out there, and this ease of acquisition made it really hard for me to understand my son’s struggles.

Which is strange because I see struggles all the time at school, and so you would think I would be more considerate, more understanding. Not at all. I have always been extra hard and demanding on my children when learning new skills. As I did my walk today, I had a bit of an epiphany about this. I am even more demanding of myself when I learn something, and so, to me, I was being a little easy on them. But this is just sickness. I have been far too hard on myself throughout my life, which is something that likely needs to be discussed with a therapist, and just because I was a bastard to myself, this certainly does not vindicate my treatment of my boys when they were learning a new skill like biking.

Somehow, in the end, my oldest son learned to ride – despite all of my foolish and slightly torturous methods. And while he had gained the rudimentary skills, he had no desire to go further and develop these skills to the highest level, enjoying the absolute thrill of riding in the process. I think I sucked the joy entirely out of the process and I feel mostly to blame for my son’s apparent apathy towards biking.

Looking back on all this, I would certainly not blame my oldest son for never taking up biking ever again. But there is some good news here at the end. As he progressed into his twenties and ventured out into the world on his own, he came to realize that he needed some form of transportation to explore the new and exciting world extending from his doorstep. While he can walk really fast, sometimes giving nearby cars a run for their money, he realized that it was just not fast enough. He could not see enough of the world. Much like his old man, he does not like the idea of driving, and so this left him with the humble bike.

Today, I am proud to report that he rides very often in the river valley, alone on his wonderful metal steed, and he says that he loves it. I could almost cry. Despite all of the emotional abuse and terribly ineffective teaching methods, despite my condemnation and judgement, a love for cycling has emerged from it all. I could not be happier. What a sigh of relief, what a huge burden taken from my shoulders. I shudder to think that I could have turned my own child against my most cherished recreational activity, this wondrous and heavenly thing called biking. But in a miracle, sunshine has blazed through the dark clouds and passion for riding bikes has erupted in his soul.

In a couple of weeks, my son and I will be riding together in the river valley. No longer will I be the teacher – thank goodness for that!! – but instead, we will be riding side by side, equal in pace and passion for biking. I no longer need to look back, reflecting on the past, because both of us have our gaze set firmly on the future bike paths, and they look like a whole lot of fun.

Getting the train back on the rails

When I left you last, the rear derailleur for my mountain bike was in the condition shown below:

On the day after this disaster, it was time to do some surgery. Allow me to describe to you the minor miracle that followed.

I snipped the cable tie holding it to the frame (using a scalpel?), and after removing the shifter cable, I brought it over to my work desk. When I analyzed it more closely, I realized that it was in far worse shape than I had thought. Its pulse was shallow and fading fast. I had a strong suspicion that it was beyond hope and that I would have to buy another one, but I would not give up without a fight. I put on my scrubs (read, ratty work clothes and protective glasses), laid out all of my tools, clean and gleaming, and then I got to work.

The first problem was the cage.

It was seriously bent – both folded and twisted. So, I placed it in a vice and using a hammer, a wrench, and a whole lot of prayer, I gently but firmly brought it back into shape. This was a nervous operation because the last time I did this, I used too much force and snapped a piece off of it. But not this time. Slowly but steadily, I brought it back into its proper condition, and when done, I was really happy with the results. It was close to being pristine. I was getting a bit more optimistic, since this was the most challenging part of the restoration process.

Next was the upper pulley wheel.

The problem here was that the bolt holding it in place, as well as one of the bearing plates, were entirely missing. It had been ripped clean off the derailleur and those pieces were lost on the trail somewhere, in an unmarked grave. Where would I find their replacements? Fortunately, I tend to keep my old, worn-out components in a couple of bins in my shop, and this practice proved to be invaluable. I happened to have a very similar derailleur in the bin, and sure enough, it had the proper bolt and bearing plate. Sweet good fortune!! They fit perfectly, and when I assembled it back together, it was wonderfully operational.

The final pieces of the derailleur puzzle were for the hanger and hanger bolt.

The bolt (shown as 1 in the first diagram) was missing the limiting washer and washer, as circled on the left of the same diagram. But again, my old derailleur had those parts as well. And the actual hanger (in the second diagram) was completely mangled and stripped, but it is actually designed to do this, and I happened to have purchased extras for this part. So, I was able to attach the derailleur back on the bike and thread the chain through it. So far, so good.

I then replaced the shifter cable, which had been bent to a 90 degree angle in the catastrophe, and while I did so, I snipped the end of the cable housing (which was frayed and bent as well) and replaced it with a piece of old cable housing (yes, also in my invaluable old bins). I have shown the region below, using a picture of my actual bike (well, when it was first purchased).

I attached the cable to the derailleur, and after replacing the rear rim (since one of the spokes was destroyed) with my spare rim, I tuned it all up and it appeared to be working quite well. Surprisingly well.

And I am happy to report that I took it out on the local trails yesterday and it was solid and reliable for the entire trip. I am one very happy bike doctor. My patient survived (after many hours of surgery in my shop) and is back living its life to the fullest. I couldn’t be more proud. (and my wife is delighted because it did not cost us a thing. LOL)

Mechanical disadvantage

I think the gods of biking have a vicious sense of humour.

The forecast for today was sunshine throughout the morning and afternoon, with reasonably warm temperatures, and because the ground was pretty dry, I felt it was a good opportunity to go out for another mountain bike ride in the river valley. On the way out, I had nothing but green lights at every intersection and I felt totally charmed.

In retrospect, this should have been a fair warning. I am never this lucky .. not ever! … and in the grand cosmic balance sheet, I was due for a bunch of negative things to happen … or one big disaster.

The ride was excellent for the first couple of hours, and apart from a bit of tiredness in my legs, I was on point in stamina and technique. But then, on a relatively harmless trail with plenty of space around me, I looked behind me briefly to see if anyone was trailing me so I could pull off to the side and allow them to go by me. There was no one, and when I turned my head back very quickly, I realized that my bike was heading directly towards a tree … at high speed! I had very little time to react, and as I veered away from it, my left shoulder slammed painfully into it.

I swear I heard a bit of a snap (or it could have been a crack or pop), and I was quite convinced that I had broken my shoulder. I rode the next several minutes, waiting to feel any of the classic symptoms of numbness or weakness or agony, but there was only good old fashioned pain. I dodged a bullet. At least I could dodge something, because I certainly couldn’t dodge that damned stationary tree.

It was only pain, something I am more than familiar with on my bike, and so I began riding once again with confidence and intensity. It all went well until I got to the most challenging portion of my ride, full of steep climbs and highly technical sections. On one such climb, right near the top of a very steep hill, my drivetrain jammed and I came to a dead stop.

WTF?

Before I looked down, I thought back on the agreement I made with my wife. I had suggested to her that it would be best if I drive to the river valley, so that when I inevitably experience a mechanical failure, I can simply drive it back and fix it at home. But she was worried that leaving a car alone in a parking lot will lead our vehicle being broken into and even stolen. So, the plan was modified. I asked that she make breakfast earlier in the morning, so that I would have plenty of time to ride out to the river valley, complete my ride, and be back before lunch at 1 pm. She agreed.

And you know, I felt pretty good about this. I knew there was a chance that I could suffer some kind of breakdown on the ride, but in my backpack are tools to solve almost all problems. The likelihood of something happening that could not be fixed on site was so very small. Did I mention the biking gods were laughing?

When I finally looked down at my drivetrain, to my horror I saw that my rear derailleur was completely mangled and instead of dangling down, it was projected straight upward. Not good. When I assessed the damage, many of the issues were indeed solvable. The derailleur hanger was bent and the thread were totally stripped, but I had a new hanger in my bag so I was ready. One of my spokes had been snapped by the swinging derailleur, but I could simply entwine it around the adjacent spoke and the wheel would still be rideable and get me home. The front brake rotor was bent and making a huge screech each revolution, but I could simply adjust it by loosening the bolt and realigning it.

But the deal breaker was the derailleur itself. The lower part of the derailleur had been ripped apart, and one of the bolts that holds one of the jockey wheels in place was gone.

(Here is a picture of a healthy derailleur. I have circled the jockey wheel that had been ripped off.)

I searched the trail for minutes trying to find it, but it was nowhere to be found. I was screwed. If the part is completely gone, I cannot fix it. Dammit!!

So, I got out my zip tie and secured the derailleur (as well as the dangling chain) to my right chain stay of my bike frame, so it would not jam into my spokes again. Below is what it looks like. I have circled in red the derailleur that is attached to my chainstay.) Not pretty.

Then, it was time to scoot. That is when one foot is on a pedal, and the other foot pushes on the ground to move the bike forward, much like a scooter. Sound like fun? Well, I was located on the opposite side of U of A at the time, and I had to scoot for almost 2.5 hours to get home. Let me tell you, not so much fun at all. I am just glad that I did not injure myself in the process. My feet will be sore, and my shoulders as well from holding myself up on the handlebars while pushing, but otherwise, I am doing well enough.

Honestly, I don’t even want to look at that bike for a while. I was so devastated by what happened, and really, I have no explanation for how it happened. Did I snag a root, hit a rock? I have no idea at all.

But there is no doubt that the cosmic balance has been maintained. The next time I go for a mountain bike ride, I will be hoping for nothing but red lights at every single intersection. Then, my ride will be smooth and with absolutely no mechanicals. (But I will bring a rabbit’s foot, a lucky penny, and a horseshoe as well, just to be sure.)

Shop talk

A knock came at the side door. I took a deep breath and walked across the garage to open it. This is it, I said to myself.

When I unlocked the door and opened it, I was met by a large man with long blonde hair.

“Curt?” I asked.

“That’s me,” he said with a smile and held out his hand.

“I’m Phil,” I said, receiving his firm handshake. “Come on in.”

“One second,” he said. “I have to get my baby.”

“Of course,” I said. “I will leave the door open and get set up. Come in whenever you’re ready.”

I brushed off the counter of my shop desk, but it really wasn’t necessary. I had cleaned the shop thoroughly an hour before and it was basically spotless. But I did not want to seem too eager by hanging around the door. Gotta keep this professional, I thought.

I was practically a nervous wreck by the time the door opened again, and in came Curt with his bike in tow. As he rolled it over to the other side of the garage, he looked around and checked out my shop.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said with a glint in his eye.

“Thanks,” I said. I had hung four of my bikes on the wall to free up space for doing my work, and I strived to make them symmetrical – two on the left side of the main wall, and two on the right side. In the middle, I had placed my shop clock, which I had fashioned out of an old wheel. The rest of the wall space was filled with shelves and cycling posters. It was my dream come true.

He handed me the bike, and I whistled. “Wow, is this a Colnago Super Classic?”

“It sure is,” he replied. “It is one of my favourite bikes and I have had it for a long time … longer than I have been with my wife.”

We chuckled at that.

“You don’t see steel frames much any more,” I said, admiring its every curve and feature, “especially with friction shifters on the down tube. Brings back a lot of memories.”

“You and me both,” he said. “So, do you think you can help me?”

I pulled my cycling cap further down on my head, signifying that it was time to get down to business. “What seems to be the problem?”

“I am not sure how or why it happened, but lately, my front tire has been rubbing against my brakes.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let me take a look.”

I placed the Colnago on my old bike stand, and to my embarrassment, I used a couple of external clamps to fix it in position.

“What happened to your stand?” he said.

“I stripped the bolt that tightens the built-in clamp, so it can no longer secure the bike to the stand. Now an ordinary person would buy a new stand, but my wife does not like me making big purchases if I can help it. Especially when it comes to bikes.”

Curt laughed. “I know what you mean. My wife hates when I shell out thousands of dollars for some rare bike part or new bike. She thinks it is a big waste.”

“I think our wives should get together”, I said with a shake of my head. “Or better yet, they should never meet each other, or we might never be able to make a bike-related purchase ever again in our lives.”

I sat on my shop chair and checked out the front wheel, rotating it a few times. “Ah yes, I can see what you’re saying. The rim is definitely rubbing.”

“So, can you fix it?” he said, sitting down on the other chair I had in the shop.

I did a few more spins of the tire, peering intently at the rim and brake while listening to the sounds it made. I did not want to make a snap decision and do this wrong, not when it was my first day of business. Fortunately, I had seen this situation many times in my past.

“Absolutely,” I said. “The brakes are a bit out of alignment and the rim appears to be a bit skewed. It shouldn’t take me any longer than 15 minutes to get this done.”

“Perfect,” he said. “Do you mind if I sit here and watch while you fix it?”

This gave me a bit of a cold sweat, but I knew that this was possible and so I was prepared for his question. “Absolutely. Do you need any water or something before I get started?”

“That’s very nice of you, but I am good.”

I nodded and after checking with my maintenance book, reminding myself which direction I turn the spoke nipples to tighten and loosen them, I proceeded to true the rim while the wheel was still on the bike. It was surprisingly easy to bring it back into true, which was an auspicious sign and gave me some additional confidence as I then tackled the brake alignment.

All the while, Curt talked with me about cycling. We shared some of our favourite riding stories, along with some of our most serious crashes. And all the while, I could not help but smile, because this was exactly how I had imagined my business would go. I had taken a big risk to convert my garage into a bike shop and it looked like it was paying dividends already. I just wanted to soak in this wonderful feeling, hoping it would last forever.

“All done,” I said when Curt finished a wonderful story about a trip he made to Italy. I demonstrated by spinning the front tire and showing that it no longer rubbed the brake. In fact, it had no wobble whatsoever. I felt very proud.

“Well done,” he said with another big smile. “It looks like I came to the right place.”

“I am so glad it worked out, Curt.”

After paying me for the job, he was soon out the door and I was waving him away, glowing with his praise and with his last-minute promise to tell his friends about the good service he received.

I was whistling as I walked back to my shop desk, and right when I was about to turn the light off and go back inside the house, I noticed a small card placed in the far right corner.

Curious, I picked it up and when I read the two words on the front of it, my heart stopped and my eyes were as wide as saucers. The two words were Curt Harnett. None other than one of the greatest Canadian cyclists of all time!

My hands trembling, I turned the card over and notice that there was more writing on it. It read,

Dear Phil. Congratulations on your new venture. I have made it something of a tradition to come and visit new bike shops on their first day. You did great work today, and I wish you the greatest of success in the future. Curt.

I couldn’t help but laugh after reading the card. Curt could have easily fixed his bike and in a far better way than I ever could. He did not need my services at all. In fact, he probably sabotaged his own bike, to make the front tire have a wobble, just to test me and see if I could actually do this job.

I knew that this would make an awesome story and I would tell it again and again in my new shop for many years to come. I silently thanked Curt for giving me this gift. If this is what happened on my first day, then I could not wait to see what would happen in the future.