More Bars In More Places...

Okay, managed to plant my ass in Boulder Cee-Oh for a little more than four days over this past weekend. Wow!

[Let me just get this out of the way: didn't take a bike; the trip was just too compressed and last minute and, with SSWC07 about to get underway in Scotland for me and a few other lucky individuals, I just didn't feel like dealing with the complications of packing, shipping, and reassembling my Inbred. Yeah, I know, silly me, but there will be a return trip. From what I saw of the trails and terrain, and knowing that there wasn't much time for acclimatization, it would have been a strange mixture of pleasure and pain anyway.]

First, no newsflash here, but Boulder is a beautiful town. Nestled up against the Flat Irons to the west, it's awash in brewpubs and adrift in bike culture. Seriously, there are almost as many bike parking racks in this town as there are car parking meters, or "organic" and "fair trade" and "free range" and "eco-cycle" stickers plastered on the windows and doors of all the great eateries. And bike shops abound, sprouting from the concrete at intersections, rubbing shoulders with the aforementioned brewpubs and the occasional coffee shop. Yeah, it's a biking town, one that puts DC and its suburbs to the level of shame normally reserved for unrepentent pederasts. And bar rides? Yep, Boulder's got 'em. Thursday evening, ran smack dab into a group of about 25 or so cyclists dressed in freaky attire and riding freakier bikes—choppers, trikes, fixies, full-sussies, tall boys, singles speeds, you name it—sounding bike horns and bells and cheering madly at onlookers and motorists alike, as dusk settled in around their pulsing bike lights with all the certainty of a post-binge hangover. Beautiful sight, these kindred spirits claiming a little pavement for the evening on a two-wheeled dérive of sorts.

On the topic of beer, offerings from Left Hand were as ubiquitous there as Budweiser and Miller Lite are in the District, and no self-respecting drinking establishment was without a Fat Tire tap handle and neon cruiser logo prominently displayed. The first place I hit was Mountain Sun, a quaint, informal, psychedelic den of iniquity favored by bleary-eyed college students and stubble-jawed drifters alike, and whose owners have an overbearing penchant for Greatful Dead memorabilia, which clung to the walls like lichen in a cave. Good food and a great array of beers, including their own tasty and creative renditions and others from Stone, Left Hand, Breckenridge, and New Belgium, to name a few. I went with their Illusion Dweller IPA...very good, though with a surprisingly (given the closeness of the West Coast) dry finish.

Now a thing or two about thin, dry air and elevation and acclimatization and flatlanders from the east: hop off the plane in Denver, make your way to Boulder, drink two beers, and half an hour later your organs feel like they've turned to sand. I'm talking serious dehydration and thirst, the kind that has you upending a gallon of spring water before you've even paid the cashier for it. Okay, until acclimatization takes place, dessication is a real concern for freshly-expatriated beer drinkers. Next up: three beers in CO equals five beers in DC. Seems that thin, dry air makes "getting there" a little easier, since you're already a bit lightheaded. In no time flat and with your wallet still fat, you find yourself unexpectedly and prematurely "pissed," as the English say. Nice, sure, but I suggest drinking the water along with the beer as a sort of pre-emptive strike. Your liver and kidneys will thank you for it.

Okay, so what fun thing did I do? Well, for kicks of a slightly more sober nature, I ended up summitting two peaks, a 13er (South Arapahoe) and a 14er (Quandary). I had been warned several times about the importance of acclimatization and the perils of altitude sickness. The rule for acclimatization, as I understand it, is one day for every one thousand feet of elevation you plan to tackle. Because I was in CO for only four days, lying idle while my lungs adapted to the thin air wasn't an option if I wanted to partake of the grandeur bursting through the horizon all around me and do something I hadn't done before.

So I went hiking, and was rewarded with some of the most beatiful views my eyes have ever had the pleasure of drinking in. And though I saw one lady sitting uncomfortably just off the crumbled rock trail above the treeline on Quandary, wracked with altitude sickness*, her face knotted in anguish "like a devil's, sick of sin" (as Wilfred Owen so eloquently framed it**), I suffered little more than an occasional shortness of breath, despite a rather strong and fast pace up and down both mountains. That, and raw blisters on the achilles area of both ankles—my own stupidity and poor planning led me to break in a new pair of boots on South Arapahoe. Unfortunately, they tried to do the same to my feet. But the damage was minimal and all but forgotten in the post-summit euphoria I felt on a balcony overlooking the ski resort in Breckenridge at its namesake brewery, a cold 471 Small Batch IPA in my hand and the ghost-prints of fantastic panoramas floating around in my head. Next time I'll experience the beauty (and, no doubt, pain) from the vantage point of a bike saddle.


















*Information on altitude sickness can be found here.

**See Dulce et Decorum Est, Wilfred Owen, 1917, first published in 1920.

La Mort d'Ennui...

...vient bientôt.

New (better) venue. New (better) logo in the works. New (better) pint glasses (well, maybe). Same old philosophy.

November. Get brewing...

Liberty for All...

...all who got the invite, that is. The annual Liberty Jamboree (a fully unsanctioned, grossly unethical, singularly stultifying, government-certified, carbon-neutral WUSS® event) is on for this weekend. Looks like the SSOFTies are going head-to-head with the Pedalshop crew for the honor of donning the coveted RYJ (rotten yellow jersey) when next year's event rolls around. Should be the usual blast.

Hopefully, this year we'll have a little better supervision around the kegs Old Dominion has graciously provided for post-ride quaffing.


Oh well, it's still better than parking 'em in front of the teevee.

Me, I plan to show up to this thing with some French-Canadian twins (guess which one's evil), just in case the kids kick the keg early again...

Splined Faith...

[Warning! What follows is long-winded, largely imageless, and stippled with indecorous references to certain body parts, scatological products, intimate acts of a venereal—if metaphorical—nature, ribald euphemisms, and mechanics-of-solids principles.]

“Hold up, man, I think my cleat has come loose...”

Twenty-two miles into the Outlaw’s 1903 Adventure Ride, I gently resist the persistent push-pull of the cranks and slowly steer my fixie to the side of Crow Rock Road. I've got a problem. There's a strange wobbling sensation coming from beneath my right foot. With about 30 miles left on the ride, it doesn’t bode well. Butch slows to a stop. No cars pass us on this lonely swath of pavement in rural Frederick County, Maryland, as I begin to investigate Fate's dubious gift.

We've just finished a short, fast descent after suffering a steep climb up Moutaindale Road, an interminable stretch of gravel-laced hardpack that never pauses to let a breath float unforced into the lungs. It's arguably the most hateful segment of this timely tribute to the early Tour de France days, when pre-EPO-era cyclists pedaled pre-carbon-fiber fixed-gear frames to victory or defeat over teeth-chattering cobblestones, with the humble lure of a fine bottle of Bordeaux and a smoldering Gauloises Blonde looming just beyond the finish line. Armed with an elaborate cue sheet, Butch and I are going it alone because we showed up more than an hour after the scheduled start time. Donna has joined a ladies ride at the 'shed. The others on this ride, the group proper, are somewhere up ahead of us. Once again, we've become the SSOFT Leftovers.

(Grab a coffee...or a beer...it's a long, rambling story that, if you can imagine, ends in a brewpub. Of all places.)

Flashback several hours to early Saturday morning. I show up at Butch's place with a chainless bike (I'll explain later). I'm late already, Donna is late in joining us, and Butch has been waiting. I quickly try to throw on a new KMC Kool chain while Butch stows his gear. It's a heavy-metal mutha, this silver and black coil of fat links, an industrial asp that screams ponderous and unbreakable in the same breath. The Surly 1x1 of the chain world. What the eco-wretched Hummer can only dream of being when it forgets for a minute in mid-doze that it's merely a glorified Suburban. Get the picture? Problem is, the quick-link is knackered (manufacturer's defect?) and I can't couple it. After rummaging around in my toolbox, I locate a new SRAM PC-1 chain, measure it out, break it in the right spot (along with the chain tool itself—thanks, Park Tools!), and throw it on using the quick-link.

Now, the PC-1 chain is cheap for a reason best summed up in terms unanimously approved by the much-vaunted American Society of Mechanical Engineers (ASME): it's a veritable "piece of shit." Butch warns me it's a veritable piece of shit. I know it's a veritable piece of shit. But, I reason, mind thinking in italics, even a veritable piece of shit has gotta be good for one ride, right? I mean, c'mon, right? Mistake 3 (nomenclature dictated by the chronology of events) rears its monstrous head unnoticed in some dark corner just off stage.

On to the present saga. All morning long, every mile of the way, Butch has thrown it down like a blood-dope-fiend, handing me my ass in a candy box nicely wrapped in a pink-pansy motif. I can't help but think he's amped up by the opportunity for payback over last year's Dirt Track Date ride. The hill we've just finished is the same hill we battled for then, when I topped out in the lead. The evidence of a tacit vendetta is compelling, even in the post-climb stupor that settles in on me now. Butch is a competitive guy (something about overcompensation and all that, ha). Still, I convince myself that lack of sleep and a foolishly-steep gear are the real culprits. But the melancholy truth* is that Butch is clearly stronger than me today. Period. It's not supernatural.

With a slow, delicate twist, I coax my foot out of the jaws of the clipless pedal and I’m greeted immediately by the root of the problem: in place of the normal 90-degree bend at the junction of crank arm and pedal spindle is a new angle: let's go for a visual here and call it "post-coital" (a particularly apt term, since it's clear to me now that I'm, well, to be indelicate, pretty fucked). I extend the metaphor by uttering a popular, though nonetheless satisfying, expletive.

"How bad is it?" Butch asks.

"Pretty fucking bad." (The metaphor grows, distends, blossoms.)

We stare at the senseless carnage. The pedal dangles from the end of the crank in a posture of effete surrender. In seconds, 1900s Tour de France lite becomes Tour de Farce. Heavy.

Flashback to the previous evening, Friday. The Cross-check hangs motionless on the bike stand as if impaled. Beneath it on the tiled floor, like a tasty oblation, a half-full beer bottle stands in a thin pool of condensation, as if it's pissed itself. I'm installing a new pair of Deore cranks in place of a not-so-old LX pair. The original non-drive crank has developed play in it, an inevitability first predicted by Jobst Brandt, who surmised a priori that Shimano's splined Octalink system (a solution to a problem no one had), lacking a taper shape and thus precluding a traditional press-fit, would spell trouble for fixed-gear use.** With only the bolt to hold the crank in place, Brandt posited, the pressure from backpedaling (or, for gearies, from coasting repeatedly with leveled cranks over rough terrain) would create a fretting motion at the crank-spindle interface. Because the steel of the spindle is the more durable of the two materials, the fretting would gradually wear away the splines on the crank arm. Soon, a brief but nonetheless annoying pause or dead spot in the pedal stroke would introduce play, and things would get worse from there. With the slight "backlash" movement of the cranks would eventually come the loosening of the crank bolt. And increased fretting. But no amount of torque on the bolt can reverse or prevent the ongoing slop, since unlike with square taper BBs, the bolt doesn't force the crank onto the spindle via a press-fit. Yep. Seems to match my experience. Of course, I don't read about this until later. So I replace a splined Shimano crankset with a splined Shimano crankset. At the same time, I replace the bottom bracket; with about 14,000 miles on it, it's probably a good idea. I think I've got the spindle length correct, but my chainline seems a bit off. Which brings us to Mistake 1. After fighting to remove the old pedals, I transfer them to the new cranks, easing up on the torque a bit so they won't be too difficult to remove later. This cautionary—and hugely uncharacteristic—act introduces Mistake 2. I leave the installation of the new chain for the morning, figuring from past experience that it's a five-minute job at worst. My sleep is fitful and largely unrestorative.

Returning again to the present saga. Somewhere along the route this back-stabbing pedal backed itself out of the crank arm until only about a third of the spindle threads are engaged with their now-mutilated counterparts in the crank arm. Incongruously, the effects of Mistake 2 play out before that of Mistake 1 (mysterious Fate showing little reverence for a rational order of events), the details of which unfold shortly.

The next fifteen minutes are lost in a desperate and tedious attempt to re-insert the pedal spindle in the crank arm. At first I flounder at the task like a nervous sophomore on his first lucky date. The pedal begins to thread on properly, only to kick out to one side with the next twist. Again and again, the same crooked result. We don't talk about it, Butch and I. Each of us is well aware that a walk-out at this point isn't really an option. Meanwhile, we slip futher and further behind the vanguard, who are likely enjoying a cold one in some tavern along the route just about now.

Finally, with a little otherworldy patience, I get the spindle to take. I tighten it gently, carefully, mindful of the fact that at best one-third of the threads are biting one another, and at the same time knowing that a too-loose attachment risks completely wallowing out the pedal eye some time later during the ride.

And then we're spinning again, rolling through a slight downhill with me in the lead. As I bitch aloud about the new crank and its now compromised and untrustworthy condition, Butch plays the optimist, "At least that piece of shit chain is still holding together." With this simple statement, he unwittingly ushers in the evil of Mistake 3. Fifteen seconds later, the piece of shit chain splits cleanly at the quick-link, uncoupling near the chainring like a cheap necklace and flying back to drag between cog and hub flange. I come to a gradual stop with the help of the front brake. I curse as I try to recouple the chain using a segment I had the good judgment to pack with me. I get it on and, with the hub axle all the way at the back of the dropouts, it's a bit slack. Still, better to have more chain than less, in case I meet with another break. I jokingly shout skyward, "Is this the best you've got! What else, what's left? How about a lightning bolt? Where the hell is that?" Alas, no electrical discharge rockets from the heavens. Butch shakes his head, and begins lecturing me about chainline, telling me how bad mine is right now.

Five minutes later, we're on the road again, pedaling along a flat section for a short while. Then it's another downhill. With the weight of my feet on the pedals, the misaligned chain wants to leap off the ring, and leap it does, landing up front on the pedal between my foot and the crank arm and in the rear on the hub axle. I coast to a stop with the untethered cranks leveled at 3:00 and 9:00. Butch continues on a bit, at first unaware of the new development, the fruit of Mistake 2. He circles back and, as I put the chain on again, tells me how bad my chainline is. I mount up and we roll on.

It isn't long before the chain skips again. Butch holds up for me, commenting on how bad my chainline is. I decide that the idea of wrecking at 30 mph and ending up chaff under the tires of a some nondescript pick-up truck when the chain finally decides to jam in the cog isn't at all appealing. I shorten the chain, taking it down a precious link in hopes of getting it taut enough in the dropouts to keep it securely circling ring and cog for the rest of the ride.

On the very next downhill, the chain pops off again. Butch takes a minute to tell me how bad my chainline is. We quickly come to an agreement that there's really not much I can do at this point about the goddamn chainline. I decide henceforth to let my feet dangle on all the downhills so that the cranks can spin unopposed by any counterforces. It's a successful—if unnerving—strategy. With only a front brake now available, the situation is a bit sketchy on several long, narrow downhills, where I occasionally pass Butch as he resists the spin of the cranks for control. We continue on like this for another 25 miles, Butch in the lead, me trailing behind, alternately pedaling on the flats and climbs and "coasting" on the downhills.

Eventually and without further incident, we make it to the shop (the point of origin), load up the bikes on Moby Dick, and head over to join the others at Brewer's Alley. I make it a point to water down the day's disturbances with my share of Resinators, the oh-so-hoppy double IPA that BA has on tap. Soon, amid good conversation and a flurry of rounds, the agony of fifty-four mechanical-ridden miles dissipates like the head on a fresh pour. I feel all right. Amid the conversation, Butch takes a drunken moment to point out how bad my chainline is.

[Epilogue: I've since realized the many errors of my few ways and picked up a nice set of Sugino XD500 cranks in a no-pedalstrike 170 mm length and with a monster 50T chainring. Oh, and they're square taper. Butch, you'll be happy to know that my chainline is spot-on. Nice ridin' with you. And thanks for your patience.]

*With apologies to Clare Quilty...the character, not the eponymous band. Lo and behold, a literary reference!

**For more information on crank-spindle fretting, see this informative Wikipedia article on precession. This Web page may also be of interest.

Oh, and tip back a pint in honor of Pierre Bourdieu, who, in a truly just world, would have turned seventy-seven today.

Belated props go out to Joe for creative route-plotting and flawless cue-sheet design. Nice work!