Such Sweet Suffering...

"It is always by way of pain one arrives at pleasure."
—Marquis de Sade

"Perhaps all pleasure is only relief."
—William S. Burroughs

"The demon that you can swallow gives you its power, and the greater life’s pain, the greater life’s reply."
—Joseph Campbell

POW!

The sound is loud and crisp, like a rifle’s report, and wholly at odds with the low bass rumble of tires on gravel my ears have grown used to in the morning hours. Instantly, instinctively, I resist the high-rep spin of the cranks and feather the front brake ever so gently. The handlebar shimmies violently in my hands. The front tire expands, swells like a glutted snake, and flaps wildly as it pulls away from the rim on one side. The wheel begins to slow as the rim clangs through the gutted tire against the hard surface beneath, unprotected by its shredded tube. In a few dozen feet, I come to a stop, as do the other riders.

I've just become victim number six of the Flat Phantom, a karmic spectre that has stalked this group of riders all day long, hellbent on extracting vengeance for some slight—real or imagined—for which it has found us guilty in absentia. Alas, the Phantom is not finished with us yet.

I pull the wheel, strip out the tube, and pass it off for inspection while I throw in a new one. Jay lends me his pump, the community pump, as it's become on this ride, and I get the job done. There is a small break in the tire bead. The old tube sports a jagged, six-inch gash, but there is no corresponding damage on the tire sidewall. It is a mystery flat, and the Outlaw speculates that it may have been heat from braking that caused the rupture. It was a long, fast downhill, true, but I stayed off the brake for the most part. Odd, indeed.

Some 37 miles ago, when we began this 1903 Adventure Ride, we were 11 riders strong. Six of us rode fixed gear bikes. Of those six, five were still riding at this point. The one gearie still with us, Jeff, was riding a vintage, multi-colored GT mountain bike with large knobbies. The five absent riders had left in two exoduses, three at mile 20, and two sometime before that. Family obligations.

During that 37 miles, as I said, we'd already managed to rack up 5 flats, the first (Jon's) not more than a mile and a half from the cars. That flat ate two tubes and one pump; Fate was knocking on our door and nobody was getting up to open it.

Still, we've had no other mechanicals; just flats. It isn't helping that many of us are on skinny tires—28s, 32s—and that the Outlaw has deliberately sought out the roughest, steepest, most pothole-laden gravel roads Frederick has to offer. And if that last bit isn't the purest of truths, it sure as hell feels like it. And now this string of flats has already pushed the ride deep into the day, guaranteeing a late finish time. It's not a concern for me, I'm a free man for the day.

Up to this point, the ride has lived up to its billing. It's been a perfect mix of gravel and asphalt, of rough and smooth, up and down, pain and bliss. And there is no sign as I flip my bike over that things will change in any direction.

Back on the bikes again, we make our way to our one formal stop. It's a little quickie mart about a mile away with the unlikely name of Gateway Market, Candyland, and Liquor. We stock up on fuel and sit outside with our bikes, each of us smiling at the good fortune we've had in the form of unexpectedly mild weather. The sky is clear. Sunlight beams down on us, its warmth a whispered promise that summer is coming. Joe picks up a six of Stoudts American Pale Ale, somehow missing the Troeg's Nugget Nectar and Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA lurking somewhere in the aging stand-up cooler...and wholly overlooking an incredible array of "exotic" offerings (how does Trappiste Rochefort 10 sound?...yeah, no shit!) occupying a nondescript wall near the back. No matter. Six beers, six riders. Perfect math. The ale tastes good; it's long overdue. Never mind the fact that some of us had shown the presence of mind to pack along a few cans of Dale's Pale Ale—those were already gone.

I'm beat. This ride has hit me hard, and I've struggled to stay with the front runners every mile of the way. Lack of sleep, a late night drunk-on, bad diet, a steep gear, a botched oblation, you name it, I'll claim it, it's mine, baby. Whatever, I feel weak. There are about 10 miles left in the ride, bumping us up close to the 50 mile mark when it's all said and done, and the Outlaw lets on with a wry smile that the last 10 are all uphill. Oh, and with a "wall" near the end.

The wall comes all right, but only after several taxing climbs—short steeps on loose-surfaced back roads and long, slow, gradual ascents alongside motorists as indifferent to our presence as to the swath of asphalt on which we ride—have wrested every last gram of glycogen from my liver stores and leg muscles. I step off, and up ahead of me, 25 feet from the peak, Dave B. sees me and abruptly follows suit in a purely sympathetic gesture. We take maybe 10 steps, then we're back on again. I thank Dave for his willful sacrifice, and he laughs it off, as if he'd needed the break. He hadn't.

At some point, we enter a Frederick neighborhood where Joe suffers the seventh and final flat of the day. He's quick with the fix, finishing up as a carload of young girls flies by, honking the horn as they pass. It is a silly moment that, for me, adds some much appreciated levity to the circumstances.

We roll off again to tackle the remaining few miles. I drop back into the fifth slot and just concentrate on turning over the cranks. I occupy a middle spot between the four riders ahead of me and the one behind, neither gaining nor losing ground as I move. Traffic passes by closely. I let my mind wander back to the last 1903 Adventure Ride, when I felt stronger and performed much better. What has changed? Just several more months of a daily commute to work by bike, 20+ miles a day, 5 days a week, with the occasional dirt ride thrown in on weekends for good measure. That, and a ton of beer down the gullet. Hell, that winning combination should mean I'm stronger now! Alas, such ironclad logic doesn't seem to figure into it. So much for hard science and the empire of the rational. I fight the cranks, and the miles limp by.

I arrive at the base of the last climb, a gravelly one that is only moderately steep. Up ahead at an intersection, Dave B. spins in a lazy circle until he's sure I see him, then heads right at the fork toward the cars. I'm motivated now, because I realize the end is near. I double my efforts and reach the fork quickly, where I repeat Dave's gesture, waiting for Jeff to appear. A turn left would mean an additional climb back up to make the correction, something I'm sure neither of us would appreciate.

Then Jeff appears, and I waste no time lingering. There is beer waiting at the cars, and my pace quickens at the mere thought of an ice-flecked bottle or can of hoppy goodness. It's all about motivation.

After we regroup, some of us head over to Brewer's Alley to celebrate this blissful bit of torture.

(Big thanks go out to Joe for brainstorming yet another brutal masterpiece! Props are due Jay, Jon, and Dave B. for hanging so tight with the Outlaw that at times they appeared to be riding a quad.)

Ride data can be found here, courtesy of Dave B., who rocked the hardest gearing with a monstrous 50:18.

Tour de Frederick par un Grand Groupe de Enfants Terribles and a Little TM...

So much for my French.

Busy weekend coming up, and it's about time I partook.

Saturday, the quiet town and surrounding areas of Frederick, MD, will witness the fourth 1903 Adventure Ride. Designed for fixed-gear fiends and puerile posers par excellance, it's the Outlaw's homegrown tribute to the original TdF(rance)¹, in which men of steel pedaled bikes of steel over cobblestone surfaces under grueling conditions, where the only antidotes to the misery and pain were alcohol², nicotine, and an appropriately steely will. With temps in the 50s and a morning deluge expected, plus a route that favors the paths most gravelled, this one is sure to bring out the epic. It all ends in beers³.

On Sunday, it's time to whip out your pick, show your ax, and get you some dirty love. I'm talking a little TM, as in "trail maintenance." If you ride in the 'shed⁴, here's your opportunity to give a little something back to Lady Nature and do yourself a favor at the same time. Gloves, H₂O, and a little muscle are all you need bring. Meet at 9 ayem at the Hamburg Road parking lot. Dig it.

Photo credits: B. Ramsey.

1. Here's a brief retrospective look at the dark and humorous sides of Le Tour.

2. Some things never change.

3. With apologies to J.J. Connolly.

4. Slothful term of affection for the Frederick Watershed.

Agony and Bliss...

The Outlaw's 1903 Agony...er...Adventure Ride II went down yesterday, and I have to say it was probably the toughest single-day fixed-gear ride I've done to date. No surprise there, really. Sixty-six plus miles in the end, up and down what I have to believe are some of the toughest hills Frederick has to offer, paved or gravel-coated. Hope to have a write-up with pix soon. Okay, that's the agony half.

The bliss half is, well, the Bliss. The Bootlegger's Bliss is happening Satyrday, November 3rd, and promises to be the greatest mountain biking, homebrew-tasting event on that day in the mid-Atlantic region within one hour of DC, bar none. Come out and enjoy up to 20 miles of tight, fast, and fun singletrack, followed by a sampling of some of the area's best homebrew.

If you're interested in attending, please:

1. Send an email now to BBpotlatch@gmail.com expressing your interest. You'll receive an email reply within a day or two with more information.
   
2. Read this post for an explanation of the event and some details.

If you plan to brew and bottle, get it done today—you're pretty much at the deadline now if you want carbonated beer.

If you plan to keg, as I do, you still have some time to procrastinate, but not much.

Hope to see you there.



Credit for the above pix goes to one B. Ramsey, who risked life, limb, camera, and lens to record Sunday's sufferfest.

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!