Last week, I
challenged my aging body and my aging Schwinn to two trips. The body held up better than the bike.
My ride on the
606 was going great. I was making good
time, felt pretty decent and had just finished thirty miles when my seat broke;
two metal support bars cracked clean through and left me with a very
uncomfortable ride back to the car. The
good thing was that I was able to drive to my bike shop and pick up a
replacement seat.
Trip #2 was a
little more eventful, and irritating.
The city of Chicago has decided to turn the lakefront trail into another
Burma Road, and nobody thought to tell me.
Technically, the city is finishing its separation project, with
dedicated cyclist-only and pedestrian-only lanes. Unfortunately, at least for me, nobody
bothered with detours around the work areas.
Long story short, riding on gravel for long stretches is not always a
good thing for bike tires. Eventually,
you get a flat. I did, and it was on the
wrong, rear, tire.
Front tire, no
problem. You take the wheel off; swap
out the punctured tube for a good one, work tube and tire back onto the rim,
pump air into the tire; put tire back in place; and off you go. The back tire, with that derailleur (French
for “Give up all hope”), is another story entirely. I simply can’t get the tire back in place in
under a half hour.
Last Thursday,
somebody saw me struggling and offered to help.
After about twenty minutes, we were able to work the tire back in place. I thanked this Good Samaritan and got back on
the trail, my hands covered in bicycle-chain grease. It was only another seven miles to the car
and then an hour drive back home in rush-hour traffic. A towel got some of the grease off, and so
did the steering wheel.
Maybe Dylan Thomas
was wrong about not going gentle into the good night. Or maybe he meant “greasy.”
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