Aluminum Triangles, Part 2

     I can't really remember exactly when I decided to turn my Cannondale back into a true road bike.  I had been working at the bike shop for several months, I know that much, and I can only imagine I eventually felt the need to do the bike justice and return its drop bars.  Over the following several months I made small modifications to the bike, experimenting with my craft on my own vehicle instead of those owned by others.  New parts, old parts, different parts, all came and went on the frame as I played.  I will just explain what I did to bring the bike to its final form while still in Indiana, before we moved to Arizona.

The bike in its final form while still in Indiana.  Truthfully, it has been a solid bike no matter what I put on it.
Taken on May 4, 2011

     I returned the drop bars and stem that came with the bike.  The handlebars are bare of any markings, except for those from use and abuse.  They are quite narrow, even for their age.  The stem is a Nitto Technomic, still highly polished.  For a while I used the brake levers that came on the bike, Dia-Compe AG-C250 drop levers.  They are spring tensioned, a feature originally pioneered by Dia-Compe.  Eventually, I got my hands on an old bike equipped with some Shimano Dura-Ace components from the early eighties.  I decided to swap some of those parts over to my Cannondale, the first being the Dura-Ace brake levers.  Those levers stayed on my Cannondale until very recently.

Front of the bike.  Note the Dura Ace levers.
Taken on May 4, 2011

     The brakes that came on the bike are Suntour Cyclone side-pull single-pivot calipers--the norm for their day.  Sadly, this design does not have as much of a mechanical advantage as the dual-pivot calipers that are found on most road bikes today.  What's more, they are a little different to adjust, and I will admit that I was not quite sure how to deal with them at the time.  So, I swapped them out with a pair of brand new Origin-8 Pro Pulsion Comp calipers.  Truthfully, I can say I was always very happy with the new calipers.  They looked sharp and performed well.

Origin-8 Pro Pulsion Comp dual pivot road calipers.  Grey.  They have served me well.
Taken on May 4, 2011

     I wanted a road bike crank but my dad's immediate disapproval of the Shimano Biopace crank that came on the bike drove an unfounded bias into my mind, so I sought a new crank.  I settled on the Shimano FC-2300 crank.  The 2300 series was Shimano's absolute lowest end starting point for road bike specific components.  That being said, the parts still came at a decent price and quality level--Shimano's road componentry starts at a much, much higher level than its mountain componentry.  2300 has recently been renamed "Claris", although the price point and quality level remain similar.

Shimano FC-2300 crank.  Probably the best choice--at least economically--that I could have made for a new crank.
Taken on May 4, 2011

     As I stared at the bike in my new repair stand at home, I wondered why we had changed the rear derailleur.  The one that had come on the bike--a Suntour Cyclone 6000--was still in great shape, from what I could tell.  The Shimano Tourney derailleur that had hung on my bike ever since I started riding it looked cheap and crude next to the smooth polished aluminum of the twenty-six year old Cyclone.  I remember after work one day I asked my boss what was different between the two derailleurs.  He looked at each one, and explained "capacity" to me, and told me with a smile that I should probably use the Cyclone.

Suntour Cyclone 6000 rear derailleur.  Sadly, the markings had always been illegible.  They are completely gone now.
Taken on May 4, 2011

     Capacity, when talking about derailleurs, basically talks about the ability to handle the difference in the size between the smallest and largest gear.  It applies to both front and rear derailleurs, and for both types it is measured using the size of the cage.  On a rear derailleur, the cage is the lower pivoting assembly which houses the two pulleys.

     A short cage means that the derailleur will only work with a gear cluster that does not have a large range of gears.  This is typically found on road bikes, and tends to be a little more common on the more serious and performance-oriented road bikes.  A great example would be a 12 tooth to 25 tooth freewheel or cassette.  The "low" gear is only 13 teeth larger than the "high" gear.

Example of a short cage.  Note the relatively short distance between the two black pulleys.
A Falcon rear derailleur, year unknown.
Taken on August 20, 2014

     A long cage means the derailleur will work with a cluster of gears that has a much larger difference.  Usually that means something like a 12 tooth to 32 tooth freewheel or cassette.  There are 20 teeth inbetween those sizes.  Those sizes are typically found on, well, every other kind of geared bicycle:  mountain bikes, hybrids, touring bikes, and the like.

Example of a long cage.  Note the distance between the two black pulleys and how much greater
it is than the picture above.
A Suntour GT "Raleigh" rear derailleur, 1980
Taken on August 20, 2014

     Mechanically, what the size of the cage translates into is how much slack in the chain is displaced when in any given gear configuration.  When the cage is long, it can displace more slack in the chain, which means the chain can be longer, which means it can work with a larger range in gears.  Note that capacity does not talk about the number of gears.  That is rarely an issue, despite what the companies try to convey to us through labeling derailleurs as 6, 7, 8, 9 and 10 speed.  It tends to only be relevant with the highest end componentry, which is made a little differently than the rest of the "crap" we plebeians get to use.

     So, I mounted the Suntour Cyclone 6000 rear derailleur and have had almost no issues since.  I also remounted the Suntour Cyclone down tube friction shifters.  This marked the first time a bike of mine used either downtube or friction shifters.  I would come to hold these types of shifters dear.

     Finally, I bought new wheels for the bike.  The wheels that came on the bike were a solid build--Shimano 105 hubs and some variety of Mavic rims.  However, they had been damaged at some point and I was constantly battling the spokes.  There was always a wobble in the rim, and it got worse the more I rode them.  The spokes that broke and earned me my job and career were no doubt an early indication of this.  So eventually I dumped a mound of cash and ordered some prebuilt wheels.  I know, I know.  But I was still a bit of a baby at this time.  Ha ha.

     The wheels I bought are defined by their SunRingle M13II rims.  Anyone who has actually been reading this blog knows I have an affinity for SunRingle rims, and this is where it started.  The rims had something of a vintage look to them, between their boxy profile and highly polished surfaces.  However, they also had machined sidewalls, which allows for greater braking power.  The hubs for these wheels are unremarkable, branded Quanta.  Despite that, the rear hub does have sealed bearings, which is nice.

Nothing terribly remarkable, other than the sealed bearing that is visible.
Taken on May 4, 2011

     I road the bike like this for seemingly at least four months--effectively the summer of 2011.  I had a lot of fun on the bike, venturing farther and farther on the Cardinal Greenway of Wayne County, Indiana.  I recall one afternoon specifically, when I ventured north on the bike path by myself.  I went the farthest I had ever gone that night, rolling around 27 miles total on silent pavement.  I also took the bike to Philadelphia for the Fourth of July, and got to ride a little over there.

     Just before we moved to Arizona, I got my hands on my Fuji.  After arriving in dreadful Bullhead City, I didn't really ride my bikes very much at all.  None of them left the porch.  They got covered in dirt and dust, blowed in by the gailing winds trailing south out of the Grand Canyon and over Hoover Dam.  I did take one--just one--pleasure ride in Bullhead City.  Several months in, I had enough and ventured out onto the shoulderless pavement of that barren town for a quick ride--on my Cannondale.  When we finally moved to Tucson, I took to riding my Cannondale to work for a few weeks or maybe a month.  Eventually I got on my Fuji, which I had barely ridden at all, and took to loving it.

     The Cannondale then sat unused for months and months and months.  The wheels I had bought were being used on my Fuji, and the Cannondale hid leaning against the wall neglected.  Finally, I decided to start cleaning it up.  Several months after starting that, I finally got to a position where I could finish it, and now its back.

     And I still like riding it.

Aluminum Triangles, Part 1

     Of all the bikes in my current stable, I have had my 1985 Cannondale SR500 the longest.  I got the bike in the summer of 2009 after telling my dad that I wanted a road bike.  He actually had a lead onto one, and reclaimed this bike from my uncle.  My dad had received the bike as payment for some machining work he'd done, but having no use for the bike, and it being too small for his 6'5" frame, he gave it to his oldest brother.  Luckily for me, my uncle hardly rode it and didn't seem to put up a fight when my dad took it back.  Lo and behold, I got my hands on it and looking back I consider myself extremely lucky for that.

     It is a 58cm frame, which is the "perfect" frame size for me according to a bicycle fit kit that I used to measure myself.  Personally I have my doubts, but maybe that comes from riding my monstrous and certainly too-large-for-me 62cm Fuji.  Aside from that, the bike has a very aggressive riding geometry.  This is most easily distinguished by the very small wheelbase.  The wheelbase of the bike is the measurement from axle to axle.  Although the frames differ quite a bit proportionally, as a comparison the Cannondale's wheelbase is roughly 99cm.  My Fuji is about 106.6cm.  7cm may not seem like a lot but if you consider the "size" of the frames are only 4cm apart, that may help convey the difference.  Hopefully this photo below will help illustrate that.  Looking at the gap between the rear wheel and the seat tube is a quick and easy way to get an approximation of just how "aggressive and twitchy" or "long and stable" a frame is.

Left:  The Fuji.  Note the gap between the edge of the tire and the seat tube.
Right:  The Cannondale.  Wow that's tight isn't it?  Quite a difference.
Taken on August 16, 2014

     I don't normally speak too much about frame geometry because, well, I have a hard time detecting the differences between frames.  It probably comes from the fact that I am not much of a rider, but personally I'd like to think it comes from my "deal with it" attitude.  Frame geometry is definitely something some riders like to complain about when they think the machine is holding them back.

     But I mention it with the Cannondale because, well, I notice it.  This bike is very zippy and accelerates quickly.  This is a characteristic of the wheel being so far forward and under the saddle and rider, which is made visible by the very small gap between tire and seat tube.  I also mention it because it was something even my dad had noticed shortly after we started working on the bike, and it stuck in my head.  Maybe it was because I was intrigued by the notion that all bike frames aren't identical, or maybe it's because I was impressed that a man who hadn't worked on bikes professionally in nearly 15 years could recall something so seemingly abstract.  Just a fun little nugget of nostalgia.

     It's kind of funny because I can remember saying "I want a road bike, but I don't want road bike handlebars."  My dad probably wondered what I was thinking, but he agreed that "road bike handlebars" weren't for me so we set out to turn the bike into what he kept calling a "city bike."  First stop, Ike's Bikes, the local bike shop that would eventually hire me.  This first visit to the bike shop was undoubtedly my first stepping stone towards my current career.

     I remember standing there quietly as my dad spoke with the man who would eventually become my boss, asking what was available to order and what would work with the bike.  I was surprised that my dad was asking for help.  He knew vaguely what we needed, but he wasn't able to walk in and say "I need this exact part."  That was unexpected to me.  Afterall, my dad used to run a bike shop!  He used to work on bikes all the time!  How could he not know exactly what we needed?  Well, the fact is that he had been out of the industry for a long time.  He forgot things, and things changed.  After we got everything squared away, we got back in the car and I'll never forgetting my dad saying "I like the guy who runs that shop.  He really knows his stuff."  That recognition would probably go on to subconsciously serve me a year later when I was employed there.

The earliest photo I have of the bike in it's "Frankenstein" phase.  This was taken behind Ike's Bikes, on the first day I rode my bike into work.  I got there about 20 minutes early so I decided to take a picture of my mount.
Taken on May 8, 2010

     My dad decided a lot had to change on the bike for it to be the "city bike" I wanted.  We of course replaced the drop bars with flat bars, but we also replaced the downtube friction shifters with some low-end Shimano handlebar-mounted lever shifters.  We put some interesting mountain bike brake levers on the bike which had extensions for climbing bar-ends.  The crank was my introduction to Shimano's Biopace, which were non-circular, elliptical chainrings that Shimano produced for a number of years in the 80's and 90's.  My dad promptly had us remove it.  We replaced that crank with a much newer Shimano LX mountain bike crank that he had lying around.  We also replaced the Suntour Cyclone 6000 rear derailleur with a modern Shimano Tourney rear derailleur.  Although the Suntour Cyclone 6000 seems to have been reviled a bit back in the day, it is certainly nicer than the sheet metal and plastic Tourneys of today!  My only guess as to why we replaced it was to accommodate a larger freewheel, effectively creating a mountain bike drive train on my aggressive road racing Cannondale.  My dad's affinity for mountain bikes must have run deep.  We saved the wheels, thankfully, and mounted a pair of brand new Continental Ultra-Sports.  In the end, what I had was quite an ugly frankenstein bike, but it was my bike and I thought it was great.

The second earliest photo I have of the bike.
Taken on June 20, 2010

     I had the bike like this for quite a while.  It was a bit of a revelation for me, because I had never spent a lot of time on a real road bike before.  Most of my riding up to that point had been on knobby mountain bike tires, on both pavement and dirt, and I didn't really know anything different.  Having the ability to roll so smoothly, and on larger wheels, really helped me feel fast and nimble.  I rode it for the rest of the summer, but decided to leave it home during my great trip West that year.  I reasoned a mountain bike was truly all-terrain and may benefit me where a road bike would not.  I was right.

     After I came home and weathered a miserable, unemployed winter, I got back on the bike in the spring.  One day, while riding with friends on the local bike path, I heard an odd twanging sound.  Lo and behold, I had broken a spoke!  Looking back, this would be a precursor to the problems those wheels gave me until I chopped all of the spokes off and saved the hubs, but for the time being it had another purpose.  I went to my dad, who told me that we needed new spokes.  "Go down to Ike's and hand him your spokes.  He'll measure them and give you the right ones."

     Nervous and timid from a winter locked inside, I reluctantly drove down to the bike shop.  With spokes in hand, I opened the door and was met with a shout.  "That young man right there!  He is the one I need to hire!"  Confused and bewildered, I timidly walked up to the counter, behind the customer who was currently being helped.  I had applied to the bike shop in the fall, but hadn't heard from them.  No wonder, as a Midwestern winter is not the time to ride bikes for anyone but the most dedicated and crazed of people.  The man in front of me finished his business and left, and I stepped forward.

     "Um, I need some spokes," I said as I awkwardly thrust my hand out, handing the spokes over.  The expression on his face changed a little, and he takes them.  Walking into the back, he said,

     "So, would you like to have a job?"

"Bike Obituary" Revisited

     Below is a blog post I made on July 3, 2012 from my older, now abandoned blog "The Lonesome Organ Bandit."  Titled "Bike Obituary", it recounts memories I had while riding my long-stolen Cannondale mountain bike.  Instead of typing out a fresh post about that bike here, I just copied it over.  I have edited it some, as I tend to always want to do with older pieces of my writing.  Enjoy.

On June 26, 2012, one of my most valued possessions was taken from me, cut from its braided steel tether opposite my front door and hauled off into the night.  My beloved mountain bike was stolen.  It pains me deeply, because while I still own two other bicycles, both road bikes, my mountain bike was my first full-sized bicycle and my first as an "adult", even though I was a teenager when I recieved it.  It bears many memories, and has served me faithfully over the years.  It won't be forgotten.

My former mountain bike, picture taken in 2010

I got the bike for Christmas from my dad in 2002.  It was a Cannondale F500 mountain bike, essentially a lower-end middle-point in the mountain bike spectrum.  Equipped with all of the bells and whistles of a bike from its time--Cannondale's proprietary "Headshok", grip shifters, and large climbing bars--it was a good bike for me.  However, despite spending my earliest years in a bike shop, the truth is I had no real grasp of what was in the bicycle world outside of what I overheard from my parents, and one paradigm rang loud enough for me to internalize for years afterwards:  Cannondale was the best.

First picture of the bike, Christmas Day, 2002.  Ignoring my terrible haircut and
goofy clothes I had a pretty cool bike.
Taken on December 25, 2002

Thankfully I have since been able to develop a feel for how the bike industry works and advertises itself, and no longer feel this is true.  I've even grown a slight grudge against Cannondale for the fandom that has surrounded the company and their love to push the technological envelope, sometimes when and where it is not necessary.  But at the time I formed the idea in my head that my dad spent a few thousand bucks on this brand new Cannondale.  The truth is that it retailed for $600, a generous Christmas no doubt, but far less than the number I pulled seemingly from thin air.  I was very grateful and appreciated the gift and rode it a few times in the coming spring but the sad truth is that a mountain bike is just not a terribly useful thing to have in Richmond Indiana.  I always liked to say there are no mountains to mountain bike on.  Looking back now, I know that I had other things on my mind.  The desire to mountain bike was there but buried under miles and miles of the mental gunk that can accumulate in high school.  Peer pressure is funny how it can exist even when it is denied entirely.  So the bike sat under my dad's lean-to for a few years with very little use, save for the very, very occasional bike ride with friends.

A few brief anecdotes concerning my mountain bike from this time in my life revolve around women.  Being the lovesick and very confused adolescent that I was, I felt it was a good idea late one summer to ride my bike from my dad's house to the house of girl I was pining after.  The girl had no idea I was coming--in my mind, she would be outside tending to her horses and I would just so happen to be riding by--and she lived rather far away for someone whose rejected the very notion of exercise.  Google Earth now tells me my ride was five and a half miles one way.  It certainly was a long and painful ride on my bike, punctuated with a sore butt and stiff legs.  But I made the trip and discovered the girl was indeed not outside tending to her horses.  Not having the guts to knock on her door I turned around and pedaled home, defeated.  Luckily for me, the girl turned out to not be worthy of any further bike rides.

A few years later I found myself riding my bike to see another girl, this one much closer--she lived less than a mile from my dad.  Parking my bike next to her house, we commenced to talk the night away.  I had lied to my dad and told him I was at a friend's house who lived very close to where I was.  As the twilight faded to a deeper darkness, I grew afraid and called my friend's house.  When his mom answered the phone, I asked that if my dad called asking where I was, that she say I was playing video games and would be home shortly.  She reluctantly agreed, or at least pretended to agree, and I continued to pursue this fine young lady.  Finally, when it truly got too late for me to stick around, I fearfully rode home and completed the lie saying I was indeed playing video games.  Nearly five years later, that girl I visited would become my loving girlfriend and partner, and that first brave visit to her house was only possible because of my beloved bike.

Keri and I, on the night of my deceitful bike ride

For the most part, however, my mountain bike sat unused under my dad's shed until I graduated from high school and entered college.  Despite living about a mile away from Earlham College, the school I was to attend, I obviously wanted a faster means of conveyance than my feet.  I beckoned for my bike and it came to me, and served ever faithfully as it bore me daily to my place of higher learning.  Through rain, wind, snow, sleet and sunshine I rode my hardy little mountain bike, only walking or getting a ride from my mom in the most dire of circumstances.

Honestly this time in my life is when I used my mountain bike the most.  I remember one time, very early in my stay at Earlham College, when I was riding in the night with an acquaintance and my then-girlfriend.  My acquaintance, a lover of road bikes from the East Coast, was annoyed with the slow pace maintained by the two mountain bikes following him.  In an energetic mood, I challenged him to a race.  The funny thing is that up until that point I had no idea that road bikes had a higher gearing than mountain bikes, and that it was virtually impossible for a mountain bike to keep up with a road bike on payment.  As my acquaintance zipped away from me, I learned then and there that maybe mountain bikes were not the only kind of bike to have.

Another memorable moment from that year of dedicated bike commuting happened over the winter.  I rode my bike to school even through the snow, most days, but one afternoon it began to sleet rather nastily while I was in class.  Ever persistent, I saddled my blue friend and slowly made my way towards the road via the grass.  This was smart, because the moment I touched the sidewalk, both tires flew out from under me and I landed on my side.  Hearing the masculine-crushing "awww" of two girls walking to class behind me, I jumped to my feet with burning cheeks and got back on my bike.  The same thing happened just seconds later.  Defeated, I solemnly walked my bike home.

It was during the winter that year that I learned a very useful and fun trick on my mountain bike:  I learned to ride with no hands.  Now, I had received some jeering from friends for not being able to brandish this skill usually earned early in childhood.  In my defense, I grew up in a mountain biking world.  You simply don't remove your hands from the handlebars very often while mountain biking.  Also, my overly protective parents probably had a hand in that, always wanting me to be safe.  But I learned to ride with no hands in a somewhat interesting way:  it was simply too cold to ride with my hands.  Not having gloves, I had taken to wearing wool socks over my hands.  This did an adequate job of not absolutely freezing my fingers in the early winter mornings, but I found it was hard to grip the handlebars and ride with socks on my hands.  So, I slowly began to take my hands off of the handlebars for longer and longer periods of time.  After about a week of experimenting with this, I finally got it down and by January I was riding most of the way to school with my socked hands in the pockets of my leather coat.

The most catastrophic thing to happen with my bike--excepting its ruinous theft--happened that year.  While riding on campus one day, I heard a very loud pop and clang, and looked down to see my largest chainring had horrifically bent itself out from the rest of the crank.  Completely confused as to what I had done, I called up my dad and he took the bike in to fix it.  Getting a new chainring from the local bike shop--which I would be employed by just two years later--he fixed it and his diagnosis was that one of the chainring bolts was not securely tightened.  My torque while pedaling then caused the chainring to pull out and mangle itself. While working at this bike shop later in life, I would discover a small collection of similarly damaged chainrings.  It always amused me to see these.

At the end of that year I finally got my first car, a hand-me-down green Saturn.  Driving to my summer job, my precious mountain bike found a new occupation: it bore me on the several nights of what me and my friends would come to call "rollerbikein."

"Rollerbikein", or more sensibly "roller biking," was the night time recreation me and my friends found ourselves doing nearly every night the summer after our first year out of high school.  Usually starting sometime between midnight and 2am, we would meet in the town of Centerville--where we had gone to school--to simply ride aimlessly around the town discussing everything from the ravings of Henry David Thoreau to the meaningless events that transpired while we walked the halls of Centerville High School.  We rode until we couldn't bear it any longer, sometimes heading home as late as 7am.  I was most definitely late to work more than once that summer.  It was a good time in my life, and those memories all happened on my mountain bike.  Rollerbikein, by the way, got its name from the fact that one of my friends would often roller blade instead of bike.  The Germanic twist thrown on the end--say the word out loud with a gross German accent--came about from a typo one night while instant-messaging a group of girls we wished to join us.  They did not.

When college started back up my bike saw less and less use.  I rode to school rarely, usually driving my newly obtained car.  One particular little adventure which stemmed from a bike ride that year caused me to wind up in an abandoned gravel pit.  A friend--the friend who often roller bladed while rollerbikein--discovered an abandoned gravel pit near his house.  We decided bikes would be the most sensible means of an approach, as it was illegal for us to be trespassing, and we could hide the bikes in the brush next to the road.  We dubbed this discovery "Utah", for its rocky terrain seemed very foreign to us and our Midwestern minds.  We only visited "Utah" a few times, as fear got the better of us.  "Utah's" supposed interesting qualities also waned rather quickly.

The alien world of "Utah", which was really just a gravel pit.

At the end of that year I decided to take a leave of absence from college.  Over the course of that summer I saved almost all of the money I made from my summer job and put it towards one of my most ambitious undertakings:  a self-imposed period of vagrancy in which I would travel westward across the country with no real aim other than to see what the land had to offer.  A decision I made early in this endeavor was to bring a bike with me:  half for fun, the other and more important half as insurance in the event my car would break down.  And it did.  But, that will come later.

Despite just getting my hands on a 1985 Cannondale road bike from my dad, I decided to take my mountain bike as I could also ride it on trails and it would still serve its purpose of being an alternate means of transportation in the event my car died.  With my bike perched on the old Allen bike rack, and my cable lock tethering it to the chassis of my car--the same cable lock which the thief cut to get to my bike just a week ago--I headed out across the country.

Taken on the grasslands of South Dakota.

Only a few days into the trek I removed the wheels from my bike and stowed them inside my car.  I was worried a thief would take them.  For most of my journey, my frame sat strapped to my rack, the chain dangling in the interstate's wind.

My mountain bike finally got to see some mountains, for the first time in its life, in the Black Hills of South Dakota.  One morning I awoke, inside my car, and decided I was going to mountain bike.  So, I climbed onto the saddle and set forth on what I can only assume was the Old Baldy Trail.  It was a very difficult ride for me.  I hadn't really been mountain biking since I was nine or ten years old, and you can bet I was riding on some simple terrain then.  Truth be told, I believe the trail wasn't that bad of a trail, I was simply out of shape to a gross degree and had very little experience in technical riding.  Despite this, I powered on, and eventually reached the final steep climb.  There was no way I could pedal up that, so I pushed my bike to the top.  Enjoying the view, I was still very proud.  On the ride back, I nearly ran into two much more serious cyclists.  I'm sure they thought little of me, as I was huffing and puffing up a very slight incline.  Still, I was mountain biking.

My success shot.  Note the very small water bottle.

My bike wouldn't see much action until I reached Oregon.  Wyoming was met with hiking and camping, and I only drove through Idaho.  By the time I reached the other side of Oregon, almost to the coast, I noticed the oil light on my car glaring up at me.  Panic struck as I pulled off on the next rest area.  Checking my oil, I discovered I had burned almost all of it away.  My naivete and negligence had finally caught up with me.  It was in that moment that my insurance came through for me.  Reinstalling the wheels to my trusty mountain bike, I set off in search of oil for my dry car.

I of course did not ride on the interstate directly, but took to the wide stretch of roughly cut grass running alongside the pavement.  What I soon found, however, was that briars and thorns laced this deceiving grass, and I frantically stopped riding for fear of getting a flat--the last thing I needed.  Luckily, I spied a road on the other side of a fence next to me, so tossing my bike over I made my way safely towards town on pavement.  I soon found a small gas station, where I bought as much oil as I could from an Asian man who coyly asked if the oil was for my bike.  In no mood for fun, I returned to my bike with four quarts of oil, a whole gallon.  It was then I realized I may have gotten myself into another pickle.  I set off anyways, juggling the four quarts of oil as they shifted frustratingly inside of the plastic bag.  I was happy I could ride with no hands.  I ended up getting back to my car, and with some help from kind strangers we got my car running.  My mountain bike really saved me then.  Otherwise, I would have been stuck on the other side of the country with nothing to help me but the soles of my shoes.

Its hard to see, but my bike is safely resting on the back
of my car, next to a truly majestic life-form.

My trip concluded with no other interesting bike stories.  When I finally returned home, I found myself chasing down my friends in Centerville on my mountain bike to let them know I was back.

My road bike understandably took over as my dominant bike, for as I said earlier, a mountain bike has little use in Richmond, Indiana.  During this time in my life, it was mostly ridden by one of my friends, who occasionally joined us in one of our bouts of rollerbikein.  I took it trail riding a few times in nearby places where one could get a taste of single track, but these places were too far away for me to do it often.  After a painful winter I found myself employed at the local bike shop and thus began my education in bicycles.

During my time at the bike shop, my friends and I ventured one evening to create a new sport:  a form of bicycle soccer which we called "boccer."  We didn't know it already existed, and in a much more extreme form, but we were still content with our idea.  Setting up a field in our old high school parking lot, we established a team of two bicycles versus two roller bladers.  Kicking and shoving a soccer ball with whatever we could, we had a ton of fun playing our crude game.  I manned my beloved mountain bike, for it was slower and easier to maneuver than my road bike.  My favorite memory of this game was when I slammed onto my front brakes and started to go over the handlebars.  It all happened in a splendidly slowed state of time, as the back wheel arced up and I felt myself rise.  I swear I hopped very briefly on my front wheel as I tried to shove the back wheel down.  However, I did not have the dexterity to accomplish this, and went down as my bike crashed below me.  I came out with nothing more than a few scratches on my hand, and all my bike got was a scuff on its new saddle.  We quickly resumed playing.

A few years later I would be leaving Richmond, Indiana for Bullhead City, Arizona.  My bikes followed me, and I was anxious to ride my mountain bike in the desert.  However, when we came to the barren spit-stain that is Bullhead City, I discovered that the dirt floor of the Mohave Desert is far too loose and soft for aimless roaming, and there were no mountain biking trails I could discover in my vicinity.  And so my mountain bike sadly sat longer, until I quickly moved to Tucson, Arizona, where I am now.  At first I reluctantly decided to try and sell it.  It needed a lot of work to be the mountain bike I wanted, and I was frustrated with what I would have to do to get it running the way I wanted.  I posted it on Craiglist for $300 and got a hit, but he was slow to follow-up and in that time I decided I did not want to sell it.  The bike simply meant too much to me.  I figured if it was so hard for me to force myself to let it go, I shouldn't be getting rid of it.  So I kept it and began to happily plan for what I was going to do with it.

I wished to take it into the mountains, but put it off as my girlfriend Keri--yes, the girl I rode to woo earlier in my tale--does not have a mountain bike and I wanted to share that experience.  Already having my two road bikes and Keri's bike in our apartment, with little room for much else, I reluctantly locked it to the wooden railing in front of our third-floor apartment.  You couldn't see the bike from the ground.  It was locked with the same cable lock that secured it throughout college and across the country, and although I knew it was the least secure option, it was my only option because the wooden railing would not allow for a U-Lock.  It stayed safe for a few months, but it was finally taken from me.

Goodbye, Yamamaru

The recalling of these memories, which don't even fulfill the whole spectrum of what I've experienced with this bike, have made me miss it even more.  I loved the bike.  I called it "Yamamaru" later in my time with it, giving it a Japanese name which could be translated to an affectionate name for a mountain.  It pains me to know that it was more than likely sold for drug money, and will probably never have a good home again.  It will likely never see the Arizona mountains I so wanted to take it to.  It may even be in pieces now, maliciously stripped apart and strewn about the world.  Evil men take bicycles.  A good bike can free our souls, and only the very cruel can take that from someone.