Fighting Maturity Since 1973

I was driving home after work through the Bolton flats corridor recently on a golden, sun-soaked late fall evening, flipping through the radio stations, trying to find a decent song to unwind to after a day that had wound me up. At 5:15 in central Vermont, finding a listenable tune isn’t always easy, and this particular evening was no exception. After scanning through the frequencies for a few minutes, dodging car commercials and mindless DJ babble, I settled on a classic rock station that had just started a commercial-free block of golden, guitar-soaked classic rock.

American Girl by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers came on. Even though I’ve heard that song so many times I can sing it backwards in French while standing on my head, and I don’t even speak French, it was better than Free Bird. I turned up the volume and set the cruise control. With that familiar opening riff blasting through my factory speakers, I settled into the drive home and got ready to sing along. Halfway through the song, during Mike Campbell’s guitar solo, I was feeling better, and when looking around, I noticed that the trees, which a week earlier were still brightly colored, had all turned to goldenrod, burnt orange, and rust. The lush green summer coat was a faint memory; it was the final stand of this year’s leaves, before fading into a flat, dull hue, while clinging desperately to their branches before detaching and falling to the ground. Winter was about to move in.

Before I knew it, I was on my way back to work the next morning, drinking coffee and listening to VPR. During the Writer’s Almanac, I looked around and noticed a totally different scene in the valley from the prior evening. The sky was gray, the fog was low, and it was raining. The temperature was hovering in the mid-thirties. A storm had settled in overnight, and according to the Eye on the Sky weather report, snow had fallen in the higher elevations. Although I couldn’t see through the thick valley fog, the rust colored treetops were now covered with a white frosting.

Snow in the mountains means that without a doubt, some folks made their first turns of the season. I wasn’t one of them, but I was sure that a few of my favorite fellow coworkers were. As it turns out, I was right. Bart, Phlip, Land Beaver, and Trimtram all made it out for early morning “dawn patrol.” When I got to work, they were all exuberant when relaying the story. Sure it was raining at the bottom, but it was sick! Sure only the top of the mountain had snow, but it was sick! Sure there was only a feeble layer of wet slop covering loose rocks, fallen rust-colored leaves, and dirt, but it was sick! That is the kind of unbridled enthusiasm ski shops need. I’m glad we have someone to perpetuate it.

There was a time, not too long ago it seems, when I would have been up there with them. I would have waxed my rock skis the night before. I would have set my alarm clock for 4 a.m. I would have immediately jumped out of bed when it went off. But these days, alas, it is a different story. I may set my alarm with every intention of getting out of bed at four in the morning, but as soon as it goes off, I immediately kill it and go right back to sleep. It’s a shame, I know.

So what happened to my unbridled enthusiasm? When did I lose my desire to get up at four in the morning, trek out in the rain, hike a mountain only to ski the top half, then hike to the bottom and go to work? I wish I knew. Concerning getting up at four in the morning, here is how a typical conversation with Bart goes:

Bart: “It’s supposed to snow tonight. If there’s enough, we’re meeting at Mad River at 5 a.m. Wanna come?”

Me: “Yeah, maybe. How much is enough?”

Bart: “An inch or two. You know, enough to slide on. But they’re saying it may snow up to five inches! Sick!”

Me: “5 a.m. you say? Sounds great! There is a 100-percent chance I’ll be there. But there’s only a 50-percent chance of that, so if it’s 5:01 a.m. and I haven’t showed up, don’t wait for me.”

My unbridled lack of enthusiasm might have something to do with that Tom Petty song. Back when I had a lot more enthusiasm, if any classic rock song came on the radio, I immediately turned it off. This was back in the nineties and 2K, when I was listening to modern music and couldn’t bear to listen to any dinosaur rock. Nowadays however, I’m not only listening to classic rock again, I’m turning it up. And I’m listening to the Writer’s Almanac on VPR and turning that up too, although not because I enjoy Garrison Kealor’s voice at a loud volume, but because my hearing is starting to go. Yes, I’m getting older, that is a fact, but I also may finally be growing up. I’ve been fighting maturity since 1973 and have been winning, but now perhaps, I’m losing. But I’m not ready to throw my hands up just yet, so the next time my alarm goes off at four in the morning, I’m getting up. It’ll be sick!

Colonel Jacob Davis Would Be Proud

There are some businesses, such as apple orchards and football stadiums, that are busy in the fall. Our shop is not one of them. On a given day in mid November, there’s a good chance the ghost of Colonel Jacob Davis, the original settler of our little city, will walk through the front door before a living customer will.

As a way of drumming up some business during this slow time, I’ve suggested planting a few apple trees outside our front door and installing a JumboTron on the side of the building to broadcast NFL games, but apparently, because both would compromise the historic integrity of our location – the JumboTron, for example, would need to be bolted to the building, which would compromise its historic bricks and mortar, thus rendering them unhistorical – the downtown zoning committee won’t approve it.

And even though we carry all sorts of fantastic merchandise that is geared towards the cooler weather, shorter days, and bone-chilling rain, such as cozy merino wool sweaters, shiny headlamps, and waterproof/breathable rain gear, we simply don’t experience the droves of customers, as we do during bike or ski season, that flow in like football fans at a playoff game.

There’s an inevitable gap due to a seasonal paradox where it’s too late in the season to buy a bike – even if it is a 70-percent-off crazy closeout super special – and it’s too early in the season to buy a pair of skis or snowshoes. So, as employees, all we can do is wait it out, which means a lot of organizing, reorganizing, taking long coffee breaks at the coffee shop, taking short naps in the camping section, etc., until the business kicks back in when the snow starts to fly, or three weeks before Christmas, whichever comes first. Fortunately this fall, there have been a few highlights that have lifted our spirits during these slow days. One was a milestone involving a beautiful baby girl, and the other was a milestone involving an 11mm wrench.

The beautiful baby girl is Indy Rae, the 13-month-old daughter of Bart, one of my favorite fellow coworkers. Indy Rae is an amazing baby who looks a lot like her dad, only with more hair. If she has inherited his staggering athletic talent, she’ll be tele skiing by next winter and winning mountain bike races to the top of Mount Mansfield next summer. She’s probably a natural at her dad’s beloved game of Beer Pole, but hopefully she won’t discover that talent for another 20 years. As far as her personality, I’m hoping she gets more of that from her lovely mom. Bart quite often gets irritated with certain people, namely me, and he’ll say it’s because I deserve it. I’ll admit he’s not the only person who has ever felt that way – I am special after all – but I don’t need another person around who shares this sentiment.

Whether or not I irritate her was probably the last thing on her mind the other night as Indy reached a milestone in her life while at the shop, which, according to the boss, was a first since we opened for business 35 years ago. Right on the sales floor, in front of a small group of folks including her mom, the boss, and Phlip, one of my other favorite fellow coworkers, who filmed the moment, Indy took her very first steps. She did a great job, and even though she was a bit wobbly, she managed to avoid knocking over nearby displays of cozy merino wool sweaters and shiny headlamps. After five minutes, she was already walking straighter and with more control than many of us do after one too many games of Beer Pole. A few minutes later, she was heading for the door.

Another glorious shop moment, which was also a first, as far as I know at least, occurred recently with Snack, one of our younger generation whippersnappers, and one of my very favorite fellow employees. While working on one of the 70-percent-off crazy closeout super special bikes that we recently purchased from a shop that went under, he discovered another use for the 11mm wrench. If you’re one of the six or seven people who have read this column before and are reading it again, you may recall a column I wrote last year where I described the glorious day when I finally discovered, after 25 years of wrenching on bikes, the purpose of the 11mm wrench, which is for tightening the fender bolts on a Columbia 5-speed tandem. Strangely enough, I wasn’t even at the shop when this breakthrough occurred. Snack however, was at the shop when he made his discovery, and even though it took me as many years as Snack has been alive to figure out the purpose of the 11mm wrench, he discovered, so early into his wrenching career, that it is also used to tighten the seat rail clamping bolts on a 70-percent-off crazy closeout super sale bike.

There may not have been as much rejoicing upon this ground-breaking discovery as was the case when Indy Rae took her first steps, but the moment was equally monumental, in my opinion at least, in the history of the shop. I like to think that Colonel Jacob Davis, may he rest in peace, would be happy to know that monumental moments like these are still occurring here today, 223 years after he built his log cabin on the west side of the North Branch. He’d also be happy to know that there won’t be a JumboTron or any apple trees coming to our historic little street, and therefore the historic integrity of the little town that he named, as was fashionable at the time, after a city in France, remains intact.

Whiskey Shots and Mosquito Hawks

My brother-in-law Patrick and I hiked Worcester Mountain recently on a hot and muggy August afternoon and ended up seeing something spectacular.

Patrick is heading off to work in South Africa for two years, and this was our chance to spend some good brother time before he’s gone for a good long time. We chose Worcester Mountain because it’s a great hike that is close to home and is just grueling enough for a solid workout, but not too grueling. Patrick is still healing from a torn Achilles tendon and although he is recovering nicely he didn’t want to push it. A torn Achilles is a pretty serious injury that takes six to eight months to fully heal, and it had been just about eight months and he was just about fully healed, but not yet fully healed.

After climbing the steep section of sparkling mica-flecked rocks that have settled into place after what must have been a magnificent tumble thousands of years ago, we came upon the more exposed rock anchored deep into the mountain, with thick bands of quartz that burst like Oreo filling and stretch upward, leading the way to the ridgeline. It was a spectacular sight, but not the spectacular sight I was referring to earlier.

When we reached the summit we sat down to take in the view and eat our lunches. I had taken a small flask of whiskey just in case Patrick’s Achilles started to bother him and as it turns out, it was bothering him just enough to warrant a wee nip. My creaky knees, which sound like heavy wooden doors swinging on rusty hinges, were bothering me just enough, so I took a wee nip, too. It’s true that taking a shot of whiskey after a good hike isn’t very scientific, but it does help with the aches, and with the cool breezes at the top providing relief from the hot temperature and humidity, and a beautiful view of the surrounding mountains and valley floors soothing our eyes, we were feeling pretty good.

It didn’t take too long for us to notice a spectacle that neither of us had ever witnessed in our lifetimes, and I promise the whiskey had nothing to do with it. After all, we had each only taken a single sensible gulp and although it was quite hot it wasn’t so hot as to foster hallucinations. At least I don’t think it was. So assuming we were fully lucid, we saw, swarming around the mountain top in erratic flight paths, narrowly averting collisions with each other, hundreds and hundreds of dragonflies.

Twisting and turning, hovering, darting up, then down, then backwards, they didn’t appear to be doing anything other than simply enjoying flying. You could hear the very faint yet steady hum of the fluttering of their wings, like the sound of cards being shuffled, that would increase slightly when one would do a close fly-by of our heads.

After a few minutes a particularly large dragonfly landed on my leg and stared up at me with its two huge eyes like ornamental garden globes. I stared back and remained as still as I could while I reached for my camera. Just as I was about to aim the lens at the jumbo crayon-sized insect perched on my leg, its mouth started to open. I was pretty sure dragonflies don’t bite, but not being completely convinced that it wasn’t about to take a big chunk out of my leg, and it would have been a big chunk, I twitched and it flew away. I instead took a picture of the sky in hopes of capturing a few dragonflies in flight as evidence of what we had seen. It wasn’t a picture that will win awards, but you can make out at least 10 blurry black objects suspended in the air like UFOs in a grainy photograph from the sixties. It was a surreal experience. Patrick and I could have stayed up there all day, and the dragonflies wouldn’t have minded, but eventually we had to head down the mountain. The dragonflies stayed behind.

Aside from the spectacle of the dragonflies, I saw another remarkable sight in the sky this summer. It was on my mother-in-law Leigh’s birthday, and it was she who noticed it first. We were relaxing at a camp on Harvey Lake, just north of Mosquitoville, when suddenly she yelled “Look!” and pointed to the sky. High above were no fewer than forty hawks, slowly drawing large invisible circles in the blue sky, their wings making only slight adjustments and their beaks glinting in the sun. To some folks, hawks represent visionary power and guardianship, but to Leigh, they represent a connection to her best friend Karen, who died many years ago. We all took it as a sign that Karen, who loved hawks, wanted her to know that she was thinking of her on her birthday and wishing her well.

As far as dragonflies go, I asked Leigh what they might represent, and she handed me a book that explains these sorts of things. It said that dragonflies, sometimes known as mosquito hawks, are estimated to have been around for over 180 million years, and that if a dragonfly shows up in your life, you may need to gain a new perspective or make a change. Patrick is moving to South Africa for two years, which, if nothing else, is a huge change that will bring an abundance of new perspectives, and my life is always changing. As a result I gain new perspectives every day, so the omen of a dragonfly sighting may not apply to us, at least not right now. However, the book didn’t mention what it may mean if hundreds and hundreds of dragonflies show up in your life, so I will take it simply as a reminder that hiking is one of life’s great joys and that whiskey should always be enjoyed in moderation.

Beyond Exceptional

In my many years working at the shop, I got to know a lot of good people. It is one of the aspects of the job that I miss most, now that I spend my days in an office, behind a computer screen, under two hanging plants that I must say I’ve grown quite fond of. Aside from speaking to my plants—some say it helps them grow—I speak with a lot of customers, but the vast majority of these customers I will never meet in person or ever speak to again. In a 10-minute phone conversation I will have recommended the best pair of Nordic skis for skiing across a frozen lake in Minnesota, or explained which rack system works best for carrying a Stand Up Paddle Board on top of a 2007 Chevy Malibu, or suggested which pair of Darn Tough socks would be the most appropriate on a cold night in southern North Dakota, a hot day in northern South Carolina, or a perfect morning in eastern West Virginia. When I’ve answered all their questions and completed the transactions, I thank them for their business, assure them one more time that they won’t be paying sales tax, promise that their order will arrive in time for their imminent vacations, and say bye-bye. Assuming all goes well with their orders, I most likely will never hear from them again. The Darn Tough socks I recommended may have been the greatest socks they’ve ever worn, and I’ll never know. And so it goes.

Back when I was working on the sales floor at the shop, I would also help a lot of people choose the right gear every day, but a large percentage of the people streaming in are regular customers who have been in many times before and will be back many times again. Our shop appreciates and relies upon this base of regular customers immensely, and we try our hardest to keep it. These are folks who you know by name, who you build relationships with over the years as you watch their kids grow out of the bikes you helped them buy a few summers ago, and who you consider friends.

Regrettably, tragedy occasionally strikes, and you lose a few friends. Recently, on June 24th, we lost a very good customer and friend of ours, Dave Blumenthal, who succumbed to injuries he sustained when he struck an oncoming pickup truck on a remote mountain road while competing in the Tour Divide Mountain Bike Race, the longest and arguably most challenging mountain bike race on the planet.

The Tour Divide consists of a single stage—a 2,745-mile stage that stretches from Banff, Alberta, to the Mexican border in Antelope Wells, NM. There is no liability waiver, no entry fee, no support, and no prize money. There is, however, plenty of climbing. Crossing the Continental Divide 29 times, there is more than 200,000 feet of it. If 2,745 miles and 200,000 feet of climbing sounds like fun to you, here is how it goes:

At the start of the race, the organizers cheer you on as they start the race clock. Three weeks or so later, if you’ve managed to not drop out, you cheer yourself on and mark your time via the web when you cross the finish. Last year, out of 42 starters, only 16 made it to the end. The only concern the organizers have between the start and finish is that you follow the course. Any other concern is the responsibility of you, the rider. If your rear derailleur falls off, it’s up to you to fix it. If you need to sleep after the day’s ride—Dave’s goal was to average 120 miles—it’s up to you to provide your own waterproof and bug-proof shelter in which to lay your weary bones. If you’re hungry, it’s up to you to fix dinner. You just better have brought the right tools, bivy gear—a tent would be much too cumbersome and heavy—and plenty of nourishment in your packs. Staying in a motel is totally acceptable, but the race clock doesn’t stop when you check in. Regarding packs, Dave, also known as “Packman,” designed and hand built his own. Customizing and building better packs for various endeavors was just one of his numerous gifts. The Tour Divide is a race that requires the rider to be ultra fit and ultra prepared. Dave was both, and there was no question he had what it takes to finish strong.

I met Dave and his wife, Lexi, five years ago, when they put on a slide show chronicling their successful hike of the Pacific Crest Trail, a 2,650-mile trail that, like the Tour Divide route, stretches from Mexico to Canada. They completed the route in 158 days and came home with one amazing story to tell. I didn’t know Dave before the presentation, but afterward, my impression was that he was possibly the neatest guy I had ever met. Obviously, he was insanely adventurous and multifaceted—or perhaps, due to his inherent passion for the most difficult and grueling challenges, simply insane—but I was equally impressed with his sincere humility, friendliness, intelligence, creativity, and ingenuity. In a word, he was inspirational. These qualities are what anyone who knew him will use to describe him.

After the presentation, I would always look forward to seeing him and Lexi whenever they came into the shop. Once they had settled back into a more normal life in central Vermont, rather than planning for and heading out on a new “adventure a bit beyond reason,” as he called them, they instead brought their beautiful daughter, Linnaea, into the world.

Dave had written in his blog that he was most truly himself when he was in the mountains, and his final days were spent conquering one mountain after another. It is a small comfort knowing he left fulfilling another of his many dreams. I can’t express how sorry I am that he’s gone. To Dave’s family, I will miss him, our shop will miss him, and the community will miss him. We would have loved to see the latest slide show.

Welcome to Camp Here-We-Are

My step-father Pops’ lovely wife Sweet Liza enjoys good food, good wine, and traveling, among many other things. Pops and Liza got married seven years ago, and I was the best man at their wedding. When I was researching the history of their relationship while working on my best man’s speech, Liza told me that when she agreed to his hand in marriage, there were two things that he could forget about ever doing with her. One of those things is bowling. The other is camping. “No bowling and no camping, that is the deal,” she said. Pops agreed, and although he’s been to many amazing places with Liza, including Germany, China, Portugal, and Belize, he hasn’t been to a single bowling alley or campsite since he said “I do.” I don’t care so much about the bowling, but his renouncement of camping, however, considering Pops’ background, is a shame.

Many years ago, when I was a kid and Pops was married to my mother, we would go camping every summer for two weeks at Camp Seguin on the coast of Maine. Without fail, at least one of those weeks would involve fighting the boredom caused from sitting around inside our tent waiting for the rain to stop. My little sister Boo, who is seven years younger than I, provided little relief from the long, dull days waiting for the sun to come out. She had no interest in pulling the long legs off a Daddy Long Legs spider and teasing her would get old or get me in trouble. Mom would just lie there and read, propped up with a few pillows, happy as could be. She would occasionally try to explain how, with a book in your hand, you will never be bored. Be that as it may, her words did nothing to change the mood of her 10-year-old son.

So, being the great step-father that he was, between his long naps, Pops would be my playmate. He wouldn’t, however, participate in torturing insects. Instead, he would play Cribbage with me, and he would play with me for hours. After the fun of playing cribbage wore off, which for me was after about 20 minutes, he would continue to play Cribbage with me. On one particular rainy camping trip, we played no less than 21 games in a row. Eventually, after we couldn’t stand the thought of one more game, we left the campsite and made our way to the Rec Hall.

The Rec Hall at Camp Seguin was more of a wreck of a hall than a Rec Hall. When you opened the creaky rusty screen door, a deep, dank, musty smell would welcome you like a ghost butler vacationing from his duties at the haunted mansion. Inside the walls of the dilapidated green building were a few card tables, an old couch, a shelf with random board games with pieces missing, and a row of dusty books, and in the middle of the room was a ping pong table with wobbly legs and a faded, sagging surface. As decrepit as it was, it stood, indomitable, like an old work horse named Bourbon, with one more harvest left.

To get the thing in playable condition, we would use a few bingo chips to level it out and we’d cram a magazine under the clamps to tighten the net. After searching around for a while, we’d always manage to find at least one ping pong ball that wasn’t cracked. All ready to go, Pops and I would play ping pong for hours and hours, and we would actually have fun.

To think that he doesn’t camp any more is hard to imagine. I asked him recently if he ever misses going camping, and he said, “No, I don’t.” He then continued, “Besides, it would always rain whenever we went. But I did enjoy all those hours we spent together playing Cribbage and ping pong.”

We went camping a lot growing up because we weren’t fortunate enough to have a camp. We were never “going to camp,” we were always “going camping.” There is a big difference. I have friends who go to camp, and I’ve been invited many times to their camps. Every time I go, I never want to leave. Camps are great, and someday I hope to have a camp of my own. When I do, I’ll give it a name, something like Camp Here-We-Are, and I’ll furnish it with an exposed wood-framed couch with tweed cushions and a coffee table made from an old wagon wheel. There will be bunk beds in the bed rooms that will be too short to stretch out in and too narrow to roll over in, yet will foster the most amazing sleep.

In the kitchen, an iron skillet will hang on a nail next to an old-fashioned fireplace popcorn popper. On the wall in the living room I’ll tack up a brown paper bag with the outline of a large fish and an inscription that will read something like “Uncle Bruce’s Rainbow Trout, 5 lbs 2 oz, June 18, 2019.” In the front yard there will be a hammock hanging from two tall pine trees, a badminton net, and a bird house. Down by the lake, tied to the dock, will be a rowboat with rusty oar locks. Just offshore will be a float, floating. I’ll make sure there’s a cribbage board and a deck of cards, of course, and with any luck, there will be room for a ping pong table. Once everything is in place, I’ll invite Pops and Liza to stay for the weekend. After all, the deal was “no camping,” not “no going to camp.”

Wear a Helmet Folks! A PSA From RJB

My memory isn’t the greatest—I can’t remember what I wrote about in last month’s column or what I had for breakfast last Tuesday—but I can clearly remember certain events in my life, and one that is still quite vivid is the day I learned to ride a bike, way back in the golden summer of 1978. I was five years old, everyone had lots of hair, and “Fly Like an Eagle” was on the radio.

For my fifth birthday, which is in February, my Dad gave me a brand new blue and yellow Huffy with a number 5 stamped on a plastic card hanging from the handlebars. For three long months, while number 5 sat in the basement, I could only sit on it and imagine riding it. I finally started riding it for real in the spring, with training wheels, and when it came time to try riding without them, my Dad made a promise that he would take me out for an ice cream cone if I could complete two full-pedal revolutions. That was enough of an incentive for me, and on that day I took my first two complete pedal revolutions while rolling on two wheels. While attempting a third, I abruptly crashed to the ground and scraped my knee. With tear streak lines still visible on my dirty face, the black raspberry ice cream cone that I enjoyed later ended up serving two purposes: reward for my successful ride and pain relief for my sore knee.

Luckily, when I crashed, I didn’t land on my head, because like every kid on a bike back in the ’70s, I wasn’t wearing a helmet. And for the next six years, I rode my bike around the neighborhood, into town, into swimming pools, through the woods, over jumps, and down the steepest hills I could find going as fast as I could, and not once with a helmet on my head.

It wasn’t until the hair-sprayed summer of 1987, after we had moved from a house in the neighborhood to a house in the country, that I finally was ordered to wear one. Our new house was set back from a busy road that the locals used to make good time, so my parents insisted I wear a helmet when I biked on that road because of the high speeds of the cars and trucks flying by. Apparently, the possibility of being hit by a fast car or truck was the only good reason to protect your head back then. But at least it was a start in the right direction, and look how far we’ve come. Today, kids are wearing helmets even before they start riding bikes. Strapped into a bike trailer, surrounded by a metal roll cage, they’ve got helmets on. I have no problem with this, and although fitting a baby with a helmet is similar to bathing a cat, only not as fun, I am always willing to help parents out because I understand how important helmets are. They are truly the seatbelts of the bicycle and should be worn at all times.

I can say that at least once, a helmet saved my life. It was the cargo-pants-wearing spring of 2003, and I was 30. I was riding through town with some friends on our way to a little zone of mountain bike trails, when I went to do a routine wheelie drop off a four-foot retaining wall onto a parking lot. Before we left for the ride, I had noticed a small amount of shock oil accumulating just below the crown of my fork. I assumed it was due to a bad seal and so for that day’s ride at least, not too big of a deal. What I later learned was the leak was due to a crack in the stanchion tube, and so for that day’s ride, it was a really, really big deal.

When doing a wheelie drop, you ride a wheelie off a drop so that when you land, your rear wheel hits the ground first. If you attempt a wheelie drop, it is imperative that you get that front wheel up before you lift off, or you’ll plummet like a dive bomber. It is equally critical that the stanchion tubes of your fork aren’t cracked. All was going perfectly well for me until my front wheel touched down. In an instant, my fork snapped on both sides just below the crown. My front wheel rolled off in the direction that I should have gone, dragging my fork with it, leaving a trail of shock oil and coil springs. It happened so fast that when my face hit the pavement, my hands were still firmly gripping my handlebars. I had just done the equivalent of a sailor dive from a four foot high ledge onto a parking lot.

I was knocked unconscious, and when I came around a few seconds later, my helmet, still strapped to my head, had a narrowly-skirted-death-sized dent in it. My entire face was a swollen, bloody mess, with bits of pavement sticking out from my multiple wounds, and for the next few weeks, I looked like something that crawled out of a swamp in the middle of a bad horror movie. As far as trauma to my head, I’m pretty sure it was minimal, since my memory is just as bad now as it was then. After a few days, I felt good enough for an ice cream cone, and after a few months, my wounds were mostly healed. I now have only a really cool tear-shaped scar next to my left eye to show for it and a simple but significant word to the wise: Always wear your helmet!

Cat and the Art of Bicycle Maintenance

A close relation of mine, we’ll call her Mustard, recently announced that she is moving far away in search of new scenery and new opportunities. I am happy for her, but I’m going to miss her. She’s selling all of her furniture, but her really sweet couch is mine for free if I am simply willing to adopt Mr. Jackson, her crazy old cat. I am currently weighing my options. Do I really want the couch that bad? Do I really want a crazy old cat who finds the bathroom sink a suitable place to take a nap? It is a really sweet couch, so I’ll continue to mull it over. But today wasn’t about Mr. Jackson or the couch. Today was the most perfect spring day ever, so we just went for a bike ride.

Mustard rode her flat-bar performance hybrid that I gave her for her college graduation present. It is the perfect bike for cruising along the Burlington bike path and similar paved bikeways and roads. The 700c wheels and road tires roll smoothly and efficiently, while the flat handlebars provide the optimum handling required for weaving between walkers with ice cream cones, young ladies with jogging strollers, and old ladies with three dogs that sprawl out on their leashes in every direction, like octopus tentacles.

Mustard’s bike hadn’t been ridden since last fall, so I told her that she can count on the tires needing air. Air doesn’t like to sit around. It has better things to do. Just like watering a plant, if it has been a few weeks, or months, don’t even bother checking, just grab a pump, or a watering can, and get to work. And just like a plant, if it has been a few years, your tires will be dead. Sure enough, her tires were way down, so we pumped them back up to their recommended PSI, which was indicated on the sidewall of her tires. I then told her to ignore this step if she enjoys the feeling of dragging a log behind her, or if she likes getting flats.

I rode my steel 29er hardtail mountain bike. Not because it was the ideal bike for this particular ride, but because mountain bike season is still many weeks away, and I can’t wait that long. Aside from my tires being low, my rear derailleur cable was a bit slack. Just as tires lose air, cables lose tension, so I spun my barrel adjuster a bit until the shifting was precise. If you are willing to consider adopting a crazy old cat, I’ll explain how I did it.

Your shifter tells your derailleur what to do. The derailleur cable is the line of communication, so the first thing to check is whether the line is clean. You can easily do this by unbolting the cable from the derailleur itself. Grabbing the cable with your left hand, gently pull in the direction of the anchor bolt. With your right hand, click the shifter back and forth. The cable should move freely in both directions, with minimal friction. If it doesn’t, you need to figure out why. Perhaps, because you left your bike in a snow bank or in a damp basement all winter long, the cables have rusted.

This little exercise will also show you what your shifter is really doing: with each click, it is pulling or releasing a small amount of cable, which, as you can guess, is exactly the distance between the cogs of your gear cluster. With a standard rear derailleur, when your shifter pulls cable, the derailleur will move inward, towards the larger, or lower-geared cogs. Releasing cable from the shifter allows the spring of the derailleur to move it outward, towards the smaller, or higher geared cogs. Now is a good time to mention that I meant to say that Mr. Jackson is a nice adult cat, not a crazy old cat.

While the cable is still unattached, you can dial in your derailleur’s starting position. The starting position is when the top pulley of the derailleur is centered under the smallest, or highest geared, cog of your cluster. To center the pulley under the highest cog, simply turn the high limit screw, generally identified with an “H” in or out until the pulley’s teeth are directly in line with the cog’s teeth. You are now ready to bolt your derailleur cable down. Making sure you’ve released all your cable from your shifter, bolt the cable down while tensioning it with your free hand. Don’t pull too hard, just enough so that there is no slack in the line. At this point, when you click your shifter, the derailleur will move so that the top pulley is now perfectly centered under the next cog. If it is slightly off center, spin your barrel adjuster in the direction that you want the pulley to go. With this fine tuning complete, your bike should purr like a nice adult cat.

But it probably won’t. There are no fewer that three thousand factors that can affect precise shifting, even though you’ve followed the steps above. A bent derailleur hanger, a tired shifter, a worn out chain, a burr, and loosey-goosey derailleur pivots are just a few, and those require more advanced skills to remedy. A more common and easily remedied factor is proper lube and shifting techniques. A light, barely detectable coat of bicycle chain lube on clean chain is what you want. A dark, dripping coat of motor oil on a dirty chain, which will only attract more dirt to your chain, like a nice old cat to your lap, isn’t. As far as proper shifting, it takes a lot of practice, but there is one fundamental rule you can start following today, unless you want to break your chain or bend teeth on your cogs or chainrings: do not shift when your chain is under a lot of tension.

Now about that crazy old—I mean, nice adult cat…