I was assessing my season and had come to the realization that my bike handling skills had gone from a D to a B. It was a long time coming. Then reluctantly I realized it wasn’t me, it was the bike.
In 2009 I was fortunate enough to upgrade to a Curtlo Steel CX frame. For a completely custom frame it was very affordable and it was built by a true veteran frame builder residing in the wilderness Nirvana of Winthrop, Washington.
My past CX riding had been on three different aluminum frames. I started on a Specialized CX frame with a Campy drive train. I later sold that frame and went to a Kona Jake the Snake. I added a carbon fork and although I painted the Jake and loved the way it looked, I was forever washing out the front wheel and it just didn’t seem to want to hook up when the terrain was rough. I picked up a spare Ibex CX frame which I built into a single speed, and despite the anonymity of the Ibex bike name, that frame (to me) handled the best of the three aluminum frames. The Ibex later evolved into a commuter bike for me.
My hope was that a custom steel bike would fit me better and provide a more compliant platform. I could not imagine being any happier with the results. I wanted a more upright riding position to improve handling and a slightly sloping top tube to give some clearance without looking like a step through frame. I was able to pick my color and discussed my desired ride characteristics at length with Doug Curtiss (The “Curt” in Curtlo).
I am big for a cyclist, but I am usually able to find a decent fit at the top end of most stock frame sizes. Lucky for me, I am not tall or wide enough that I need to shop for clothing in special stores. About the only real oddity is that I run 180 cranks when I can find them, and for my cross bike I haven’t found them.
When I first saw my CX frame, it was proud to be in my team color of “Eddy” orange and sported a tall head tube, which I had said was okay. The sizing was perfect and it made going from my road bike to my cross bike painless. I had asked for the holy grail of bike building, a compliant back end for traction and comfort, and stiff front triangle so when I applied the power it went into forward progress rather than frame flex. Once again, the Curtlo frame delivered. The elegant tubes were shaped to provide the stiffness I wanted and the seat stays are gently curved to enhance the compliance. The joints are beautiful and the simple lines give the bike a timeless look that speaks class.
I had won some SRAM swag at a race a while back and had set up my commuter with SRAM Rival controls and drive train. My oldest was riding that and when I was tuning it for him I was so impressed with the ergonomics I stripped off my Campagnolo Record right shifter (and Chubby left hand brake lever) and installed the SRAM shifters. They work like a dream with my Campy Chorus back end. I picked up a Dura Ace crankset (175) with worn out rings and painted it black and coupled that with a Chris King BB to complete my Rodney King (Can’t we all just get along?”) build.
The frame is able to handle the stiff crankset, yet I can stand up for anything loose without losing traction. I still have to keep it planted to maintain grip on slippery mud uphill’s. I can roll through corners faster and with much more control than any aluminum frame. I also haven’t washed out my front end once all year. It is light and agile and the angles are perfect for cross.
A few seasons ago the guy I always found myself battling in the final lap was a fellow named Steve. I would power past him on climbs and long straights only to have him squirt past me on technical sections. I was all muscle and he had the bike handling skills. Although I haven’t seen Steve for a couple years, this season I was the one with the bike handling skills and when I combined that with the power that I still have, I was pleased with the results. Part way through the season I also made the leap to tubular tires and that was also a huge improvement. Based on the time I rode on clinchers, I am convinced the frame was fully half the equation.
Evo flying atop the Orange flash !
There is more than a little Karma packed into the frame from its builder Doug Curtiss. While some proudly point to their carbon steeds that were made far away in smelly factories by people wearing (I hope) hairnets, goggles and breathing apparatus. I feel an eerie power from the Zen that went into metal tubes that were measured, cut, ground, shaped and welded by a man whom I have met and talked with. I know the bike was made in a place where the air is fresh and the snow piles high in winter. I am honored to ride the handiwork of the artisan who crafted my bike with the same skill that he used built bikes that were ridden in the Olympics and in races around the world.
Lights, camera, traction ! For what I sincerely expect will be the final time in 2009 I rolled out of my driveway a few minutes after five in the morning for a pre work training ride. The air was a brisk 34 degrees and my face felt like I had just splashed on a heaping helping of Old Spice for the first five minutes. The climb warmed me and soon only my eyes were cold.
The new batteries were a huge improvement to my feeble light, although I still yearn for the Light & Motion Stella 150N which strikes a good balance between cost and performance for my occasional pre dawn outings (and can be found on sale from time to time).
When I left work last night the moon was rising in the east (where it usually does) and the sky was cloudless and the moon looked like a spotlight. This morning the moon was in the western sky and still as bright as ever. Even as I pulled into work this morning the moon had not yet set. It was a reminder of how short the days are now.
Next week I will be racing in Bend where it will be sunny and below freezing. While I spent all last winter perfecting the 35 degree ride, it will be colder in Bend, and I will be racing instead of just riding.
Stay tuned.
With mixed emotions I bid farewell to my 2009 Washington State Cyclocross campaign. It was a great year and I truly enjoyed the camaraderie of being on a team. The foolish (and I would not pass up an opportunity to be foolish) among my team will be journeying to Bend, Oregon for the Cyclocross National Championships in December.
I raced in all of the 2009 Seattle Cyclocross races as well as the warm up races of Starcrossed, the Rad Racing GP, and the Labor Day flat tire fest. I am expecting that the scene in Bend will be worthy of a report or two and I am expecting an epic final chapter to my Cross Season saga. I will therefore end my ruminations about the season and confine the balance of my report to this race.
On a last minute whim, I decided to run a local neighborhood fun run on Thanksgiving morning. Perhaps a hundred runners set off in a light grey drizzle and Zach promptly bid me adieu and shot to the front of the parade. He would finish a very honorable third. I found myself moving up and to my amazement I think I collected what has become my race place, fifteenth. The large meal later that day was uneventful, and I went to bed only a little sore from my race.
I was wrong yet again. The course had a downhill-off camber-uphill sequence that looked like it would be best to run it at least on the first lap in heavy traffic.
The start was the usual circus, and I gave up some spots only to gain them back quickly on the grassy turns. I had two guys that were near me in points, Bob from Old town whom I had just snagged last week at Sedro Woolley and Francisco who I had battled most of the year. Bob and I were separated by a single (drop the lowest race) point and whoever prevailed Sunday would prevail in the series. Up on “the grassy knoll” I was chasing Francisco and Bob was chasing me. I fought to keep a gap and whenever there were hairpins I could see my teammate Mike ahead and I was on Francisco’s wheel and Bob was behind me.
The loose corner was best negotiated with an outrigger..
As the race wore on, Bob lost contact and Francisco and I were closing in on Mike. With half a lap to go we had gapped any other riders in our category. I sat on Francisco’s wheel and, like a hungry cat, I waited to pounce. The downhill-off camber-uphill sequence went fine and I held off till the run up. I blitzed him by taking a steep line to the left that was more like climbing a ladder than stairs but it gave me the inside line as the course turned left. I muscled through the wet sand and deep mud had a good corner coming off the hill. I stomped it on the gravel road and took the pavement of the finishing straight really, really fast. I crossed the line and I’ll check the results to see what his time was. To my amazement I wasn’t as cooked as I have been after other races. Perhaps my tender legs had kept me under control?
Davo earning his spots !
In stark contrast to last week’s race that was so close we didn’t even need to get on the freeway, this week we headed out before dawn. Seven AM saw the war wagon on the road with Hottie and I armed for our respective battles. The grey sky looked foreboding and the cold rain was relentless. This was primo Cyclocross weather.
In every other season, my business travel has taken me away and I always missed a series race or two, this year I have been in every race. Consequently I have earned enough points to be in a good position on the call up list. In the past I was always glad just to get a call up, now I am in a prime position on the second row and that is about as good as I could hope. This pathetic shot at middle aged glory has kept me pushing hard and my patient Hottie has been fully supportive of my quest.
This past week I was again flirting with the fine line between training hard and killing myself. Friday I left work early because, despite my finely honed denial skills, I suspected I was getting the flu. A ton of sleep and a lazy Saturday later, I was feeling almost okay.
Spring in rural Washington is a festival of greens. The greens can be so bright they border on florescent. Conversely, the winters in the low lands are full of fields of matted green grass and stalks of brown weeds and the skeletal remains of blackberry bushes alive under dark skies. Fallen leaves form a layer of brown decaying slimy ooze that never ever dries.
We arrived at the venue to find abandoned drafty farm buildings and the green and brown foliage described above. Everything was wet and the rain just kept coming. I opted to walk some of the course under my trusty umbrella to prolong my dry state. I saw riders out on the course warming up wearing parkas with mud stripes up their backs. This was going to be a slop fest.
I dressed and added an extra layer to peel off before the start and rode my extra wheels way, way, way out to the pit at the far end of the course. I rode the course from the pits back to the starting area. For the first time all year, I didn’t even ride a full loop of the course. I wasn’t quite a hundred percent and the cold cut me to the bone.
At the start line I checked my front tire and it felt hard so I let out a few psi. Then I felt it again and it was softer than a sponge. Big problem and maybe two minutes till the whistle. Panic time. When I had first checked it I had been leaning on my handlebars so my weight on my front tire had made it seem harder than it was. A quick dash to the Kona tent and a friendly pump from a stranger had me race ready. I returned to the starting line and took my spot. I was chatting it up with a guy from Old Town Bikes and I took off my jacket, pants and beanie and tossed them aside. The rain had slowed and I was hoping it hold off. I was wrong.
At the whistle I got a good start and was happy with my position when a few heroes shot past. Forty five year olds dreaming of glory I suppose. On the sweeping right hand downhill we were still flying from the start and a pile up on the right side made my line on the left the only place to be. Three lanes of riders merging into one lane caused me to grab my brakes.
“Holy crap,” I thought as I squeezed my brakes and felt almost nothing. I had switched out my front brakes and put on some new pads. I had meant to ride the CX bike on Friday to break in the pads, but as I said earlier, I felt poorly Friday, so I didn’t ride. I had essentially no warm up today, so my brakes were getting broken in right now! Stoooopid, I thought to myself.
The double track road had some puddles and that just led to splashes. Then the road turned muddy with large car-sized puddles. Most riders were riding single file on some grass to the right of the road but a brave soul in front of me tore through the mud and I elected to do the same. This proved smart as I passed about five riders who had been forced to slow as they took the single line to the right of the bog.
I hit the barrier/run-up combo and moved up again. Some bumpy grass took us past the pits and then another speed draining bog had to be navigated before a slippery, but straight, downhill. Then we were churning up a slippery uphill that required you to sit to keep your back wheel from spinning out and then Batman, more barriers. Then we were on a long boggy mud fest that took herculean strength to keep your bike moving even in your lowest gear. Some elected to run this but running in mud takes a ton of energy and seemed to be slightly, if at all, faster. The end of the bog brought you to a gravel road.
Some tricky turns on slippery grass brought you to a slip and slide descent on an S-curve trail with hill on your left and a cliff with blackberry bushes below it on the right. The climb out of this ravine was slimy and required lots of power to stay upright.
Sam at the bottom of the S-Curve downhill
A couple of grassy loops and then finally onto firm double track to head back to deep speed sucking grass just before the finishing straight.
This was a power course that had a few technical sections. The steep descents were generally handled at a cautious speed and the turns, with few exceptions, were sweepers that asked for power rather than bike handling skills.
I was in between my two teammates. Mike was a few places ahead of me and Dave a few seconds behind with an Old Town rider in between. About half way through the last lap the Old Town rider who I was talking to before the start passed me. I hung on his wheel and would not let go. I passed him on the long bog and he passed me back where the gravel road firmed up. I trailed him through the pits and down the slip and slide S curve. When the grassy turns dumped onto the double track I took the left lane after he took the right. I stood on the pedals and muscled past him. I could sense him giving up and kept the power on through the grassy bog and onto the finishing straight. I finished and rolled up to my teammate Mike who had finished eleventh.
I was fifteenth on the day and the final effort had taken whatever I had left right out of me. I slumped over my bars and fought to catch my breath. The fellow I beat congratulated me and we shook hands. Dave rolled up and was as spent as the rest of us. This was his first really muddy race and he had a look of astonishment. It is hard to believe grown men and women do this for fun. This was a good race and everyone was glad the suffering was over.
The cold rain had increased during the ride and most riders, including myself were sitting second in a race with hypothermia. I left my bike at the team tent and let my pit wheels enjoy the rain as I raced back to the wagon and stripped off the muddy layers. Shoes, gloves, jersey (with number – I’d unpin that at home) and finally knees and bibs all into the wet bag. Standing on a rubber mat with a small towel on top I wrestled dry socks onto my wet feet. I put on layer upon layer as well as my thick beanie and warm gloves. I looked around to see other riders performing their post race rituals. A woman had a blue tarp covering the entire back of the inside of her Subaru and she tossed her muddy bike, soiled clothes and everything else in a heap, apparently without care, no doubt intending to sort it out when she could feel her fingers. At the back of a pick up truck a woman handed her man a coffee thermos which he opened and poured the black contents over his feet to wash and warm them. The steam rising told me it was warm, the lack of screaming told me it wasn’t too hot.
Finally the race weather was cool enough to embrocate. After donning my long sleeve jersey for the first time this racing season and warming up I returned to the wagon and opened my precious jar of gooey heat. Slipping on a latex glove I took a finger full of the orange fire and smeared it on my exposed quads, knees and calves. The warming smell of Cyclocross wafted to my nose. The start at Sprinker seemed all too fast and sketchy for my conservative judgment. I hit the first corner about twenty-fifth and spent the rest of the race moving up. I was running just over thirty psi up front and about thirty-four in back. The tubies bit like vampires and I kept the rubber side down.
After a consistent, though unspectacular 15th place finish, I made my way to the war wagon. The intermittent rain had come and gone during my race. My bike had a thin, but thorough coating of mud and grass. I managed to get it secured for the remainder of the day’s travels, and changed into some dry duds. I found the superstar photographer and provided her minimal support as she shot it up for the next two races.
Although John “The Destroyer” McHale had offered to keep his bike a mono cog for an additional week and let me race that, I had opted to return Sam’s Kona to the mud from which it had originated. The decision turned out to be a lucky one as once again John proved himself the bicycle torture test. His herculean strength resulted in multiple mechanical failures on the varied course. How do you break a brake?
After the 11:15 race we sped to Taco del Mar and refueled our bodies for the remaining items on the agenda. Once we were heading south on I-5 the rain did exactly the opposite of what we had expected and got heavier and harder. Occasional glimpses of blue sky gave us fleeting moments of false hope. Speaking of hope, as the radio signal for the Sounders game faded, so did their playoff hopes. Three miles from the Columbia another deluge told us that while we would surely get wet, the racing in Portland would be epic. On the way down I had placed my gloves, which were wet from my race, over the defroster vents and flipped them every few minutes like pancakes to try and get them dry. On a whim, I had hung my long sleeved jersey on the back of my seat hoping it too might get dry.
We found a parking spot and walked toward the scene of the crime. The riders leaving from their Cross Crusade races looked like battle weary soldiers, covered with mud as if they had been swimming in it. More than one thousand mile stare from these broken souls told me all I needed to know about the course conditions. These spent men and women walked bikes with broken derailleurs, glopped so completely with mud that if someone walked past you with your bike, you wouldn’t recognize it.
We were greeted by the smell of barbeques and wood fires mixed with the scent of frites, waffles and hop beverages. I would say the scene was a circus needing only a juggler, but there was in fact, a woman dressed in black leather juggling torches. Bagpipes competed with several small stereo systems, but the drum corps provided the definitive backbeat for the afternoon festivities.
Battling sensory overload we made our way to secure my race number and get some finer points on the schedule for the race activities. Back at the war wagon I ducked under the tailgate as the rain kept coming and dug out clothes for my second race of the day. I was delighted to find my jersey had dried so the short sleeve jersey and arm warmers stayed clean in the bag. I put on clean bibs, knee warmers and undershirt. Sealskin waterproof socks were the ticket, although I put my 20/20 colors on over them. While image isn’t everything, it is something. Lastly I put Kevin’s super fro hair over my helmet as some level of costume was de’ rigueur for the day.
We lined up semi- Le Mans style. Those wearing thongs, skirts, tighty-whities, or shirtless were fighting off hypothermia waiting for the starting Whistle. I spotted Jenny in her 20/20 kit with an added fairy skirt for effect. She had a foot or so of course tape attached to her helmet to indicate she was one of the fairer gender riders. This seemed odd to me as NO amount of mud could result in the males who were cross dressing being mistaken for women.
The start had the expected chaos of two hundred and fifty riders squeezing onto a course that was ten feet wide. The run up was steep, crowded and slippery. Then we hit an off camber of oozing mud that I never figured out the best way to navigate. I ran it twice and rode it twice, each time convinced that what I had just done was wrong.
Quickly we were headed up a slippery hill that you just had to muscle/run/swim/slip/claw your way up and then your silent prayers were answered. After thinking, “enough slippery uphill,” you hit a downhill that you had to pedal to get moving. Though once moving, pedaling, braking or coasting had no effect on your speed as you slid down and onto pavement. Going fast felt strange and soon you were sliding down another steep off-camber and then pavement again. Then we did an infield loop where you could receive offers of bacon or beer while enjoying barriers. Finally we heading out to remote mud bogs alternated with sections of gravel road forcing an ever changing cadence. A hub deep one hundred meter pond provided the full spectrum experience.
Then returning to where you started you rode through the Thunderdome A monkey bar dome thirty feet high that would have made Buckminster Fuller proud. Swinging inside were cunning assassins trying to knock unlucky riders to the ground. Having climbed up the outside of the structure were screaming fans that kept up a raucous roar in the dome. After escaping the din you repeated the carnage of the lap described above until the day was done.
The costumes were plentiful, to the point where riders just wearing team uniforms looked out of place. Popes, Friars, Missionaries, Nuns, and Men dressed in Parochial school girl uniforms only added to the blasphemous atmosphere. Odd bikes, including a big wheel (I mean a really big wheel, 48” in diameter) and built for purpose tandems made it at least one lap. Those of us less encumbered, were able to enjoy multiple laps.
When the race officials finally shouted, “you’re done,” it was received with mixed emotions. The conditions of the course meant everyone had to work hard just to make it around. Costumes only added to the challenge. However, being part of the spectacle and having fans screaming for you, felt so good I was sad to see it end.
Sam’s bike was by now, unrecognizable. If not for Kevin’s “trolling” wig, my own sweet wife would have been unable to spot me. Back at the wagon, I hosed the bike and brushed off the globs. Laying down protection from the mud, I carefully put the bike INSIDE the car for what was to be a rainy drive home.
Then I peeled off sopping wet muddy layers and put on clean, dry clothes. My dirty clothes sack was bulging from two wet races. I splashed water on my face and wiped it (almost) clean. While the photographer edited photos on the Mac most of the way home I enjoyed the remnants of tingling warmth from the morning’s embrocation. I also smiled a weary smile, warmed by the memory of pulling off the long distance double cross.
Locally EMP is the widely recognized term for Experience Music Project. EMP could be considered the coolest guitar collection ever, or kind of a huge, and really ugly Hard Rock Café that serves lousy food. Alas, I have digressed.
ECP is an acronym for Effective Candle Power a.k.a. Candelas; a measure of light intensity. My aviation career has allowed me to dabble in some weird corners of the technical universe and this bit of trivia was found in one such corner. This morning on my 32 mile ride that was finished before sunrise, the already pathetically flaccid headlight on my bike ate through its batteries and I had to strain to see what I was riding on/into. I was at this same time contemplating what unit of measure would be less than a single ECP? Less light than a single candle, that would have to be a match. So I figure my light (The WUSSY 1000) was putting out an estimated 1.5 EMP (Effective Match Power) on my ride this morning.
Don’t get me wrong, I had a good ride this morning. My light still sucks, but I figure I only have four or five more opportunities to be run over in the dark before the end of Cyclocross season. And once the season ends, I can’t imagine what would motivate me to get up at four something and log thirty to fifty miles in the dead dark of winter. My hope that my blog followers would vote at the 2009 annual Evo Davo fanfest to raise funds for a real light can be postponed until the days are long once again.
The little romance we were having with a mild fall has ended abruptly. The weekend started off very well, and there was sunshine Saturday. Despite the good weather, our list of accomplishments for Saturday was short.
With increased photographic ambitions, Hottie was loaded for bear Sunday morning. On the way to the race we scooped up my good friend Johnny B and were treated to an eastern sky that went from orange to pink before turning grey and threatening. I considered the fact that the sky matched our team’s accent colors a good omen. We had Betty the Beast with us and her cheering was a definite inspiration. I won’t go into much detail here, but suffice to say, that woman knows what to do with a cowbell.
I was a little rushed getting ready for the race, but I can’t say it mattered in the end. It was fun to see John with a number his back as well as my teammates all clustered together waiting for the start. I got a good start and the tubies were wondermus. The course suited me. There were four climbs; one long, steady and paved, two short, steep, grassy and bumpy, and one long and loose on gravel. In between those you tried to catch your breath and I even passed some on the downhills. Before you get excited, I was passed on the downhills as well. I passed people on the climbs every lap. I was glad to have good legs, as opposed to the meat sticks I was forced to spin last week.
On the last lap I was running out of gas, which I still attribute to my light training the previous two weeks. My two teammates passed me in unison and I hung onto Mike to finish 15th to his 14th. Another teammate collected a top ten finish. I can only suppose that with health, I could have joined in the top ten as well.
After the race I always wonder if I could have put out more effort. While I was riding back to the starting line to get my warm up jacket, I got out of the saddle for a little acceleration, and my quads clearly let me know they were angry with me. The pain told me loud and clear I should be happy with my race; and I am.
After Hottie snapped about a thousand more frames we went to her mom’s house where I first pulled down the awnings, then solved the Kohler puzzle, then installed new (old) sink fixtures. Finally after Hottie did some pruning in the rain, we finished the to-do list and returned home for photo editing and the remaining weekend chores that were awaiting our return.
The Beast follows the geese south for the winter this week, and we are left to endure the fun of winter in her absence. Those of us who remain will begin making plans for Bastille Day with The Beast.
For anyone with excessive spare time who follows this blog (and if you follow this blog, you have too much spare time) you may have noted my comments on my early morning rides this year beginning with commuting miles in the heart of winter and then fun pre work miles beginning in late May. Now it is dark and cold and these are pure training miles. When ‘Cross ends for 2009, so will these rides. In the meantime, I put on layers and continue my endless quest for the perfect glove for the given day. FYI; my trusty old PI full fingered gloves have a hole in the fingertip and I could feel that today.
About riding in the dark; Lights..
In the darkness, these rides are experiments in sensory deprivation. I suffer from light envy, but the price tag scares me away every time. Thus I ride with my feeble pale beam giving me cryptic hints of what lies ahead. When I am climbing at ten miles an hour the beam is fine, if not slightly forward of my relevant field of view. When I am churning on the Sammamish River Trail at twenty miles an hour in the darkness, the light only serves to let me know where the bushes are, and by determining where they are not, I am able to deduce where the trail is. The light doesn’t pick up the bumps, holes, and encroaching roots on the paved trail, so the unseen terrain throws me around. I label the bone jarring as ‘cross training, and thus justify the jostling. On the descents at thirty miles an hour the light is pitiful and I find myself contemplating my mortality every time. This morning I decided to purchase a ROAD ID so they can identify my broken body.
When I encounter other riders on the trail they are nearly all commuters who have amazing bright lights that blind me. As I see spots and struggle to stay upright and on the trail, I am reminded of a boyhood experience when my father took me to a college baseball field. The field was huge compared to my little league field and from home plate I couldn’t even throw the ball to the outfield grass on the fly. I realized I was a boy on a field made for men. That same feeling of inferiority hit me hard as I found myself passing rider after rider going the opposite direction with their laser beam lights virtually warming the asphalt as they passed. Meanwhile, I became aware I was defiling the bike trail with my wussy light. I felt inclined to apologize to the manly (and womanly) early morning hard core riders. I was glad when I was able to turn off the trail and make my way home on the less travelled side streets.
My level of interest when I awake for these early morning forays varies greatly. Today I was actually eager to go. Without fail when I finish every one of these I am energized and feel alive and grateful for the gift of the ride.
Trivia: Can you identify the National Champion who is fixing her chain ?
Building a bike can be a special experience. Getting the components installed and tuned so they function together in such a way that they almost become invisible. The rider is able to shift through gears, stopping and accelerating without having to give the mechanics a thought. The bike becomes an extension of the rider; efficiently translating energy into motion.
The individual parts, or components, usually fit together with little difficulty and the actual build can become fairly methodical. The resulting product works well, but because that is what was expected, there is not much of a thrill.
Then there is wheel building.
When I was first getting starting in cycling my friend Felix told me that building wheels was where the real fun was. Although I valued his opinion greatly, I generally dismissed this statement. However, I do still remember that he said it, so I must have given it minimal consideration.
In the past few years I have built a number of wheels and I find it a magical experience every time. You take a hoop, a hub, and a handful of flimsy wires and you make sturdy wheels that you, or someone, puts their faith and trust in. This isn’t like trusting someone to pay you back five bucks you loaned them. If a wheel fails there is no happy ending. A wheel failure won’t happen at six miles an hour meandering on a bike path. It will happen at thirty miles per hour as you’re leaning over taking a corner, or when you are braking hard. Wheels ONLY fail at the worst possible moments. This is what is at stake and why wheel building is not something to be taken lightly.
At first you feel like a kid trying to carry too many things as the spokes flail in the hub while you start lacing them into the rim. When you have finally put all of the spokes in, but not tightened them, the spokes seem like shiny noodles. It looks like a wheel, but the spokes billow out, the graceful arcs like long blades of grass bending in the wind. At this point you can’t believe this tumbleweed of wire will ever evolve into something sturdy and safe.
Then with the patience of an artist, I begin tightening the spokes. While this is kind of a science, a mechanical operation to an outside observer, it feels like art. In my mind, a piece of art must be balanced. I seek that same balance for obvious reasons. I tighten the spokes and then make the wheel round. I then set out to make it straight. Then I tighten it more. I repeat this process as often as needed and feel no hurry. I am in a Zen like state and time stands still. I can’t say it is a spiritual experience, but to see the transformation feels like magic.
I have always enjoyed working with my hands. When I was in my early teens, my shop teacher at school told me I should think about woodworking as a career. When I finally pronounce the wheel “done” I am again that happy child eager to show off my bird house or cutting board. I call in family members and show them my pride and joy as the wheels spins silently in my Park Truing Stand. There it is, Shiny as a new penny, straight as an arrow, strong as steel, light as a feather and as ready for action as a groom on his honeymoon.
Now, on to the gluing of the tubular….
