In contemporary writer Nicholson Baker’s charming novel, The Mezzanine, the narrator ruminates at length about why the shoelaces on both of his shoes break within three days of one another. I was similarly puzzled when not just the front, but also, within minutes, the rear brake cable snapped on my bike, leaving me momentarily in free-fall mode through the trails of Longfellow Creek in West Seattle.
Fortunately, thanks to the largesse of LWC Kevin, who gifted me with a well-wrapped spare, I was able—with the assertive assistance of tehSchkott—to do a field repair on the front, which enabled me to take it easy-ish to Lincoln Park, where Dravis, who had scaled one of those ridiculous uphill grades in the neighborhood to swing by his house and pick up another replacement, presented me with all I needed to complete the job on the rear, thus rendering my bike once again serviceable in the stopping department, and thereby giving me the confidence to resume indulging in the usual sort of indulgences that make Thursday night out on bikes so memorable, albeit often difficult to fully recall.
I’ve heard it referred to as the “Ben Greening School of Bike Maintenance;” that’s where you don’t do any repairs on your rig until something breaks and while I wouldn’t necessarily recommend it as an ongoing strategy, it certainly works when you’re surrounded by such a large group of generous and well-prepared colleagues.
I shudder to think what I’d have done had my cables failed when I was all by myself, perhaps even towing the trailer down some steep Seattle hill.
Safety may come third in our shared hierarchy of cycling values, but number one in my heart is being able to behave with some reckless abandon knowing that there are those around who can help break your fall, even if your own ability to slow down is entirely compromised.
As long as there’s some way to stop, off we go!
Fortunately, thanks to the largesse of LWC Kevin, who gifted me with a well-wrapped spare, I was able—with the assertive assistance of tehSchkott—to do a field repair on the front, which enabled me to take it easy-ish to Lincoln Park, where Dravis, who had scaled one of those ridiculous uphill grades in the neighborhood to swing by his house and pick up another replacement, presented me with all I needed to complete the job on the rear, thus rendering my bike once again serviceable in the stopping department, and thereby giving me the confidence to resume indulging in the usual sort of indulgences that make Thursday night out on bikes so memorable, albeit often difficult to fully recall.
I’ve heard it referred to as the “Ben Greening School of Bike Maintenance;” that’s where you don’t do any repairs on your rig until something breaks and while I wouldn’t necessarily recommend it as an ongoing strategy, it certainly works when you’re surrounded by such a large group of generous and well-prepared colleagues.
I shudder to think what I’d have done had my cables failed when I was all by myself, perhaps even towing the trailer down some steep Seattle hill.
Safety may come third in our shared hierarchy of cycling values, but number one in my heart is being able to behave with some reckless abandon knowing that there are those around who can help break your fall, even if your own ability to slow down is entirely compromised.
As long as there’s some way to stop, off we go!
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