Tommy's Bicycle Shop

CONSTELLATION: URSA MAJOR

Tommy's — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 21:32:31 +0000

The first lightning strike shakes my pots and casts shadows through the open end of my tent. Leaves become tentacles, branches become arms. The spark bounces off my crankset like an angry eye and I blink, as though that might save me.
I’m alone in the campground, my tent pitched not twenty feet from the Lochsa River in northern Idaho. The evening had been cloudless, hot and still, but the night has no such attitude. I just want to sleep. After 115 miles in the saddle with a touring load, a sad dinner of potatoes and apples and nuts——too much white food, give me a peach, or a leaf of spinach——I just want to sleep. I worry over little things, like the thirty dollars in my wallet and the small roll of food stamps that needs to last me another 400 miles.
I don’t know what time it is, other than the night, sometime after sunset and before sunrise. Sweating on top of my sleeping bag. Mosquito bitten, but too hot to slip inside. The lightning isn’t helping. Between strikes there is only the rush of water and the absolutely black night. The metallic scent of the light’s arc. I wait——for sleep, for its interruption. Another strike, this one nearly on top of me, the crack rippling over my tent. I’m on my elbows now, watching the show, trying not to blink. I wait for things to move, but all I get is the shimmering afterburn of images: my orange panniers, my bicycle leaning against the scarred bark of a tree, wild berries, skeletal branches, and the purple edge of my tent. I don’t know why I expected a world of black and white. Maybe I wanted the reprise of old movies I had watched as a child, the comfort of imagination.
The first rustle of brush surprises me. The wind? Raindrops? A wet snort punctuates the darkness, my tentflap bends and presses against my shoulder. I don’t feel alone anymore. This isn’t the show I want. My heart refuses to find its rhythm. The next strike finds me ogling a bear’s tongue as he tosses his head and slaps my bicycle with his paw. Is this the circus? The thunder is more in my chest than the sky. I can’t hear anything past the thump-thump that fills my tent. The bear is ten feet away, sniffing at my panniers.
I run the inventory in my head. I don’t have any food packed away. Maybe a candy bar. Maybe the scent of yesterday’s hotdog stuck to my handkerchief. Some dirty clothes that even I don’t want.
The sky quiets. No light. Just his sounds, scrounging, scuffing the dirt, slapping my chain. Make noise, I think. With what? My pots are outside, at the firepit. I have a belt. What am I supposed to beat the buckle on? My head? Light a match. A match? That’s so stupid I almost laugh, but I’m voiceless. I know, because I test my mouth, try to whisper, and all I get is a pathetic croak.
My bicycle scrapes down the tree. The chain rattles against the frame. Another bolt of lightning. I watch a claw catch my left pannier, strip the bag off its rack, and heave it toward the water. My bicycle flips onto its front wheel. Stands there, as the light flickers off. Blackness, but for the blue afterburn on my eyes. The bear gets bigger when I can’t see him, and I allow that, because something has to justify the thump in my chest.
I can smell him now. Hear him nosing through my pots. Then nothing. Not a sound. A few big drops thrum on the tent, in the stiff brush near the shore. The river. The dim roll of the storm, slipping away down the valley. Blackness.
I just want to sleep, or I want the sunrise, but I’m not going to get either. I lie awake, listening harder than I ever have. I don’t know how long until first light. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, so I continue to lie as still as possible. An hour. Two. I don’t have a watch. Damn my romantic streak, foregoing time. I think I can make out the ridge on the other side of the river. Is that light in the sky? Color seeps into the landscape. First color. I can rise. I will myself to sit up. Wipe the sweat off my chest. I just want to be on the road.
My bicycle is splattered with mud. One pannier is gone. I peek around the tentflap. I’m alone. I feel alone. The trail to the water is a narrow dirt track. I need to rinse off. I have to move. The light gives me courage. I step from my tent and make my way to the water. I kneel on the shore, cup the cold water in my hands. I find my pannier, lying atop the brush, fully intact. I smile at my fortune. I search, but see no sign of the bear…except for the paw print at my knee. I decide to eat my breakfast on the road.

Climbing 101: When to shift and other wisdom

Tommy's — Sat, 01 Oct 2011 21:45:27 +0000

Climbing 101 (and shifting, and riding style, and a whole bunch of other stuff that just crossed my mind while riding with my daughter on Wednesday)

This is for all of you, no matter how good you think you are on the hills.
First, let’s talk about cadence, the number of revolutions your cranks turn per minute. Just a crude rule of thumb: subtract half your age from 110. If you’re 40 and healthy, and you’re riding on the flats, you should be stroking your pedals at a rate of approximately 90 revolutions per minute. If you’re not, shift down a gear or two and pick up your cadence. I don’t want you bouncing on the saddle, so work to be smooth. If you’ve been grinding along at 70 rpm for the last several years, it may take you a while to work up to a reasonable cadence. Be patient, be smooth, and pedal a bit faster with each ride. You will think this makes you slower, using lower gears. Before long, you may be surprised to learn that you will be faster, you will recover from the efforts of accelerations and hill climbing faster, and you will have more endurance.
Now, on to climbing, which feeds off the information you just learned. First, I’ll talk about rollers, those little rises and falls we seem to have a lot of in Yamhill County. As you reach the bottom of a small descent, you should be pedaling pretty fast. As you begin to rise, just as you feel your cadence begin to slow, shift down. This will keep your rpm’s high and efficient. The rise is maybe 100 feet, and you feel your cadence slow again. Shift down again. This won’t mean you’re less of a man or a woman to shift down. The idea is to keep your pedal rate high, surge over the top of the roller, and shift up as you begin to accelerate down. Your momentum will carry you part of the way up the next rise, but don’t DO NOT try to power over the rise at a low cadence, because all you will do is slow down, unnecessarily fatigue your muscles, and look like a hack. If you have the power to push that big gear over the top without losing form, that’s different.
About form. If your wheels are weaving back and forth on the road to a width greater than that of your cranks (minus your pedals!) your form is not so good. You’re riding farther than you need to, you’re wasting energy that is not making you faster, and you are wreaking havoc on your chain, cogs and cranks. Ideally, you would ride a perfectly straight line. While that is pretty much impossible, there’s not reason not to aspire to that. You become more trustworthy in a paceline, and you are safer in traffic.
The real climb. The one that gives you self-worth, a sense of accomplishment, that makes you stronger, and reminds you of why you ride in the first place. Let’s make this climb a short one, with a false flat, and steeper rise at the top, 3 miles in length. You hit the base at 17 miles per hour and you ATTACK! Your bike weaves back and forth, your tires squirm on the road, your lungs start foaming out of your nose! If this is you, stop now, get off your bike, and eat some of those blackberries growing alongside the road. Erase what you think you know about climbing. Climbing, more than any other aspect of cycling, requires you to ride within yourself. Everything I’ve mentioned up to this point now applies, but is even more important because you will be climbing for maybe 15 to 20 minutes. If you blow your lungs up in the first 3 minutes, this will be a lousy ride. You’ll never recover enough to be safe on the blistering downhill, or to enjoy that 10 mile flat with the wind at your back. You will be MESSED UP. Ride this hill just like you would the rollers. Shift before your cadence begins to slow. Shift again as you feel the strain. Shift again, and again, and again. If you reach your lowest gear, realize now you have to work a little harder to maintain cadence, to be smooth, to be efficient. Your cadence will drop from its higher levels when climbing. That’s okay. But strive to be smooth, to not weave back and forth, to keep breathing at a rate that won’t have the EMT’s worried about you. If you’re slower than your riding companions, SO BE IT. When you come to the false flat—false because it’s not really flat, and really isn’t much of a break. You can accelerate here, or if you need, recover by not shifting up so many gears but by increasing your spin rate and going easy—relax. Enjoy, because the next mile of climbing is going to be painful. It’s steeper than your fearless friends told you. As the road rises, shift as before, always before your cadence slows. At low gear, settle into a cadence you can maintain. I’m not a huge proponent of standing, because it unsettles your rhythm, but it can help you surge over the steeper humps in the road. But even if you stand, try to be as smooth as possible. Oftentimes, it’s advisable to shift up a gear before you stand, because you tend to work at a much slower cadence out of the saddle than in, unless you’re Lance Armstrong. But rhythm is most important throughout this climb.
At the top, spin for a bit before allowing yourself to shift up and accelerate.
Depending on your condition and experience, some of this may be intuitive. If you ride at a relatively high level, you may blanch at some of these suggestions, but maintaining cadence and smoothness over a long ride will be traits you recognize are necessary to recovering from a strenuous climb—so you can continue to ride.
If all this seems confusing or unnecessarily complex, remember to shift early, be smooth. Always.

The Bicycle Wizard Talks About Important Stuff

admin — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 07:22:06 +0000

My last ride – geez. it was three inches of rain ago. Until Wednesday morning. The sun sizzled through the morning fog, the coast range shouldered up against the day’s impending downpour, and I thought I was safe. I slipped on my tights, a winter jersey, a jacket. Just a morning cruise. Nothing fast, nothing to get my heart into my throat.Meadow Lake Road, the sun at my back, fall in my lungs. 35 minutes, maybe 45 tops. Just taking my legs out for a romp. I even wore my sunglasses, so when I turned around the sun wouldn’t blind me. Life is sweet.

I dropped over the bump above Panther Creek Road into shadow. Slid between the hills rising north and south and into the first little rise of the coast range. A little steam curling off my skin. Even a light, pleasant sweat under my jersey. Not a car on the road. Nothing but a little bluster out of the west. I put my head down and accelerated up the rise. Found a rhythm and looked up the road. My view was blocked by trees. A flock of leaves sprinted across my path.

The first drop, fat and juicy, slapped my cheek. Ain’t nothing, I assured myself. The second one pinged on my helmet, another slid down my neck. I reached my turnaround point at the turn-off to Flying M Ranch and swung back to the east. I could outrun this weather. The tailwind would spank me all the way home and, while I wouldn’t need my sunglasses, I’d be rewarded with speed. I cranked up a big gear, pounced on the downhill grade. A gust smacked my side. I could outrun this weather. I careened into a sharp left-hand bend, set up for the sweeping right.

Right, I told myself. To the right. The wind fought against my turn, pushed me to the centerline of the road. At the turn’s apex, a wall of rain smacked me in the chest and face. I buried my head and – wasn’t I going downhill, wasn’t the wind my friend, wasn’t I going to outrun this squall? My legs told me otherwise. I shifted down. Instead of 28 miles per hour, I struggled to hold 18. The road flattened as I drifted through a left-hand turn. The east. My friend. A spot of sun burned on the horizon. I squinted into it, just to prove I could. The wind swept over the top of me. Soon I would be in its slipstream, gliding home. The short rise about Panther Creek Road, not even a whisper of breeze, then topping the hill. The long, sweet straight stretch before my homeward turn. I’d ridden this piece of road so many times, even on the slow days clipped off the two miles at 20-plus miles per hour. I shifted into the big ring.

Whoosh! No, not me accelerating, but a wall of wind and rain screaming at me to shift down, shift down! 16 miles per hour. 14. 11. I was in danger of falling over. I was nearing single digits. And I was cold. Underdressed in my long jersey and jacket, gloves, tights, helmet liner. I was soaked in 10 seconds. Three miles from home and probably 15 minutes the way I was going. A log truck ground past me, throwing up a fog of wet stuff and exhaust. The wind buffeted me from the front, both sides. In surprising moments, I dropped into a vacuum. I accelerated, only to be pushed roughly back at the next stroke.

I made the turn homeward. Usually I relax there, but my nose was numb, my left knee was keeping beat to a bad song, rain ran from my chin and down my neck and chest, my sunglasses were all fogged up and I wanted to be home.

And I was, some 7 minutes later. I stashed my bicycle in the garage and dripped into the back porch. Emily was just pulling a teabag from a hot cup of tea. She’s been on many of these bad weather adventures with me, and so can empathize. She took a long look at me and said:

“Huh. Looks like you had fun.”

Big Mike Ponders:

“Whatever happened to just getting on a bike and going for a ride – without all the gimmicks?”

When Two Wheels Meet Four

admin — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 07:21:09 +0000

I heard the words every father wants to hear from his son who lives 700 miles away.

“First of all, I’m okay.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“I was really stupid.”

Three years ago my son, Tony, was entering his last year at St. Mary’s College of California. True to the family genetic code, he found release from the general angst of becoming an adult by disappearing for hours on his bicycle. Steepest climb for a hundred miles around? He’s there with a smile. No matter that he would have to wrestle the traffic of Oakland or Walnut Creek. He’s a savvy rider. He should be. I screamed him through his cycling coming of age on the roads and trails of Yamhill County. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t terrified of letting him ride off on his own. I still am.

Tony was just playing that day, on his way to Mt. Diablo. Cruising along the bicycle path west of Walnut Creek at 20 miles per hour. Traffic streaming past, halting and jerking at every intersection. 65 degrees already and the scent of eucalyptus. He would torture his father with that when he called to tell him about his ride, knowing that Yamhill County was wet and, with luck, 45 degrees. He accelerated from the stop sign, keeping up with the traffic, playing a game at beating them off the mark.

That Jaguar that just passed him? A little burst of speed and he’d catch it. That would be fun. Mt. Diablo already heating up in the late morning sun to the east. Having to squint even through his sunglasses. A ribbon of sweat running off his cheek. Feeling pretty much invincible, as every 22 year old should.

The traffic kicked up to 25 miles per hour. Just as Tony pulled even with the Jaguar, the driver, without signaling, decided on another course than the one straight ahead. Right turn. Tony recognized the maneuver immediately. Not even enough time to touch his brakes. The vehicle swung toward the narrow side road. Pure instinct, Tony leaped upward, pulling his bicycle with him. The Jaguar was now broadside to him, still rolling innocently across the bike lane.

Bicycle and rider rose even with the front end of the car. The bicycle’s back wheel clipped the Jaguar’s fender, causing my son’s body to slam shoulder and hip onto the hood. Tony’s pedal dug into the waxed paint of the Jaguar, etching his signature there. He tumbled off the car, striking his shoulder and helmet on the pavement. His body skidded into the traffic lane.

Fortunately, the following vehicle had seen the entire event develop. The driver stopped, fully aware of the stunned cyclist and the even more stunned driver of the Jaguar. Tony asked himself the questions every cyclist does after a fall: Is this the ground? How did I get here? Where does it hurt?

The driver of the Jaguar rolled down her window. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m all right.” Spoken from the pavement.

Tony rolled to his feet. He checked for blood. Not even a road rash, except a little rawness he felt on his shoulder. He noted the huge scar on the hood of the Jaguar. The woman smiled at him and said, “I’m glad you’re okay.” The she quickly drove away.

Tony pulled his bike off the roadway, exchanged a “Wow!” glance with the driver who had stopped, and took a deep breath. As the son of bicycle shop owners, he knew to check his bicycle for any damage. Not a scratch. Then, as the traffic accelerated past, he thought to sit down. The first words he said to himself: “Man, that was stupid.” He wasn’t talking about the driver of the Jaguar.
My son was in the right of way. He was riding legally, properly, and had every right to be where he was. He was very lucky. His mistake was the assumption that a motorist would see him when he was on her right. His mistake was an unwillingness to give up the right of way to a heavier and much more deadly vehicle.

This past winter two cyclists were killed in Portland while exercising their right of way. One was passing on the right in a bike lane at an intersection. Both of these deaths involved trucks turning right, completely unaware of the cyclists rolling beside them. Both deaths were tragically unnecessary. The truck drivers were unaware of their surroundings, and the cyclists violated one of my personal cardinal rules: rarely pass a vehicle on the right, and never in an intersection.

As cyclists, we can be nearly invisible, especially in the early morning or late evening hours when the sun is low. We just want to get to where we’re going, maybe enjoy a conversation with a fellow cyclist along the way. But we must be ever vigilant. We must follow the same rules as motorists, but we must be ready to yield at every instance. Shouting doesn’t make us heard. Waving our arms in the air doesn’t make us seen.

More and more cyclists are taking to the road as the weather improves. More and more cyclists are being born in a simple effort to combat the rising price of gas. Not all of us have experience with traffic. While it is our duty to obey the laws of the road and to be courteous, I believe it is also our duty to yield when we may not want to: our safety demands it. I have witnessed overly aggressive cyclists as well as nearly unconscious drivers. Both are a danger, and both must make a greater effort to contribute to each other’s safety on the road.
“First of all, I’m okay.”

I can live with that.

“I was really stupid.”

Yup. I can live with that, too. The fact that he’s able to say it.