1. I both hate and won’t do without certain cycling-related things.

2. I’m a whiny, unappreciative bitch.

3. I spend way too much time wishing cycling was like it was in the good old days. You know, “when I was a kid.”

Here is a list of the things I’ve realized that I hate, but also am not willing to do without. Because, in the end, regardless of inconvenience, they have value. and provide conveniences of their own.

Filling tires before every ride.

For instance, I’m sick and tired of having to check my tires every single damn time I take my bike out, else I risk one (or multiple) flats.

Because when I was a kid (Go ahead, roll your eyes. I understand.) if my tire wasn’t flat it was good enough. And how many flats did I get by being completely oblivious to my air pressure? Less than one per year.

Now I get a flat every time I just wish I could ignore it. Which means that I probably have one right this moment.

On the other hand, I love my air pump, it’s cool gauge, and that I don’t have to walk my bike to a gas station to fill my tires.

Cycling Shorts.

When I was a kid I’d ride my bike all day long, every day of the week, all summer break, and never have an buttache.

There were no fookin’ cycling shorts, and if their were I would have scoffed at them.

I do appreciate the added comfort my cycling shorts allow me, and the fact that their skinny little pad actually protects my hinterparts better than any cushioned, springy seat. But it irks me no end that I need them, need to spend money on them, need to take time to put them on, need to wash them separately so they last as long as possible.

Cycling Computers.

Why do I need one of these things? I never cared how far I rode, what the exact percent grade a hill was, my exact speed, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, when I was a kid. I just went.

Now I feel naked if I don’t have my Garmin with me. Or, God forbid, its battery should die while I’m out on a ride. Please, Sweet Baby Jeebus, forbid it.

And it’s worse than that.

When I got my first cycling computer just having it was good enough. Then I obsessed over knowing how fast and how far it’d gone, then about keeping typed logs of my progress. Now, a simple, basic computer is not enough. I. Must. Have. A. Garmin (until there’s some reasonably priced and reliable substitute).

It’s pathetic.

Knowing that it’s pathetic I will continue to obsess over it, and continue to hate that I need it at all.

Oiling Chain and adjusting derailleur cables.

I actually did keep up with oiling my chain when I was a kid, because it helped extend chain life.

But now, instead of grabbing my dad’s oil can, which was full of car oil, and clicking a few drops onto the chain and gears, I need some stupid fookin’ special chain oil. Dry chain oil, wet chain oil. Because the Universe may come to an end if whatever kind of oil is better for whatever type of bike in whatever conditions isn’t used.

But what really irks me about all this is that it isn’t just my chain anymore. Now it’s my derailleurs, too.

Because in oiling the derailleurs I save wear and tear on the cables and increase the amount of time I need between tuneups / cable adjustments.

Ya know what? I never adjusted a derailleur cable when I was a kid. I’d ride my bike till the cable broke (usually 3 or 4 years), my dad would put a new cable on and adjust whatever needed adjusting, and blammy, another few years of riding ahead of me.

Why are cables and derailleurs made to such whimpy-arse standards that they have to be babied like . . . well, like babies? Why?

Which brings me to . . .

Cables and chains.

Modern cables and chains stretch like freakin’ Stretch Armstrong (who I’m pretty sure is no relation to His Deposed Holiness Lance Armstrong).

Yeah, the above mentioned oiling of derailleurs helps keep cables from stretching, but (say it with me), when I was a kid this was never a problem. There was no constant cable adjusting, no oiling of derailleurs because you trembled with fear over the possibility of your cable stretching and you might lose the ability to shift properly in the middle of a long ride.

And when I was a kid you didn’t have to so swap out your chain every year, two years at most, because they’d stretched so far that it affects your derailleur’s ability to adjust and to shift properly.

No, if you had a bike for 10 years, chances were you had the same chain on it the whole time. If it sagged you maybe pulled a link off of it (and cursed what a pain in the behindwards it was to do so, but that’s another story) and threw it back on.

The only time you ever got a new chain was when it snapped. Though they didn’t usually actually snap. They tended to brake on one side of a single link. Yes, due to lack of oiling, which quickly taught you to love your dad’s oil can full of car oil. See above.

Pedals.

There were no “platform pedals,” “clipelss pedals,” yada, yada, yada. It was just pedals.

Toe straps were an abomination.

Now I have these mechanical “clipless” pedals. Sure, they keep my feet from slipping off when it’s wet out or when the road or trail is bumpy, and once you get used to “clipping in” and “clipping out” (idiotic terms, considering that they’re called “clipless” pedals) they’re safer than riding platform pedals (which should just be called “pedals” and left at that).

It isn’t so much the fact of needing them that bothers me. It’s the additional expense, the special shoes (another additional expense).

And guess what? You have to fooking oil them to keep them operating smoothly! MORE oil for another prima donna, prissy, pansy-arse bike part.

Prep time.

But the thing that really gets me steamed is that all of this means that I can’t just roll my bike out the back door, throw my leg over the saddle and take off pedaling.

No, each of these things adds time and effort to the ride, BEFORE THERE EVEN IS A RIDE!

A few minutes to dig out my special cycling shorts and wiggle into them. A few more minutes to wiggle out of them later, and still a few more to hand wash them or to wash them separately on gentle so that I can get the greatest amount of use out of them (because they’re stupidly expensive and I can’t afford to replace them).

A few minutes to check the tire pressure and inflate to whatever PSI is needed.

A few minutes to get the oil out, oil the chain, the derailleurs, the clipless pedals.

A few minutes to get the Garmin off the charger, clip it into its cradle, turn it on, let it cycle through it’s start up and find satellites.

A few minutes to get out my special clipless pedal shoes, change into them, get the laces tucked away so the don’t snag on the chain.

More than the individual items themselves, it’s the time they require in advance of a ride EVERY DAMN RIDE, that really drive me bat guano crazy.

The benefits of all these things – bike shorts, cycling computers, light-weight cables, chains and derailleurs, clipless pedals – once they’re added up, come with a godawful lot of inconvenience and added expense. Yet, they bring enough good, enough of their own types of convenience to the table that I am not willing to do without them.

Instead I just whine and complain about them, while simultaneously being thankful that I have them (kind of).

Why can’t cycling be more simple and less costly? Like when I was a kid.

AG2R

I have a grudging respect for a team who, in the face of universal bitching over their corporate colours, have refused to bow to peer pressure and face 2014 with a raucous ‘Fuck you! MOAR BROWN!’.  This strategy might prove a little dangerous, as none of the riders will be targeting their respective National Championships for fear of ending up riding a season dressed like Mr Hankey the Christmas Poo.

Most likely to be seen:  doing absolutely nothing all year then winning a middle-week stage of the Tour.

Astana

What happens when you take the meanest motherfuckers from the hardest European cycling gulags, and dress them for season upon season in turquoise and lemon?  This is the psychological experiment the Kazakh Mini-Cyc has been conducting sine 2007, with mixed success.  This year they’ve ramped up the turquoise to try and make Nibali really angry.

Most likely to be seen:  frantically deleting emails.

BMC

It looks like the budget for developing a new kit design was blown on Cadel Evans’ HRT and Taylor Phinney’s Brylcream allowance.  The once edgy and stylish BMC get-up is now looking a little tired.  Consider this a written request for a re-boot in 2015.

Most likely to be seen:  very quietly replacing the old guard with a new generation.

Belkin

Although I’m totes over the rake of black ‘wish we wore Rapha’ kits that have cropped up for this year, I like the simple style of this one.  And I like that Belkin are pioneering a brave new ‘Your Name Here’ sponsorship strategy for the major races.  And, because I’m nothing if not contrary, I like the Belkin green with the Bianchi Celeste on the bikes too, so ner*.

Most likely to be seen:  balls deep in a blood feud with Movistar.

*The Cyclist wishes it to be known that he has attempted to point out to me just how utterly wrong I am about this.

Cannondale

Everyone’s favourite bum-pinching, beard-dying, Slovakian mean green biking machine and his henchmen keep their 2013 look.  At least it’s not black.

Most likely to be seen:  with matching collars and cuffs.

Europcar

Very minor changes from the 2013 jersey for Europcar’s step back up to the top ranks, sticking with the dark green ‘n’ black.  Following the sad demise of Euskaltel, I’ll personally be looking to Europcar to take up the mantle of peloton skittles.  And I’m pleased to report they’re already starting well on this track with Voeckler’s Australian collarbone antics.

Most likely to be seen:  wearing spotty shorts in July.

FDJ

It is with a heavy heart I still mourn the loss of the perv-tastic white wet-weather danger kit, with FDJ continuing to opt for MOR mid-bleu.  Quel ennui.

Most likely to be seen:  in a Bastille day breakaway.

Garmin

Last year’s Gar-meh has had a welcome facelift, with a particularly cheeky rear view accessorised with the team’s new spirit animal, the WWF Panda.  We’ll have to wait for 2014’s doping scandals to blow up to see if the patented Vaughters Teflon coating from 2012 and 2013 has been applied to this year’s jerseys.

Most likely to be seen:  accompanied by a man in a panda suit. At all times.

Giant-Shimano

For a rebrand of last year’s most exciting team, this is almost criminally dull.  I am, however, prepared to award points based on the fact that Giant stepped up to title sponsor at short notice.  I expect better in 2015, and by better I mean flames and guns and ninjas and shit.

Most likely to be seen:  on all of the podiums, and most of the podium girls.

Katusha

More white, less red.  Katusha peaked in 2011 with a kit featuring the outline of the spectacular and iconic St Basil’s Cathedral – because why would you not have that on a jersey? It rocks So. Hard. Sadly, now replaced with the Russian letter ‘Oooosh’.  Which does not rock so hard.

Most likely to be seen:  throwing everything behind J-Ro. 

Lampre- Merida

The switch from a sky blue to a navy blue base renders this notably less of a hot mess than last year’s kit.  Lampre, now dangerously below their UCI regulation Italian Team Hot Mess quota, look to have been forced to rectify the situation with a hot mess of a (rumoured) late addition to the team roster.

Most likely to be seen:  a bloody mile off.

Lotto-Belisol

A retro-fabulous complete makeover.  Well-played, you big sexy Belgian bastards.  You’ll still peak too early in the season though.

Most likely to be seen:  Tearing it up at the Tour…. of Qatar.

Movistar

No change, yet again for Movistar.  Can’t say I really blame them, though this is still looking good.  All eyes on the Quintanas (Quintanae?) for 2014.

Most likely to be seen:  climbing the fuck out of shit.

Omega Pharma Quick Step

This is hands down the worst kit of the year, with zero redeeming features.  The blue piping made me do a bit of a sick in my mouth.  I can only assume it’s to encourage Cav over the line in first so he can get the disgusting thing off.  I won’t look at it any more.

Most likely to be seen:  attempting a classic shake-and-bake in the sprints.

Orica Greenedge

Those dirty sweet Aussies keep their green and blue good looks for another year, albeit with a few minor tweaks.  Gorgeous.  I’m pretty sure these bad boys can do no wrong.

Most likely to be seen:  checking the height of their bus.

Sky

Based on the 2014 ‘Black is the new Blue’, the team the others want to look like.  We’ve all seen the stripper skinsuit and it can’t just be me who’s imagining team camp Brazilians and enormous breakfast bust-ups over who has to go behind Stannard in TTT practice.  Given the massive public enthusiasm for the Rapha/Sky hookup, this year the range has been expanded to include a fully poseable My Little Eisel complete with realistic brushable hair and Rapha branded Limited Edition Team Issue Dream Diary*.

Most likely to be seen:  furiously denying team rifts.

*Seriously. I made that up. They’d sell out if they did though.

Tinkoff-Saxo

When banks collide.  Last year’s corporate clusterfuck lives to fight another day, and its still fugly as hell.  Look deep into Alberto’s eyes in the publicity shots and you can hear his desperation.  “Help me. Help me.”

Most likely to be seen:  having a massive social media meltdown

Trek

A kit that literally screams “We are desperate for a headline sponsor!.”  Even the perpetually grinny Fabian Cancellara is struggling to look happy about this.  It’s just so goddamn dreary.

Most likely to be:  Something – Trek this time next year.

* * * * *

Editor’s note: For an excellent reference of what the 2014 peloton will look like, head over to Inrng’s blog post on team jersey fashion that’s a nice companion to this piece.

The child pedaled the bicycle through the small, quiet neighborhood, pleased with the  clicking sound it made: tick, tick, tick, tick. From the little houses that lined the curving streets, no sound came, just the drifting smells of dinner rising into summer’s twilight. Wrapped around the post and handlebars was the chain and lock and it draped to one side slightly, the blue vinyl covering the chain, and the small padlock bumping just a bit. The child carried the chain and lock because the bicycle was precious; it would stand parked for awhile, and must be protected.

Eventually, the route would  find the favorite shortcut—past a limestone wall and a historical marker, down a hill to where mystery lay in the ghost of an event now scraped bare, past the Cock Robin ice cream parlor that sold triple scoops of sherbet, and malteds, up a sidewalk next to fast traffic – to the destination: the library.

The library had been originally built of big squares of local lime rock, and it sat on a small rise back from the main street. The building has seen an awkward addition of steel panels and glass that comprised a meeting room and a reading room, the stacks of art books and Isaac Asimovs; the older building now housed the children’s books and a grandfather clock that would appear in dreams forever.

In front of the library was a sculpture of slots for bicycle parking, and the child dismounted, spun the dial of the padlock and then carefully wound the chain between wheel and a slot. The kickstand hovered above contact, but the child leaned the bicycle a bit in that direction—in case it was bumped, it would not fall into a tangle, a bend, a scrape of paint.

The child would be at a small table, looking at each book in the selected stack—too many to carry under the arm—and be surprised because there stood Father, a small assortment of  books  already curved against his wrist. There was always the flush of joy seeing Father. Father shifted his gaze. It would be dark soon: time to go home, they would ride back together, are you ready? The librarian called softly at the door, “Goodnight, Mr. Dianna”, but Father was a shy man, a gentle man, and did not reply.

There was a headlight on the child’s bicycle, powered by a generator that spun on the front wheel, creating a slight drag. The light would shine more brightly if the bicycle was pedaled faster, but the books under one arm made this difficult. The two bikes clicked along the small streets, the drag from the little generator making a small whine answered by crickets. Father and child did not speak, but the child was filled with warm joy to have this rare ride with Father.

The future would find the sudden death of Father. A decade later, the child sold the bicycle, keeping Father’s bicycle—the only physical memento to carry forward. For a time the child was a young person working as a housepainter, riding Father’s bicycle to work in a city far away from that stone library. Eventually, Father’s bicycle would hang with ripped tires, waiting for the hand of restoration. When that day would come, there would be no vinyl-sleeved chain and padlock, there would be the best of locks for this most precious of bicycles.

They’ve always been part of my life. But, not always in whatever way I want them to be at the time.

Right now it isn’t so much that I always want to ride them.

I want to gather them, but not collect them. I want to clean them up, repair them, give them to people who truly need them.

It’s such a sad thing to me when a perfectly good bike sits in a basement abandoned, or is thrown in the trash.

I also want to write about them. I love writing about bikes. Not about professionals and racing, and carbon fiber and titanium. But about simple people with simple bikes and how they’re connected to each other. About cruisers and skipchains and balloon tires, and prewar and postwar and style and unpretentious elegance.

My job, working a route on the far north side of Chicago, affords me to see a lot of things. Unfortunately, it does not often afford me the time to stop and photograph and interview, or even to just simply talk with and about all that it allows me to see.

Last week I rescued an old, steel-framed Giant Upland from a basement. It’s a beautiful blue, and it has a rack with collapsible cage-style panniers on the back.

Now it sits in my living room, waiting until I can afford to replace the cables, cable housings and pedals, plus maybe the chain, then put some fenders on it, and add a big basket up front. Then give it away.

Lesli Cohen, Editor of Cyclismas, is aware of what I want to achieve with this bike, and others I find. Together we’re hoping to get things rolling and maybe get three to six bikes per year into the hands of Chicago area homeless.

Right now we’re doing it with no money and no help, so the process is getting rolling slowly. But it’s still a dream and it excites me.

In the meantime the old blue Giant Upland sits in my living room, like a guest who I told could stay for a week while they tried getting back on their feet, but who never left.

About a month ago I was driving  in Chicago on Peterson (6000 north), heading east toward Ridge. There, on the north side of the street, was the most fantastic old woman. She was riding a cruiser in the same direction.

She wore an ankle-length, pleated gray skirt, a baggy floral top, and an absolutely enormous, wide-brimmed hat. Around the crown of the hat was a ring of giant flowers.

She rode effortlessly, sitting tall, her back perfectly straight.

The back of the bike had a rack and panniers, the front had a deep basket. There were plastic bags full of only she and God knew what, piled up high at both ends of the bike.

The sight of the glorious creature made my heart race. I had to talk to her!

But there was no safe place to stop and nowhere to park. By the time I drove a half mile down the road, turned around and came back, she was gone. I pulled into the private parking lot of a retirement home, where there was at least a dozen people standing around talking. No one knew her, or what I was talking about.

I drove up and down nearby side streets. She was on none of them.

I’m constantly coming up short in these plans. This leaves me feeling endlessly frustrated and worse, but no less excited about them.

I’ll keep chasing these little bike-related dreams of mine. If I chase them often enough eventually I’ll grab one.

“Cancellara, Cancellara, Cancellara”, that was what I hear an Italian gentlemen saying into his mobile phone that morning. Although I did not plan to watch out for any particular rider, I think that set the motivation (purpose?) for the day – to find out what happens to Cancellara.

I saw a group, with a little Swiss flag sticking out of their backpack, another holding a copy of La Gazetta dello Sport.

“Who are you here for?”

Turns out they are a family from the Flanders region in Belgium.

“Cancellara.” “We hope for Cancellara. If not, Tony Martin.”

The Tour of Flanders (the new parcours) passes in front of their house.

“Do you like the new parcours or the old?”

“Ah, the new, for sure, it passes in front of the house. See you in Flanders next year. In the final 5-6 km, look for the house with the big Swiss flag.”

“Where will you be watching today?”

“At the finish. The Cancellara Fan Club will also be at the finish.”

“Ok. See you there.”

I decided to walk the course near the finish, and then go to the finish line. I wanted pictures of riders as they come to the line, and also the podium. I had never done the podium before. I checked the startlist, and made a mental note of how much time I can spend walking – I wanted to catch certain riders as they start coming in.

I did catch some people from the Cancellara Fan Club out on course. However, the Polish fans were the ones whom were memorable for me. They were visible, and they made their mark – road signs, flags, people.

I was almost a little too late to the finish line because I got too caught up with crowd-watching. I also got a little lost and confused by the barricades. It’s a bit annoying, to be able to see where I want to get to, but not be able to walk to it directly.

I just got to the finish in time to see Bert Grabsch coming in. So, I would get the top 20 finishers. Not too bad. For me, it was interesting to finally see the guys in the timing “hot seat.” It was Kanstantsin Siutsou, Dennis Rohan, and Nicolas Roche in the three provisional places. Their times were good, and held for some time – the top men would be around that level.

I’ve always wondered how training professionally shapes the bodies of cyclists; I was quite fascinated by the size and tone of Roche’s leg muscles. The price for doing their job. Cycling really takes its toll on the riders’ bodies.

Once I started photographing, I switched into working mode and not sightseeing anymore. The riders came in, the times fell, and the tension and excitement rose. Cancellara? Martin? Wiggins? Will he? Won’t he? I also had a moment, when Rasmus Christian Quuade finished and collapsed in front of me. He really gave it all, and timed it just right.

As the tension was building, I was also starting to be nervous about catching the top 3 riders. I got most of who I wanted – Roy, Chavanel, Sergeant, Dowsett, Phinney, Wiggins. So far so good. But, then my shot of Cancellara coming in got blocked! Should I be more aggressive? Should I elbow for a better position? I don’t know, but I keep shooting, waiting for Martin.

The result was already settled well before the line, so I was looking at the other riders instead, and also turned to the crowds again. Tony Martin was having a little private moment, surrounded by photographers and cameramen. Again, should I also fight for the shot? Or just left him have this private moment?

As the riders were being prepared for the podium, I could see that Cancellara was not happy. Body language, facial expressions – not happy at all. It started to get emotional when some of the crowd was shouting “Bye bye, Cancellara.” He responds with a smile, and a wave.

That seemed to make the crowd a little happier. This is the last we will see of Cancellara in a worlds individual time trial. The emotion was strong, and I allowed myself some tears. Being on the ground is so much more intense than watching on the TV. I continue to take photos.

When the riders left the podium, I got a final photo of Cancellara leaving the podium for the press conference, with a minder putting a hand on his back. A small consolation. A poignant moment. Maybe we will get to see Cancellara at his best during road-racing, and the classics? The classics are what he loves the most, aren’t they? “I’ll watch out for you on the road,” I say.

It was Tony Martin’s day. His mom was there, and she looked proud.

Bradley Wiggins got some redemption for his season. But, not sure about this choice of tattoos though. However, it was ‘bye bye’ to a classy Cancellara. Thanks for the memories, Spartacus.

In many places riding the sidewalk is illegal. The list of towns and cities that prohibit bikes on sidewalks is growing. But, it’s always a questionable choice when you consider the risks for bike vs pedestrian accidents.

Onward . . .

The obvious reasons that cyclists ride on a road are:

3. Because the law says they can.

2. Why not?

1. Because they’re crazy / have a death wish.

We’ll ignore those, and their mental instability.

What about the reasons that are not obvious? And should cyclists ride on the road? Should they be allowed to? Can they be helped via therapy and medication?

Most of those are beyond the scope of what I want to discuss today.

But, another question is implied by the original question: Why do cyclists ride on the road even when there’s a paved trail running right beside it?

To that there are several answers. Some of those answers are understood on a gut level, but without ever having been articulated, or thought out logically, or breaking through the fog of mental illness.

1. All asphalt is not created equal.

By that I don’t mean that some asphalt is an entire asphalt, while other asphalt is only 3/5th of an asphalt.

There are many varying grades and qualities of asphalt. The asphalt on the surface of a road is consistently of a better quality than the asphalt on a paved bike trail. The asphalt road surface is also faster than the asphalt bike trail.

This is not a difference that might be appreciated if you’re being powered along by something with a mechanical engine. But, it’s something very much felt, if not consciously appreciated, if you’re moving along powered by nothing save the muscles in your legs.

A mildly, sometimes even moderately, cracked road surface is almost always faster and more comfortable to ride on than any paved bike trail surface.

Why is it also more comfortable?

2. All asphalt construction is not created equal.

Paved roads are constructed in layers. At a minimum there is a compacted base (often of crushed limestone or, in the south, “soil cement”) a subsurface layer of asphalt, which may be inches thick, and the surface layer.

Each of these layers is constructed for a specific purpose, adds a specific quality to the finished road, and is required to meet or exceed specific standards (for instance a compaction standard for the base).

Roads are built to be fast, to provide a cushion, and to withstand the weight of motorized vehicles.

Bike trails are often constructed to stretch the available dollars. This allows more miles of trail to be paved, but sacrifices several levels of quality.

Bike trails rarely see their base compacted, at least to any standard. More likely it’s been scraped and leveled and called good enough. The only compacting, actually rolling, a bike trail can count on seeing, is to smooth out the surface after its laid down.

This means that something as simple and fragile as as grass root will easily cause bike trail asphalt to bulge and break. It means that bike trails are highly prone to cracking and splitting and that these cracks and splits will quickly become deeper, longer and wider.

This makes for a jarring, energy-sucking ride.

3. You know that little transition area of curbing at every intersection where a sidewalk or trail has an intersection with a road?

While they may look smooth enough, the various surfaces are just mismatched enough that they’ll jam your teeth every time you cross them on a bike.

If you ride on the road you don’t have to deal with that. Every intersection is just a continuation of smooth pavement.

4. The cyclists you see on the road, regardless of what their actual ability may be, are generally interested in going fast (whatever their personal rendition of fast may look like).

Bike trails are not amenable to fast riding, and not only because the surface itself is a slower surface.

• Most bike trail users (not just bike riders) are slow. This means that even in the best of situations a fast cyclist must weave in and out of trail traffic.
• These slower users of the trail tend to be oblivious to any other users of the trail. They meander from side to side, wobbling, zigging, zagging their way along.
• At time they travel in groups and these groups, sharing in the aforementioned oblivion, spread out over the full width of the trail.
• They let their kids ride or walk wherever they like, from one grassy edge all the way to the other, they allow their dogs to trail out far and wide, long leashes stretched out from one end of the world to the other. No consideration is given to the fact that someone may come up fast from behind or even from the other direction.
• A rider will call out to them, “I’m passing on your left,” or “I’m coming by you,” with what should be plenty of time for them to react, then the cyclist calls out again, and again. Yet, the pedestrians (or slower cyclists) remain immersed in their personal fog until they hear the sound of bike brakes grabbing hard. At which point they look indignantly at the cyclist for daring to intrude upon their daydreaming.

5. Bike trails are peppered with places that are dark and narrow and that provide little or no opportunity for escape, making them high risk places for cyclists to be beaten and robbed, or raped and murdered.

Do cyclists belong on the road? Do they contribute their “fair share” to road upkeep?

Yes. But, that’s for another article. One I’ll write maybe after my medication kicks in.

The particular padlock securing the mountain bike was an easy pick. Hit it with a hammer, just so, on both sides at the same time, and it would pop.

D hit it once. The lock twisted and didn’t give. Again. Not hard enough. Brace, swing. Pop.

A couple more seconds and the round-steel chain the lock had secured was pulled through the bike’s frame and tossed on the ground.

Then D was on top of the bike, pedaling jerkily toward a friend’s place. He for damn sure wasn’t taking it to his own digs.

For tonight he’d stash it inside the apartment. His friend would bitch about bringing stolen shit to his place. But this guy was easily shut up. Angry words up in his face, a shove, a smack, and he’d be cool with it all. Cool enough to stop his crying, at least.

In the morning D would ride the bike down the back alley to a Pakistani grocery where he could secret it in the basement. The store’s owner ran a lot of shit out of that place. A lot of shit. He’d pretend to not even see D roll in with the bike and disappear down the stairs with it, then tell him to help himself to a soda or something on his way out.

It’d chill down there for a year or longer.

* * * * *

They called him Maymay, but his name was something else. Something most people didn’t even remember and that somedays he wasn’t sure of, himself. He was in his later thirties, but looked like his later fifties and felt like a hard-worn later sixties.

His guts hurt all the time and he puked up blood at least half a dozen times every day.

The sun was high and bright and hot that day. It hurt his eyes and  made the slow, steady ache in his head turn into a low, sharp throbbing. He needed a drink. He was broke.

He hobbled out of the alley, hungry, weak, aching from another night sleeping on pavement with nothing but a ripped and filthy sleeping bag. He’d work his way down to McDonald’s and do some panhandling. His sleeping bag was rolled up and stowed in a heavyduty lawn and leaf trash bag that was beginning to wear out. He kind of carried it, kind of dragged it along with him.

D rolled up from behind him and startled the piss out of him. The dark spreading stain was hardly noticeable.

“Maymay! You just the man I’s lookin’ fo’.”

“No I ain’t. I got nothin’ you want. Ain’t got nothin’ at all.”

Maymay kept moving toward McDonald’s. D rolled along beside him.

“I got somethin’ YOU want, M. I got this bike, right here.”

Maymay looked at the bike. Someone, probably D, had halfassed painted it baby-puke yellow, but only in places. The places where there’d been any kind of identification.

Maymay could imagine that bike with a rack and a basket and a milk crate, piled high with all his stuff. That is, all the stuff he could collect if he had himself a bike with a rack and a basket and a milk crate, instead of a shitty garbage bag. Then again, he could come up with a milk crate, but where the hell would he get a rack and a basket.

“I told you I got nothin’. And that bike ain’t got no place to keep stuff.”

“We can work it all out, Maymay. We can work it allllll out.”

* * * * *

D forced Maymay into the next alley, then about halfway down it.

“I’m gonna work you a deal, M. You gonna thank me.”

Maymay was scared. His shaking was more than just hunger and withdraws.

D said, “You gonna suck some dick, M. Then I gonna give you this old bike and you gonna go off and find yo’sef a nice milk crate to tie on to the front and make the whole thing good as new. You cool with that? I ain’t hearing you answer me, Maymay? I said, you cool with that?”

D tossed in an ass-beating, because he didn’t think he’d gotten fair value and you can’t let these fucking bums think they got one up on you.

Maymay found himself a milk crate, a length of chain and a padlock. He never talked about where he’d gotten the bike.

* * * * *

Maymay had a habit of dropping the bike on its side first thing when he dismounted. He’d drunk crashed it more times than he remembered, and a few more times when he wasn’t drunk but was wishing he could be.

The bike was old already, and not in the best shape. He managed to replace the tires once, though the “new” ones were cracked on the sides. He’d replaced the tubes a couple times but didn’t get the stems lined up very well with the stem holes in the wheels.

The seat came loose, then fell off. He tied it back on with an scrap of towel he’d found.

Over time the baby-puke yellow paint mostly wore off, along with the decals it had hidden. A brake arm broke off on the front, another snapped in half on the back.

The back tire wasn’t holding air. It was going flat every day and the guys at the gas station had stopped letting him fill it for free. He tried to get a new tube for it but couldn’t, at least not without spending some of his vodka money on it.

Wednesday came and it was as good a day to give up as any. Maymay chained his bike to the bike stand outside of McDonalds, that one on Clark just north of Southport. He begged some lunch and some cash and when he was all done he cut the milk crate off the front and walked away.

The cables were corroded, the cable housings were cracked. But that the bike needed a little work was not a problem. The chain was a rusted mess. It was all minimal. Even the tires, which were the original matched set of Schwinn HP Sport, were in passable condition for now, minus a bit of rot in the sidewalls.

When he rolled it through the door of his third floor apartment his wife rolled her eyes and said, “You aren’t keeping that filthy thing in here.” And she meant it.

“No worries. It’s going on the balcony.”

“You mean where we sit and talk at night? Where we grill our meat and eat our meals? I don’t think so.”

“It won’t take up any space at all. I’m gonna hook it by the handlebar drops over the edge of the iron railing with the pedal resting on the decking to support it. It’ll be fine out there.” he said.

“Until you fumble as you try to hang it and it falls three stories onto the sidewalk.”

“Won’t happen. I’m very careful.”

He found a place that could supply cable housing that was an exact match for the look of the original, and it was a reasonable price. The cables themselves cost hardly anything and were simple to install. He spent a pleasant afternoon swapping them out with the old ones.

He replaced the chain, but the new one was too small and the rear wheel sat 70% forward in the dropouts. Aside from that his work was excellent.

When he finished he flipped the bike easily over the edge of the rail… to have it twist oddly in his hands, catch briefly on the railing, and tumble 30+ feet to the rock-hard concrete below, landing to earth with a jarring crash.

He hurried downstairs, hoping irrationally that the bike had escaped damage. Alas, the full 40 lbs of weight was absorbed through the very tip of the stem, somehow only marking the stem itself with a series of heavy scratches, but sending a shockwave through the frame that bent both top tube and down tube.

The curve on the top surfaces of both was so graceful that it almost looked like it had been designed into the frame. But the lower section of the bend showed an unnatural bulge.

His wife was not at home, gone out on errands. He dragged the bike back to their apartment and hung it over the balcony railing. She hardly gloated at all when he told her what happened.

“So you’ll get rid of it now, right?”, she said.

“That bend in the top and down tubes didn’t twist the frame at all. I think it’ll still be a good bike if I just replace the stem.”

But the bend in the frame bothered him more each time that he looked at it. After he replaced the stem, that ’69 Schwinn World hung over the railing of his balcony for another year or a bit longer.

The frame rusted around the damaged section where the paint was missing. And his wife finally got sick of seeing it hang idle. She insisted that he dispose of the metallic corpse.

* * * * *

Omar maintained a 100-year-old apartment building in Chicago, on Surf Street right between Broadway and Clark. He stepped out into the alleyway one morning and could not believe his eyes. There in the alley, leaning against one of his dumpsters, was a blue Schwinn World. It was 30 years old if it was a day.

Its parts seemed to be original, except that someone had recently replaced the cables and cable housing. The right hand shifter was bent, but in good working condition.

He sighed. The frame was bent, too. In two places, one right above the other.

But he’d grown up repairing old bikes and still did it occasionally as a hobby. He thought he might be able to work some magic on this one.

He rolled it, with its flat tires and crooked wheels, into the back of his basement shop and leaned it against the 100-year old brick wall.

Months later he’d found no time to work on the bike and put it in his mind to get rid of it, but without ever quite being able to take it back out to the dumpster.

* * * * *

And that’s how it came into my hands.

I may, with some patience, be a good enough bike mechanic to get everything in working order and see this bike back on the road. But I lack the time and the money to give it the attention it requires.

It’d make a killer touring bike, if it had things like fenders, collapsible cage-style panniers, a rack over the back tire, and a basket on the front; it’d still make a killer touring bike, or a bike for the cycling homeless. But that isn’t going to happen. I haven’t decided for certain just what its fate will be, but I imagine it’ll go something like this:

It’ll sit in my living room until I realize that I have too much bike and too little space. Then it’ll be put on Craigslist for sale and some guy who does restorations will pick it up for hardly anything. He’ll pull it apart and make it live again through the bikes its parts go into. Then he’ll throw out the damaged frame, or give it to some guy driving one of those Mexican scrap collecting trucks.

The End.

All the world’s a stage race,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one rider in their time plays many parts,

Their acts being seven ages. At first, the Junior,

Their mind fixed constant solely the win.

And then the Under-23, with his biting ambition

And shining morning face, tactically more astute

But jealous wi’it. And then the Stagiaire,

Contract hunter he, with a hopeful ballad

Made to his teammates service. Then a sprinter,

Full of cursed oaths and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the Domestique,

Well rounded with experience and life,

With eyes knowing and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper’d Director Sportive,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,

His youthful bibs, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is Team Management and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

All’s Well That End’s Well (Tower Hamlet)

The scene of the race.  All riders on stage. BRIAN and HUGH commentating.

BRIAN. Now early on, some six did break away,

Engaged in an unfriendly game of chess

On wheels, to mop up the last of the sprint

Seconds on offer, and take a final chance

To maximise position on GC,

And secure the Yodel Points Jersey.

HUGH. Sprint the first did textbook proceed,

Bauer took first, and seconds he did need,

Leapfrogs the rider ahead on GC,

And claims top 5 for Garmin and JV.

BRIAN. The second sprint did see some tempers fray,

A hand was raised, a rider pushed away?

The Commisaires stepped in to relegate

Williams, no Points Jersey will he replicate.

WILLIAMS. The rider did protest too much, methinks!

HUGH. And on the third, Madrazo lost his legs,

Exhaustion of his effort this last week,

His enemy becomes, and in his place,

He sends brave Dowsett, to sweep up the points.

DOWSETT. Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t

BRIAN. And Dowsett makes a gap, and carries on

Hopeful some that they might leave him be,

And chase him not – slight chance!

HUGH. The sprinters have smelled blood, and braying they

Drive forward their trains, take up familiar lines

And none can match the raw power coming from

Omega Pharma Quickstep.

CAV. To win, or not to win, that is the question…

BRIAN. A sprinters day is this, and drive they forward,

Yet all the while Team Sky maintain a vigil,

To keep safe the gold Jersey on Wiggo’s back.

HUGH. And watch Pettachi deliver Cavendish!

Positioned perfect, powering to the line,

And Yates upsets the other practised sprinters

Stealing second from Viviani’s grasp.

BRIAN. Wiggo does roll across the line unscathed

The gold is won, and Cavendish has ten!

British victorious upon the final stage,

Cry God for Wiggo, Cavendish and Saint George!