Note To Future Self

We had out first (non-self-induced) accident in the trailer this morning. Pretty close to campus, it was ye traditionale dooring, I swerved but it caught the tongue on the trailer pretty hard, then the side wheel. We came to a swift halt and I went OTH (over the handlebars, thankee). My ankle doesn’t feel well and the sprouticus was shaken, but there was no apparent physiological or mechanical damage to things that matter (i.e. the kinder or the bike).

In my mind, this validates the trailer approach relative to the bike seat. OK, so a single bike would have probably missed the door. Or the extra 18kg of high-mounted weight would cause a Hammond-esque Scandanavian flick.

On the other hand I was able to sprawl out silly like all over the bike lane (for future reference — giving a barbarian “yop!” while flying through the air makes the landing hurt a lot less), while the sprout remained safely upright in the roll cage. Actually, come to think of it, after we had decamped to the sidewalk and I had done the obligatory “two arms – two legs” check, she hopped down, crawled back into the trailer and put her helmet back on. I discovered later that the accident had made all of the pee come out, all at once.

Strangely, I feel bad that the door on his car won’t close anymore.

Hm. Adrenaline is wearing off. Might be nap time.

It was gorgeous this weekend, so the GB and I did a little 100 Miles of Nowhere in the backyard. By little, I mean it was really the 200 ft of nowhere.

Unfortunately, our staff photographer was in movie mode. So I have only this scant evidence (16MB), in finest Patterson-Gimlin style.

Thanks to a generous grant from the grandparental sports and recreation fund, the bean sprout has her first set of wheels.

And not just any wheels, but poncy, design-tastic wheels. What? You want more nauseating buzzwords? It’s also eco-green-wooden-sustainable, FSC and Flash-tastic (and yet, somehow still made in China). Oh, and low VOC. I think. Everyone knows sustainably grown wooden bikes are the future of bike snobbery.

Sadly, early trials were interrupted by a drivetrain failure.

At Anna’s suggestion, I filmed the assembly procedure. At 18 minutes long, it was quite boring, so I’ve posted a version in accel-o-vision.

Tomorrow: Intervals in zone 3 (whatever the heck that means)

p.s. Yes, I’ve already put her name on Matt’s build queue. It might be ready by graduation!

aka Oh, Snap!

This weekend we discovered our Burley is insufficiently burly for our X-treme lifestyle. Well, the trailer hitch isn’t burly enough, at least. That’s the last time I let her talk me into the double black diamond downhill.

Bummer.

Coincidentally, my parents are on a plane right now, delivering a new trailer hitch. How’s that for service?

Oh, and they’ll probably spend some time with their granddaughter, too.

Since I know it will keep you up on night, it looks like the new hitch is much more burly. We can hardly wait.

Am I the only one who feels guilty after ranting at cars?

Am I the only one who rants at cars?

In any case: Pink Mitsubishi Mirage, eastbound on Kilmarnock at the Deans Ave lights, 5-ish on Thursday, two female occupants. I’m sorry I yelled at you. You did cut us off really rather badly, though.

Winter might be right around the corner, but it’s no match for Super Commuter(!) and his faithful sidekick High-Viz Girl(!)

The GB and I have successfully completed four round-trips to work (out of a possible six) in the last two weeks, a grueling 8 urban kms each way. Hey, it’s a start. Yes, it’s quite flat, and yes, we do stop to commune with the ducks in the park at the halfway point.

The weather has been superb thus far. We’ll see how my resolve holds once the winter nasties come in.

On a bike-geek note, it’s actually quite a bad idea to attach a bike trailer to a singlespeed (36×16, thanks for asking). Starting from a standstill requires volcanic torque. I expect my thighs to be the size of the mighty Tōtara by spring. That should make shopping for trousers interesting.

Oh yes.

Happy Fourth Anniversary, big guy.
And welcome back.
Glad you’ve decided to rejoin the party.
Now get back to work.

This previous weekend, I rode the 2007 Harbor Ride, one of the events of the Festival of Cycling. It’s a popular event, with a proper race (the “Long Bays Classic”) and a citizen ride going over the same course.

The course itself is one of the canonical riding/training routes in the area. Lots of flat, a bit of rolling and few steep climbs. Maybe 600-700 meters of vertical, and great views the whole way.

The net result: I’m slow. I managed the 78kms in 2:40, or about 28km/hour, which puts me at 480th of the 840-ish people who finished, and 94 of 121 in my age group (men 17-34). Small consolation, but had I been in the race, I wouldn’t have been the last man (but I would have been the last woman).

Actually, I can’t say I’m too disappointed. Without any particular reasoning I was shooting for 2:30. Good to have a target for next year.

On the plus side, the weather was great, I didn’t suffer much on the climbs and I had enough energy to ride home from the ride, make some lunch and do some Christmas shopping. Hm. Maybe I could have gone a little faster.

(not me, clearly)

This is a Campagnolo Record Ultra Narrow bicycle chain:

Like all things Campagnolo, all 65 trillion moving parts were hand assembled by ascetic vegan monks in Vicenza Italy. It does a pretty good job of getting power from the cranky bit in front (that would be me) to the wheel-y bit in the back.

This is a Park CT-3 chain tool.

If not the gold-plated Bentley of chain making-and-breaking technology, it’s at least the Toyota Vitz. Gets the job done. For example, this is just the ticket to remove the chain from ones bike before flying halfway around the world for a wedding. Then reassemble said chain, ride like a maniac around the Seattle countryside, and break the chain again to come right on back home to NZed.

Sadly, when Mr Park and Mrs Campy Record meet, the chemistry is anything but magical. Unless you consider having your chain detonate into a bazillion pieces magical.

It has been impressed upon me that Campagnolo chains are not to be touched without a papal dispensation. And certainly not with my proletarian chain tools. Indeed, a conventional chain tool will shear some rather important flanges off the pins, leading to sudden and dramatic chain failure, oh, this Wednesday.

Rather, I needed to use something called a Record Ultra Narrow HD-Link Kit which contains a packet of little dehydrated silence-vowing jam-growing Italian monks to reassemble your chain for you.

Sadly, I learned this lesson while high on a ridgeline, 25 kms from home, battered by a winter wind and ready to lie down for the long sleep.

Much like this. Except I didn’t get a tasteful pink jersey at the end of my ride.

Truly, I have never been closer to taking up curling as when the cranks suddenly spun free, and I turned to see my chain laid out as roadkill on the chipseal behind me.

Lesson one: Italian design is inscruptible. Install a Shimano chain.

This is the buckle on my cycling shoes. Yes, my cycling shoes have buckles. And velcro. No, I don’t know why. They’re also from Italy.

This is also a buckle from my cycling shoes, except this one took the full force of a car bumper slamming into my foot. My foot (and the rest of me) escaped unscathed, but this buckle will, sadly, never “click-click-click” again.

This buckle was clearly not made by wine-stomping vespers-chanting monks, because it’s user-serviceable. Yep, I just trundled on down to the cycling shoppe and got a new one (see above) and fixed it meself. Cheap, too.

Lesson two: Not all Italian design is totally inscruptible. I (heart) Sidi.

So what conclusion are we draw from today’s lessons? Don’t let me work on your bikes, for one.

Postscript: How did I get home after my chain exploded? Used the even grungier, less papally approved chain tool in my saddle bag to excise the damaged links and reassemble the chain, causing further grievous harm to the chain’s self-esteem. Then gingerly pedaled home. Miss Campy Record, meet Herr Wastebin.