Old Dogs and New Tricks

What do they say about old dogs and new tricks? Well, change my pedals to strap-ons and call me rookie because this morning I repeated a mistake that I haven't done since, well, since I was scared of clip in pedals. I had good reason to be scared of those but that's a topic for another post.

It started out fine, just a typical mid-week ride with a few mates around our favourite and well-worn loop. Error No. 1: my rear tyre was half flat indicating a slow leak. Clever Tomawac appears on my shoulder and says, "just change it now in the comfort of your home and be sure". Stoopid Tomawac appears on the opposite shoulder and says, "nah, ignore that namby pamby, it'll be right". You have to do that guy in a loud, macho voice to get the full effect. So I listened to HIM. Stoopid.

All was peachy until about 35km down and on the way back to the city, which is strange, because it means Murphy's Law must have been sleeping in, otherwise the next bit would have happened at the furthest point from my destination. Where was I? Oh yeah, BANG, WHOOSH, PHSSST, CLUNKER, CLUNKER. For those reading this who aren't cyclists, that's the sound of your tyre failing on a significant scale, i.e. blow out. Again, Mr Murphy was napping, as it occurred when I was slowing to make a turn, instead of belting down a hill at 75kph. So, I roll to the curb and perform the world's slickest tube change. Looked like a pro mech (apologies to any real pro mechanics reading this). AND I even remembered to check the inside of the tyre for nasty objects. None found, so on went the new tube and I loudly blamed its predecessor for what must be a faulty valve. Enter Error No.2: if you don't find a cause for the flat, look harder. Most likely it is not an act of God. Instead, I blithely start off to finish the ride

BANG, WHOOSH, PHSSST, CLUNKER, CLUNKER.

Phukit.

The other riders now stop, unclip, tip their heads forward and stare at me over the top of their sunglasses. Wordlessly. No need for words really, the stare has it covered. Clever Tomawac pipes up “told you so”. Stoopid Tomawac yells “SHUT-THE-PHUK-UP buddy or I’ll come over there and….” But neither of them offers to help with the tyre. So I put on my i-don’t-care face and settle in to change it again, but with a greater show of investigation this time. “Don’t know what happened there” I exclaim to the group. “You screwed up” came the anonymous reply. Stoopid Tomawac chimes in “just bad luck, can’t happen a third time. Just fix it and get going”. And while the temptation is there to listen to him again, I resist. Instead, I put some air into the tube and listen for the escaping sound and check it out on the tyre in that exact spot. Voila. I find a tear in the tyre where the tube is bulging out once it is inflated and bearing my weight, which is increasing lately, but that’s a topic for another post.

I also notice the condition of the tyre in general. Enter all-encompassing-rookie-mistake. It seems that I’ve been recalcitrant in replacing the tyres and pushed my luck too far. The tyre is a shambles! There are holes, tears, cracking, the works. And me a gear junkie. Oh the shame. Oh the shit that I get from the group. For those non-Aussies reading this, Australian men bond through a complex and confusing ritual of sarcasm. This morning I bonded deeply with those guys. So after taking our relationships to new levels of closeness, I proceeded to lift my reputation out of the gutter by boldly declaring the solution is to insert some layer of matter between the innocent nakedness of the tube and the damaged old hag of a tyre. Namely a $5 note. “DON’T SNICKER OR I’LL….” Be quiet Stoopid Tomawac, your done for the day. Time to fix this baby and finish the rapidly-imploding-ride. Folding money in place. Check. Tyre back on. Check. Tube inflated while holding breath. Check. All done with speed and no haste. Check. Once again I mount the steed and roll away. Looking around I can see everyone holding their breath, waiting for, well, you know. It doesn’t come. All is right and proper in my world and I attempt to create an air of IT NEVER HAPPENED. We reach a point where the group turns for coffee and I quietly declare it might be prudent for me to head straight home.

Believe it or not, Murphy once more is kind and its not until the group are around the corner and out of sight before, yep, you guessed it. WHPCC. Number three. This time I’m out of options. Clever Tomawac draws breath to say “Told you so” again, but thinks better of it and stays mum. I start walking towards home with the dreaded idea of passing a taxi rank and under the cloak of invisibility (surely one would be lying around handy) slip into the taxi unnoticed. I reach the rank to find no cab. “Oh Good Morning Mr Murphy, finally awake are we?”. In my dim corners of memory I recall hearing about how you can ride on a flat if you positively, absolutely have to. I have to. So I do. Guess what? You can ride on a flat. Gently. And with my best “I’ve just ridden 200km and I’m taking it easy going home” look firmly in place, I get myself home.

Lessons for today? 1) Don’t skimp on the gear. Always use the best you afford 2) Be proactive. Ignore Stoopid . He/she is an idiot. They sound cool and confident, but they are not. They are reckless and without a sense of consequence. 3) If you are going to ignore points 1 and 2, then do it away from your ride group.

Ok dear reader, I’m off for a long weekend on the sunshine coast, where the bike will have a full tyre, tube & anything else Clever-Tomawac-can-think-of changed.

Ciao.