So, no sooner am I all pumped up, committed to success and ready to chew up the miles, but I get sidetracked by as stupid and inconsequential a thing as air. Simple old air. You might think that any “air” problems with a guy of my stature (think of an ‘Oompa-Loompa’ in tight, stretchy bike pants) would involve simply catching my breath. As true as that might be all too often, yesterday’s trouble strictly involved keeping a tire inflated.
And it wasn’t even my own! Nope. Here’s what happened: my youngest son, wife and I were getting our bikes and gear (shoes, helmets, gloves, etc.) ready to ride at our usual weekday riding spot, the Rose Bowl in nearby Pasadena. One part of the pre-ride routine is making sure the air in our tires is at 110 psi. Now, if you’ve ever paid attention to the air pressure in your car’s tires, you know that 30 – 35 psi is pretty normal. But for all of you out there not into the sport of shoving a rock-hard, wafer-thin bike seat between your butt cheeks and hunching over hard metal handlebars shaped like ram’s horns for miles on end – road bikes have skinny little tires, with even skinnier little inner tubes inside them. In order for these tiny tires to hold the weight of a rider, the air pressure inside has to be fierce.
When a road bike tire goes flat, it usually happens all at once. One second you’re rolling along at speeds up to 35 or 40 miles an hour, and the next, you’re riding on a metal rim. Not a nice thing to have happen to you. Trust me.
All that is to say that we always check our tire pressure before a ride. So, my son notices that his rear tire feels soft. He attaches the head of our super-high-tech (and expensive – all accessories for cycles are expensive) bicycle pump to the valve on the tire, and – PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS --- all the air left in the tire immediately begins to vent out. Turns out the rubber tube where the valve is attached was cracked from fatigue. I know the feeling.
So, before we can load our bikes into my truck and head over to the Rose Bowl for an early evening ride, young son must have lesson in tire repair. Good son. Watch closely son as Dad shows you how to remove the wheel from its greasy home on the back of your bike, take out the inner tube, take a new inner tube from that funny little cordura bag that is strapped under your bike’s seat, reinstall the new tube, put the tire back on the rim – being extremely careful not to pinch the new tube as you do it, reinflate the tire and put the wheel assembly back into place, ready to ride.
See how easy that was? Huh? What noise? Hang on … let me listen. PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. Are you kidding me? Where the **#!!**$#^!!! is it leaking? It’s a brand new tube!
Turns out, “new” is a relative term in the world of cycling. The spare tube that was new at one time, had been languishing in the bag under my son’s seat for over a year and a half at least. Apparently, tubes go bad. Who knew?
And so, the entire process was repeated with great enthusiasm (or at least significant commentary on my part) and off we went. Upon arriving at our usual starting point in one of the many parking lots at the world-famous Rose Bowl, we unloaded our bikes, slipped into our biking shoes with the clippy-cloppy cleats on the bottom, strapped on our helmets, adjusted our sunglasses, picked appropriate playlists on our iPods, zeroed out our bike odometers, and …
PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.
Seriously? Again? Ah c’mon!! Well, I won’t repeat the sequence of events that followed since by now, even my son could do it in his sleep. My wife went ahead and began her circuit of 3.2 mile laps around the stadium complex and nearby golf course, while my son and I stayed at the truck, replaced yet another bad tube all the while painfully aware that the sun was rapidly disappearing behind the many McMansions on the surrounding hills.
By the time my son’s bike was fully operational enough to set him free to go and catch up with his mother (the boy is an incredibly strong and fast rider), I have to admit that I was less than motivated to ride. My former enthusiasm and adrenalin had dissipated as fast as the air in my son’s inner tubes.
Being at the Bowl, however, dressed in my silly bike cloths, my wife and son already pedaling away, I figured any ride at all would be better than no exercise and who knows, maybe I could even ride away from some of my stress and frustration.
And you know what? I did. I only logged another 6 miles before the darkness and hordes of just-off-work walkers, joggers, cyclists, dog-walkers and inline skaters convinced the three of us to call it a day.
And it wasn’t even my own! Nope. Here’s what happened: my youngest son, wife and I were getting our bikes and gear (shoes, helmets, gloves, etc.) ready to ride at our usual weekday riding spot, the Rose Bowl in nearby Pasadena. One part of the pre-ride routine is making sure the air in our tires is at 110 psi. Now, if you’ve ever paid attention to the air pressure in your car’s tires, you know that 30 – 35 psi is pretty normal. But for all of you out there not into the sport of shoving a rock-hard, wafer-thin bike seat between your butt cheeks and hunching over hard metal handlebars shaped like ram’s horns for miles on end – road bikes have skinny little tires, with even skinnier little inner tubes inside them. In order for these tiny tires to hold the weight of a rider, the air pressure inside has to be fierce.
When a road bike tire goes flat, it usually happens all at once. One second you’re rolling along at speeds up to 35 or 40 miles an hour, and the next, you’re riding on a metal rim. Not a nice thing to have happen to you. Trust me.
All that is to say that we always check our tire pressure before a ride. So, my son notices that his rear tire feels soft. He attaches the head of our super-high-tech (and expensive – all accessories for cycles are expensive) bicycle pump to the valve on the tire, and – PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS --- all the air left in the tire immediately begins to vent out. Turns out the rubber tube where the valve is attached was cracked from fatigue. I know the feeling.
So, before we can load our bikes into my truck and head over to the Rose Bowl for an early evening ride, young son must have lesson in tire repair. Good son. Watch closely son as Dad shows you how to remove the wheel from its greasy home on the back of your bike, take out the inner tube, take a new inner tube from that funny little cordura bag that is strapped under your bike’s seat, reinstall the new tube, put the tire back on the rim – being extremely careful not to pinch the new tube as you do it, reinflate the tire and put the wheel assembly back into place, ready to ride.
See how easy that was? Huh? What noise? Hang on … let me listen. PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. Are you kidding me? Where the **#!!**$#^!!! is it leaking? It’s a brand new tube!
Turns out, “new” is a relative term in the world of cycling. The spare tube that was new at one time, had been languishing in the bag under my son’s seat for over a year and a half at least. Apparently, tubes go bad. Who knew?
And so, the entire process was repeated with great enthusiasm (or at least significant commentary on my part) and off we went. Upon arriving at our usual starting point in one of the many parking lots at the world-famous Rose Bowl, we unloaded our bikes, slipped into our biking shoes with the clippy-cloppy cleats on the bottom, strapped on our helmets, adjusted our sunglasses, picked appropriate playlists on our iPods, zeroed out our bike odometers, and …
PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.
Seriously? Again? Ah c’mon!! Well, I won’t repeat the sequence of events that followed since by now, even my son could do it in his sleep. My wife went ahead and began her circuit of 3.2 mile laps around the stadium complex and nearby golf course, while my son and I stayed at the truck, replaced yet another bad tube all the while painfully aware that the sun was rapidly disappearing behind the many McMansions on the surrounding hills.
By the time my son’s bike was fully operational enough to set him free to go and catch up with his mother (the boy is an incredibly strong and fast rider), I have to admit that I was less than motivated to ride. My former enthusiasm and adrenalin had dissipated as fast as the air in my son’s inner tubes.
Being at the Bowl, however, dressed in my silly bike cloths, my wife and son already pedaling away, I figured any ride at all would be better than no exercise and who knows, maybe I could even ride away from some of my stress and frustration.
And you know what? I did. I only logged another 6 miles before the darkness and hordes of just-off-work walkers, joggers, cyclists, dog-walkers and inline skaters convinced the three of us to call it a day.
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