Cold Cuts, Cold Beer and Cold Setting

The Plot Thickens

Having, after some initial difficulty, finally mastered the art of inflating a presta valve inner tube, I next turned to Loftier Goals. Here on my makeshift workbench was the Prize: a Mavic Open Sport wheel with a seven speed ShimanoTiagra hub. My tire choice for what I am calling a Low End High Quality Bike Build is the Kenda Kwest. It features (supposedly) a Kevlar (or kevlar-like) liner to make it more puncture proof. We have all heard that one before, though, have we not? But having ordered these components from an internet Bike Shop (Tree Fort Bikes) what was once pictures on a screen was now reality, here on my bench.

Lance Is Making A List, He's Checking It Twice

I carefully folded the partially inflated inner tube into the new tire, making sure to place the valve stem between the “Kenda” and the “Kwest” on the label on the sidewall of the tire. We savvy cyclists do this so that in the event of a flat tire, we have a reference point to locate any matching penetration on the tire after we find the Hole In the Tube. Smart, huh?

Cycling is so jam-packed with esoteric minutiae of details and Proper Procedures and How To Do This and How To Wear That that it can be actually intimidating. What if I get it wrong? Do I get a demerit? Do I get kicked out of cycling? Will Lance Armstrong show up on my doorstep, All Doped Up on God knows what, and demand that I Turn Over My Bicycle?

Who knows? He might.

They Came From Outer Space

But right now all I cared about was getting the New Tire mounted on the New Wheel because I had concerns, weighty concerns that could have a drastic effect on the entire 1981 Schwinn Low-End Super Bike Project. The Monster In the Closet was Over Locknut Dimension. We will call it OLD for now, because saying the whole thing sounds like a phrase from Star Trek or even the Outer Limits. Remember that show? Indeed, creatures from the Over Locknut Dimension had been haunting my dreams ever since I placed the order with Tree Fort.

Here's Why:

OLD refers to the outermost distance of the two nuts that hold your hub together and provide a stop for where the wheel fits into the rear of the bike, between the drop outs. Now remember, everything I know about bikes I have to learn by pouring over the Webs late at night, trying to decipher and remember important data that comes into my brain through a filter of anxiety and Budweiser. And if you spend any time on the Cycling Forums, reading the multitudinous opinions about everything, it isn't long before you feel like maybe you need something stronger to drink.

Crappy Old Ten Speeds like my pre-build Schwinn have dropouts spaced at 126 mm, I think. Maybe it was 125. But do you know how big a mm is? No, not The Candy that Melts In Your Mouth, Not in Your Hand. I'm talking about millimeters, a Unit of Measure in an Alternate Universe called the Whole World Except America. So, you don't know, do you? Neither do I. I vaguely remember that we (us in the U.S.) were going to “switch over” about thirty years ago. I think Jimmy Carter was behind the plan, something to do with Peanut M&M's. But then I remember when the Nerdiest Guy in High School confidently predicted that the Whole World would be speaking Esperanto by the year 1980. He was wrong and we didn't switch (mostly, although while I drink a 12 ounce beer, my more better soberer friends drink liters of Coke.)

Are We There Yet?

So, while stewing in a miasma of sleepless nights and international measurement schizophrenia, I waited to see what was going to happen when I tried to fit that New Wheel into my Old Frame. You see, new Road Bike wheels come with an OLD of 130mm. So I had to somehow cram this new monster of a wheel into the tiny and delicate looking dropouts on the Schwinn. Past experience in the Wacky World of the Bicycle Repairman had taught me One True Thing:   If It Can Go Wrong It Probably Already Has, You Just Don't Know It Yet.

Look Up Qualified Frame Builder In the Yellow Pages

The situation was far from hopeless, however. In anticipation of Things Not Fitting I had done further research into alternate solutions. That's when the term Cold Setting first found its way into my realm of consciousness. Just the words alone caused a slight twitch in my left eye. The fact that these words were often accompanied by the term Qualified Frame Builder did very little to Ease My Worried Mind.

Qualified Frame Builder? I've heard of these guys. They're like the Da Vinci's of the Bike World, highly skilled craftsmen who immerse themselves in an Alternate Universe of steel tubing, obtuse geometry and high prices. They all seem to have a multi-year waiting list. But according to the Pundits on the Interwebs, if I was going to make that new wheel fit my old bike, I was going to need some Cold Setting and that meant I would need a QFB.

Hell, Anybody Can Do That

But before I strapped my old frame onto the back of a Yak and set out on a years long quest in search of the Elusive Frame Builder, I thought I would at least see about sorting out this “Cold Setting.” I think it was Sheldon Brown who enlightened me, as he has so many times in my spiritual cycling journey.

And listen to this: He said all you need to do is to strip most of the parts off the bike and grab a two-by-four. Now, I have to repeat that last part: Grab A Two-By-Four.

This was like finding out I was the Lost Prince of Alaska, and my loyal followers had been saving my Castle and my Gold for the Day of My Return, which was nigh. Am I not the Head (Only) Big Man In Charge of Fix-It at the Whispering Pines Trailer Park?

Grab a two-by-four? Hell yeah, baby, you know how many times I've grabbed a two-by-four? A lot. That's how many. All I had to do was grab a two-by-four and bend the rear parts of the bike a little.

That's What Cold Setting Is?! I need a Qualified Frame Builder to grab a piece of lumber and torque around on the ass end of my bicycle? Who makes this stuff up?

I celebrated my good luck with a cold beer and a thin sliced turkey sandwich from the Winn-Dixie Deli.

The Once and Future King

There have been a few times when I have been tempted to grab a two-by-four and give the bike a Sound Thrashing for Its Own Good. Having not done so, however, I still have here in my Park PCS 9 work stand an all-in-one-piece 1981 Schwinn Super Le Tour. I have here on my bench a fully mounted Kenda Kwest tire wrapped carefully around a very shiny and solid-looking Mavic Open Sport Rim. (Wrapped twice because I forgot the rim strip the first time. Yeah, really.)

The mounting moment is here. Will I have to “Cold Set” the frame to make it fit? I smile a grim, determined smile.   Ain't that a 2x4 over there in the corner? And not some wimpy Euro-Metric 2x4. If there's any Cold Setting to be done, we gonna do it American style, brother.

But even as I am thinking these thoughts the wheel slips easily into the drop outs. I Tell You the Truth when I say the new, bigger OLD wheel fit more better and more easily than the old one that came with the bike.

Cue the Voice

Why does this not surprise me? Said the Voice.

Some things defy all understanding. After days of shopping and worrying that things would not fit, they did. Even though I was vastly relieved, I was a little angry, too. I would someday like to grab a virtual two-by-four and pay a visit to some of those Internet Experts who seem to delight in causing me to worry.

They Were Wrong About the Brakes, Too

Oh yeah, there was also a general consensus that in switching from the Old School 27” tires to the New Standard (Metric) size of 700c I would have to do some kind of intricate carving on my brakes using a jeweler's loupe and a dentist's drill. The truth was far less dramatic. I grabbed a 10mm wrench and loosened the brake shoe mounting bolt. The shoes dropped down into a proper position over the rim as though that was where they were planning to be all along, but they  were just waiting for some hero to come along and Restore Them to Their Rightful Place. Like the Lost Prince of Alaska.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Bicycle Repair Palace

#18

Free Form Saturday: One For the Road

What's In the Stand

(Man, I've Waited a Long Time to Say That!)

I have cleared the living room of furniture and set up an old closet door on two saw horses to make an improvised workbench until I get the time and money to Do It Right. The new Park Work Stand is sitting in the center of the room, doing her job: supporting my 1981 Schwinn Super Le Tour while I start the process of turning a Crappy Old Ten Speed into a Bulletproof Long Rider.

About That Long Riding

Over a year or so ago I stumbled across Neil Gunton's awesome website, Crazy Guy On A Bike. For those of you who are not familiar with it, Crazy Guy is a place where cyclists who are making Long Tours can post journals telling about their day-to-day adventures as they traverse continents and write about it.   It makes for some incredible armchair fantasy reading and I instantly decided I would one day ride from Florida to California. I started spending inordinate amounts of time online searching through REI's catalog and putting together intricately researched camping kits, worrying over the grams and ounces of tents and cubic inch volume of panniers and getting pretty expert at the choices out there of touring bikes and what components worked and what didn't and I started shopping prices and looking at calendars and making plans.

It Ain't Pretty Being Walter Mitty

Except for one little detail. I was flat broke, the construction industry was in the toilet and I actually was living in a trailer out in the swamp that I would certainly be evicted from as soon as the landlord got out of jail. I was collecting rain water for bathing, the power was shut off and I was doing all this fantasy web surfing at the local library where the air-conditioning was free and I could plug my laptop into the wall and escape my own rather grim reality for a few hours on the virtual Open Road with the Other Crazy Guys.

I'm Crazy Too

 But in some strange twisted way, my life wasn't all that grim. Because those Crazy Guys were sleeping in tents at campsites and churches and fire stations all over the country; those Crazy Guys were grabbing showers wherever they could;  those Crazy Guys were hiding out in cool air-conditioned  local libraries posting their journal entries; and those Crazy Guys were riding some short mileage days and some Really Long Mileage Days, just like I was. 

  And they were Having a Blast doing it.   

 While they were Crossing the Country, I was putting in thirty miles in the morning and then another thirty in the afternoon. Some days when the wind was right, I would ride Way the Hell Out and Back, riding North into the wind outbound then flying home South with a sweet tailwind. One Sunday a month I would ride a hundred miles.  No big deal.  I called it my Sunday Century.   So I was, in my own (warped) reality, a stationary Crazy Guy.

Brian Becker

And here I have to pause and pay homage to the first Crazy Guy On A Bike I discovered and followed. His name is Brian Becker. Any one out there who thinks they are Real Live Bicycle Bad-Asses need to read his journal, look at his maps and check his mileage. The Man is a Machine. There are plenty who have gone longer, I am sure, but if you want to get a whiff of a guy who Lives to Pedal, check out his blog on Crazy Guy.   Brian warmed up by pedaling from Buffalo to Key West,  then rounded Florida,  then rode out to California on the Southern Tier, then  Up the West Coast, then  back across to the Rockies and then did the Great  Divide Route as a side trip. Pulling a trailer. He had pedaled to  Acapulco (!) when family matters called him home. Reading his posts is Pure Cycling Pleasure. Brian lit the fire for me and I will always be in his debt. I have always ridden, but it was Crazy Guy Brian Becker who made me want to Go Long. This One's For You, Buddy!

Crap I'm Out of Beer

I'll be right back...

Now Then, Where Was I...

So anyway, I started getting serious about miles. One thing and another led me and my Yellow Dog to the Whispering Pines Trailer Park, where, after some initial missteps I ascended to the Wealthy and Powerful position of Trailer Park Fix-It Guy. But, as always, Power Breeds Responsibility and now I have Things To Do and Trailers To Fix. Which means less riding time. A Lot Less. But, stalwart cyclist that I am, I am undaunted. There sits here before me a makeshift work bench; here before me I see my beloved Schwinn ready for repair; I have purchased low-end yet high quality parts to begin her transformation. My skills as a Bicycle Repairman are abysmal, but not for long. What was once a dream is now an embryonic reality.

Let's Face It, I Got Sidetracked

When I started talking about Brian and his very real Epic-ness, my mind started to wander. I could hear some Low, Persistent Note humming through in the background. I know what it is. It's the Road. When I write this Blog, I try to be entertaining and honest and fun to hang around with and so on. I want to help New Riders find their way and not get waylaid by all the Stuff There Is To Know. I want to do this by blundering through the process myself out in front of everybody so they can see it is actually fun and an adventure. But I guess today's post will have to be a Behind the Scenes Look at the Mind Of The Trailer Park Cyclist.

Ignore The Man Behind the Curtain

It's all about the Road, man. It calls to you. Once you have been pulled in, once you get the Bike Just Right and start Really Riding, the bike disappears from beneath you and The Flying starts. Now listen, I'm not talking about the Fitness Riding or the Training Miles or Cadence or Wattage or Any Kind of Riding that has a Name or a Purpose or any kind of riding That You Have to Think About.   What I'm talking about is when it is just You and The Bike and The Road and the Bike has already disappeared and the Road is just A Place In Space and Time that no longer  matters and your Breathing and Heart and Mind are All Gone, there is No More Being;  there is  just...that Place...

It is the Thing That Cannot Be Told, that Condition that, if described, Is Lost.   It is Why We Do This Thing and I wonder why we sometimes make it hard to attain when it is always, always, Right There In Front Of Us.

And It Is Calling and It Is Out There and I am In Here but that will change: Now!

(Clap of Hands.  Sound of Gong.  Sip of Beer)

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Zen Monastery

#17

Why Do They Call It Bike Porn?

Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You

It was a work day but I was late getting to the truck. While making coffee I was looking at the bike in the work stand. Before I took Miss Daisy outside for her morning routine I looked at the Bike In The Work Stand. When we came back in, I did not look at the BITWS.   Instead, I looked at the brand new shiny Mavic Open Sport Wheel sitting on the kitchen table. I looked at the Beautifully Black new Kenda Kwest 700c tire laying next to it. “Well,” I thought to myself, “Maybe after work we can find out.”

Find out what, You ask? Simple.

It's A Jungle Out There

Like many of my cycling brethren, I spend a whole lot of my free time on my bicycle. Also like my cycling brethren, I spend an equal-to-or-more amount of time reading about bicycling, cyclists, bicycles and bicycle parts. The Internet does not disappoint: There is no end of info out there, as well as stunning pictures, Witty and Well Written Blogs (ahem) and FORUMS where, well, one can find oneself cycling in circles looking for information or entertainment or even a good old fashioned virtual fist fight of words and opinions.

Look Before You Leap

This means before the Neophyte Bicycle Repairman starts any project, he or she will spend countless hours researching each part and technique. I know I certainly do. As the proud owner of an old Schwinn I am actually forced to do extra homework before starting any repair or ordering any parts because there is a very good chance that New Parts Will Not Fit Old Bikes. This can be pretty damn stressful and confusing. There are a lot of opinions out there and I suspect some of them were written by somebody who has never even ridden a bicycle.

WWSD?

There is one wise old guru who can be reliably turned to in times of need. Let's All Say It Together: Sheldon Brown. Anyone searching for answers to just about any question related to Bicycles can usually get what they need from Sheldon. He is no longer with us, but His Words Live On and I honestly can say that any query I have sent spinning out into the ether has usually come back answered in an article by SB. In particular, Sheldon is A Friend of the RetroGrouch. If you ride a Bicycle that is more than six-months old, sooner or later you will be called Retro-Something-Or-Other. I consider it a badge of honor.

Meanwhile, Back At the Kitchen Table...

Standing there sipping my morning coffee, I look at the Mavic Open Sport Wheel. It is a product of Dimension, (whoever they are) but it consists of a 700c Mavic Double Wall Rim, DT Swiss 2.0 spokes, and a Shimano Tiagra Rear Hub. OK. I look out the open door of the trailer. There's my little work van. As the Head (only) Big Man In Charge of Fix-It at Whispering Pines Trailer Park, my morning commute consists of starting the truck and driving around the block to whatever unit I am currently attempting to save from imminent recycling. So, there's a little time...

All Long Journeys Begin With the First Pedal Stroke

I put down the coffee cup, walk briskly to my makeshift work bench and grab the inner tube I had ordered along with the rest of the goodies. When I first Saw the Light and started fixing my own flats instead of driving my bicycle in my car to the LBS to be repaired, even tube patches were a challenge. But now I'm good at it. But this new tube had a Presta valve. I had only seen these in pictures and on other bikes. They're skinny, rather effete Euro-looking devices, not like the manly, stout All American Schrader valves that are Just Like the Ones On My Manly Truck (a 1999 Chrysler mini-van). I just knew there would be a glitch of learning in there somewhere. But I Am Brave, and I forged ahead. I opened the box.

Ok, then, it's just an inner tube. But look, the valve is threaded and there's a nut on it. Hmm, well, does the nut go inside the rim or outside? If I put it inside it's gonna leave a bulge or something...Outside!

This is gonna be a long morning, said the Voice.

I take my shiny new Topeak Road Master Blaster Frame Pump and place the head on the valve to give the tube a few quick puffs for installation purposes. Nothing. Now, this pump got Good Reviews on the forums. The word Excellent was even used. So chances are it's not the pump. There's something about this Frenchy valve I'm not doing right. Damn Socialist Coalition Dodging...

WWSD? asked the Voice. He gets real talky when I'm working on bikes.

Groovin' Up Slowly

I look over at the computer. It was just sitting there. I look at the clock. Late for work. But I am more-or-less-self-employed here at Whispering Pines, just like I was more-or-less self-unemployed before I got here. So I can steal an hour.

I unlock the head of the pump and give that valve a real close look. Damn it's funny looking. What's this little knob on the end? I'm afraid to touch it. A friend once described my bike repair skills as “A gorilla doing brain surgery with safe cracking tools.” I have an uncanny knack for breaking things just by being in the same room with them. But how else are you gonna learn? I tentatively touch the little knob. It is knurled, obviously meant to be turned. But which way? Damn Frenchys! I hold it between my thumb and forefinger and give a little twist. It loosens. Encouraged, I twist some more, It comes loose and I instantly spring into my “Where did it go?” position of alertness, like a cat chasing a grasshopper, having become accustomed to losing tiny parts that suddenly Sproing away when freed. But the little knob did not leap away Never To Be Seen Again. It just dangled there on the end of a really tiny little threaded rod. I had no idea what was happening. How the hell was I supposed to clamp that pump onto that wobbly little thing without something snapping off?

  

Trailer Park Units Of Measure

You probably think that this  is way to much anxiety over the simple act of inflating a bicycle inner tube. But I'm Poor. That tube cost five bucks or so, and that is roughly the equivalent of a six pack of cheap beer. If any part gets damaged,  not only do I not have that part,  I also don't have the beer I could have purchased with the money spent on that part.  It is a complicated formula.   So I don't take these things lightly.

Talk Dirty To Me

I carefully slip the head of the pump over the dangly-fragile valve stem and wiggle it a little to get it up in there. I have already reconciled myself to breaking off the stupid little knob. I'm just hoping and praying to Sheldon that the stupid little knob won't get lodged in the head of the pump creating a Perfecta of Loss, the dreaded Two-fer. I carefully flip the lock lever. OK, then...I slowly pump the handle, keeping a grip on the interface of stem and pump head to avoid wobbling or slippage or any of the plethora of calamities that typically accompany my “repairs.” This is all so new to me that I don't even know if I'm pumping it correctly. And those of you who have noticed the vaguely sexual connotations of this process would be laughing indeed if you were there to witness the way I was holding the pump and jacking, uh, pulling, oh, hell, operating the pump.

Much to my surprise, it worked. The action of this Topeak Frame Pump was as smooth as promised. Any person who works with tools knows the difference between the feel of the Real Deal and that crap they sell at Big Box Stores. With just a few strokes (giggle) I had pressurized the tube to the barely aroused (Haw Haw!) state that would enable me to put the tube inside the new tire and mount it (ROFLMO!) on the rim. This was real progress!

Screw Trailers. I'm A Bicycle Repair Man!

Bold talk indeed but bold words sometimes precede bold action. But the truth is, Right Here and Now I keep a tin roof over my head by ripping apart dilapidated old mobile homes and putting them back together in a Craftsman-Like Manner. So I carefully, Very Carefully, unlocked the head of the pump and gently wriggled it loose from the Valve Stem. I turned the little knob The Other Way and it seated itself back into the valve like it was meant to be there, which it was. “Who the hell thought that one up”, I wondered. Oh well, it worked. And Speaking of Work, it was time to go.

I wanted to carry the little Topeak around with me all day but tearing apart old trailers is rough work, not a place for precision-built Bicycle Gear. I looked longingly at the Mavic Wheel and the Kenda tire. “I'll be back later,"  I said.

Next Time: The Mysteries of Overlock Nut Dimension, Cone Adjustment & and Why Did My Derailleur Just Explode?


Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Adult Entertainment
#16

A Shop Is Born

Alright, then: Let the Wild Rumpus Begin!

(Maurice Sendak, the Space Cowboy)

I Get Prizes

Last Friday I got a Shipment of Wonderfulness. Now, I have ordered bike parts online before, but this time was different. I wasn't getting just bike parts: I also ordered up a Park PCS-9 Work Stand.

Now I know, this is the 'Entry-Level” home-boy version of the Park line of stands, but man, compared to the weird rigs I have cooked up in the past to work on my bicycles, anything was an improvement. But listen: This Thing Takes Up Space. How much space? Well, to put it into scientific terms: A Lot. When you live in a single wide trailer, space isn't that important, because you don't have any. But what I did have was a moldy old sofa that nobody ever sat on, except Miss Daisy. In fact, no one would sit on that couch primarily because Miss Daisy was always already on it and being pretty territorial about things. And any person who did sit on that Davenport of Despair would soon find themselves covered in more dog hair than, well, the dog. So...Out With It! The Couch, not the Dog, although she did stick rather close to the proceedings of one sneezing snorting old cyclist pulling and huffing and dragging and cussing his way to what would have been the curb if we had curbs in my neighborhood.

The Return of the Voice

Then, for the first time since I stopped riding, the Voice spoke. Why stop with the sofa? I looked around. Nobody here but me and the dawg.

“Daisy, did you hear something?”

Might as well go all the way.

“Voice!” I cried. “I never even noticed you were gone! Now shut up and grab the other end of the coffee table!” But Voices don't move furniture. I had to take the rest of my Salvation Army crap out to the place where the curb wasn't by Me My Ownself, the same way I seem to have to do a lot of things. But I didn't care. I was Making Space and Rockin' and Rollin'. I kept looking over at that PCS-9 and grinning like when I was seven years old and got that American Flyer Snow Sled. In fact, it was just like that memory and I was a little embarrassed to be so excited about a Bicycle Work Stand. But I was.

Tips

Here's why: Not just anybody is going to drop a hundred bucks on something as esoteric as a bicycle work stand. Unless of course, you frequently work on bikes and get paid for doing it. At this point, any person who pays me to work on their bicycle is in for a Wild Ride indeed. But I'm working on it, man, I'm working on it. I had searched diligently for an alternative to spending that hundred dollars. The most common oddball non-answer was to hang your bicycle from the ceiling by a couple of ropes. I wonder if anyone ever actually did this. It would involve drilling holes in the ceiling and installing anchor bolts and who knows what else. I really think this “Tip For the Home Bicycle Repairman” probably dates back to a 1945 issue of Popular Mechanics, a time when every home had a car barn with exposed rafters and lots of war surplus rope laying around the farm.

The Once and Future Pro

Thirty years as a pro carpenter-contractor taught me one thing: sometimes you gotta Bite the Bullet and Buy the Tool. And here I was, waltzing around with bulging pockets and looking for some new inanimate object to replace the hole in my heart left by my dearly departed Step Van, the very absence of whom was financing this buying spree. So I did it, I placed the order, got the stand and now Here She Was, sitting in the middle of what once was The Living Room but would henceforth be known as The Shop. I suspect some actual Living will now take place in that small space.

All My Life's A Circle

The sun was setting over the Whispering Pines Trailer Park when me and Miss Daisy went outside to do her business. I like to sometimes end my stories with the blessed beauty of a Florida Summer Sunset, but not this time. While I was sneaking peeks back through the open door of the trailer, admiring the Shrine of the Stand, Standing Outside Looking In, so to speak, Miss Daisy stiffened and gave her no-joke double-tap sharp bark that means “Look at this right now, Boss!” and I did and there they were, two people less fortunate than I, loading that old couch onto a beat up old pickup truck that looked like a perfect match for what had been the Throne of the Dog. They froze in mid-lift, having no doubt had their activities interrupted by dogs before. I barked the “Stand Down” bark back at the dog and went over to the couple.

“We figured this was free,”  said the scruffy guy on the East end of the couch.

“It is,” I said.

“Does that dog bite?” asked the woman on the Sunset end of the lift.

“All the time,” I said. “But she won't bite you guys.” They shoved the couch onto the pickup.  “Do you guys drink beer?” I asked.

“All the time and lots of it,” the guy said, smiling now. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, because I have a couple extra. Watch the dog, will ya?” I went into the trailer to the fridge. I consciously did not look at The Stand.

A Slice of Moon

This is how it really ended, my Day of Prizes. Three Down-And-Outers, happy to be there, standing around a beat up old pickup truck drinking beer. Twice now we have laughed until tears came, and once tears came without laughter. We're all in this together, we have figured out; and we ceremoniously put our crushed beer cans into a five gallon bucket in the back of the pickup. They will be recycled later. There are a lot more than a couple of empty beer cans in there by now.

Say Goodbye, Daisy.

Miss Daisy has handed out so many dog kisses and dog smiles and received so many back scratches and belly rubs that she is worn out. She sleeps completely at ease on her old couch in the back of the truck. There is a sliver of moon now, cresting the sky in the southeast. The bugs have let up a little and a mischievous breeze teases our hopes and caresses our dreams.

“Well, we gotta get on.” said Uncle Bill.

“Thanks for the couch, hon,” said Sarah, kissing me on the cheek. “And the beers!” adding a sneaky wink.

“No, thank you guys,” I say. “C'mon Daisy!” She gets up slow, steps off the couch into the bed of the truck, stretches and yawns. She walks like an Old Dog to the tailgate, looks down, then looks at me. “C'mon, Granny,” I say, not falling for her Little Old Lady routine. “Let's go! Hyah!” She gives us all a fathomless dog-look and jumps lightly to the ground. Uncle Bill swings the tailgate shut.

“It doesn't close just right, you gotta kinda angle it in. “

“Say Goodbye, Daisy,” I say.

“Goodbye, Daisy,” says Sarah, stooping down to give her a hug. More Dog Smiles.

“Goodbye, Daisy,” says Uncle Bill, “And thanks, man, really”, he says to me.

I don't say anything. I just smile and make a little wave in the air that means more than I could have said anyway and they get into the truck, start her up and leave.

And Then, Just Like That, It is Over

Daisy has to do some more business after all that beer and I join her. The moon is high, now, and so are we. We go back into the trailer. Daisy looks at the spot where the couch used to be, looks up at me, yawns, and goes into my room. I can hear her climb into my bunk and settle down. It is actually a little late for these two Old Dogs. I sneak a shy glance at The Stand.  Go ahead, says the Voice. “Why not?” I say. I had been waiting for this. I take me Old Darlin', lift her under the top tube with one hand and gently tighten the clamp around the seatpost. I reach back and adjust the angle clamp just right. This Park PCS-9 is a High Quality Tool. You feel it as soon as you put it to work. I step back and admire the art.  There it is, man!  My Old Schwinn in a Park Tool Work Stand!

It's been a hell of a day, says the Voice.

“It certainly has, buddy, it certainly has,” I say. “And welcome back. We got things to do.”


Next:  Wrenchin' Like I Mean It With A Century On the Doorstep

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Used Furniture Emporium
#15

Big Truck Goes, Big Trucks Come

Yeah, man, I'm still here.

Work Happens

No posts for the last few days because quite frankly, I didn't have anything to say. What has been happening at the World of Whispering Pines Trailer Park is that a flurry of renting has taken place, and as the new Guy In Charge of Getting Trailers Ready To Rent my ass has been hopping around scraping and painting and rigging and fixing and generally doing everything but Riding My Bike, which worked out since the bike has been sitting in the corner for the last month shooting reproachful glances in my direction while I shuffled about trying not to make eye contact while cooking up various schemes to figure out how to dig up the money for my Internet Fantasy orders of bike parts.

But then it happened.

Take My Wife...

Last Christmas this guy came by to look at my 1973 Chevy Step Van. I had reluctantly posted a FOR SALE sign on her along about Thanksgiving time. She has been with me for over twenty years, the source of many stories and adventures and mishaps that would require a whole other Blog to get it all down. She was my loyal Big Truck when loyal friends were scarce, and the Party Truck On the Beach when money (and friends) were all around. You get the picture. But These Are Hard Times, and so...

Horatio Alger Lives

This Guy shows up at Christmas Eve to ask about the truck for sale and I walk him through it, give him the old blah blah blah but I was far more interested in his story. For whatever reason, this perfectly respectable guy, with no criminal record or other qualifying background story found himself unemployed, he and his family down and out, foreclosed, despairing and looking for hope. One day he gets on his old Beach Cruiser bicycle and rides around the suburb he lived in knocking on doors, offering to pull weeds for $8 per hour. Within days he had so much work that he had to go by the Goodwill and pick up two more bikes for the helpers  he hired to help in this previously undiscovered service industry. After a few weeks, he bought an old mini van and two beat up lawn mowers and things took off from there.

Now here he was on my trailer step wanting to buy me Old Darlin'.

Tim Joe Super Salesman

“Well”, I said, “I'm asking $2000 because this truck is a classic. Hell, the aluminum body is worth that much as scrap. But selling the body of this truck for scrap would be like skinning my dog to make a fur coat. And after hearing your story I gotta tell ya, you can have her for $1800.”

“Well”, he said, “I don't have the money now. But when I get my tax return check, if it's still here, I'll come get it.”

Trailer Parks Don't Do Layaway

Now I didn't want to sell this truck. But it was Christmas Eve and a few hundred dollars would have put smiles on a lot of faces if I could have hustled around buying These Things To Wrap Up and These Things To Cook and This Stuff To Drink...but here this joker is shopping around and asking for some kind of Trailer Park layaway program...

“Well, whatever, man. Yeah, I doubt if it will still be here or if any of us will still be alive by Spring but if it is still here come on by.”    WTF, I thought, using texting symbols instead of the actual phrase because it was, after all, the Eve of the Birth of Our Lord.

But Then...

Then a couple weeks ago, There He Was.  (Weed Puller Guy, not Our Lord)   He wasn't exactly standing out front waving his tax check in the air, but that is how I will always remember it. I had taken down the FOR SALE signs weeks before after Miss Daisy the Yellow Dog attacked a dignified Spanish gentleman who she mistook for a Mexican fur skinner. I never will understand that dog.

What could I do? The guy's persistence was impressive. That's a lot of weed pulling. And he meant business. We went to the bank and Did the Deed and a little while later, there was an Empty Place In the Parking Lot, A Hole In My Heart and A Bulge In My Pocket.

Hey Sailor...

And so: Parts Ordering! Yee-Ha!

Now I would love to report that I blew the whole wad on some wild orgy of bicycle porn and internet clicking and credit card number typing but.. No. There were too many other Past Dues To Pay to allow for that, as well as my desire to not do that Drunk Sailor thing I'm so good at...but I did indeed reap a Park PCS-9 Work Stand, a bad-ass Mavic Open Sport Rear Wheel with Tiagra Hub, new gears and chain, some cone wrenches and a DT Swiss spoke wrench that I am wearing on a string around my neck because it is That Cool.

These goodies came in by Fedex and UPS last Friday. When one of those Big Trucks pull into the Whispering Pines Trailer Park, heads poke out of doors and sometimes people step outside Just In Case.   But this time, it is all about Old Tim Joe the Fix-It Guy, it is all about Bicycle Parts and It Is All About getting back to flying down country roads on my Old Schwinn.

Next: Explaining the furniture at the curb and the bicycle shop in the living room.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Truck Sales

#14

Big Bird

Monday Morning Window

From my window here at my computer table I can see highway US1 just a few feet away. I can also see a lot of cyclists going by on what may be morning commutes, but a lot of them look like they don't have jobs. So who are they and where are they going? It is seven A.M. They must be commuters. But what caught my eye is a Really Big Bird standing just on the edge of the highway, just inches from traffic. This bird, a Sand Hill Crane or Blue Heron or something is about three feet tall and is definitely going to get hit by one of the cars rushing North on their way to wherever cars go.

Now I should do something besides sit here and drink coffee and type, I should run out there and shoo this bird off for its own good. But what if I startle it and it flies into traffic? So instead I sit here, waiting to hear a screech of brakes and a loud “FUMPH!”. These birds always seem to come in pairs and this one is alone. I can read a lot of meaning into that fact,  but listen, it is Monday, a day when the Blues Rule the World so I'll let that Blue Heron widower take care of himself while I do the same. It's Monday and I gotta get through Today somehow my ownself.

Coyote Bird Services

But while I typed that sentence Coyote showed up outside my window, trying to be a Bird Herder.  He is shooing the Bird over towards my trailer, away from traffic. Good ol' Coyote. I step outside to cheer him on.

“This Bird is hurt, or sick or something,” he says. “What should I do?”

“I don't know, Coyote. He's lost his mate or something and has been standing out in traffic all morning.”

“Should we call somebody?”

“Last year when that hawk that was shot landed on my porch, I called the Daytona Bird Lady and she said to wrap him in a towel and bring him to her.”

“What did you do?”

“I fed him sliced turkey from the Winn Dixie Deli for three days and then he was gone.”

We Talk It Over

Meanwhile the Big Bird is standing there, three feet away, listening. To passerby it must look like a three-way morning conversation, but one of the guys is a Really Big Bird. At least we are away from the edge of the highway. Coyote has his camera and I try to take a picture of him and the bird, but just then Noisy Tony comes up, talking as always and the bird moves off. Tony notices the camera and starts trying to angle around to make sure he is in the shot, talking all the while.

But it is Monday Morning and one sure way to jinx my week is to start it with that jackass babbling in my ear so I wink at Coyote and we both turn to go back to our trailers as Noisy Tony's voice fades into the background sounds of the highway.

The Road Is Long

Sometimes when  Looking Out My Window I see fully loaded touring bikes going by, and I have to resist an urge to grab my bike and go after them, catch up and ask who they are, where they're coming from, where they are headed.  But I don't want to scare them into traffic. On my Long Rides I see these touring cyclists down on the South end of the county, down where traffic on the highway gets really thin. It is a long haul to the next town down there and a lot of the riders I see seem a little distressed. That stretch of road is almost desolate and gets really hot and is probably a lonely place for the solitary tourist. Myself, I'm down there for that very reason. I like the Lonely Places and also, being a local, I know what is ahead on the Road, the next stop for water or beer and the distance to the next town. I know where I am and where I am going, so to speak.

At least I like to think I do.

Good Luck, Big Bird.  Good Luck,  Coyote.

But today is Monday, I have Things To Do. The Big Bird has flown off, hopefully to a happier place than the dangerous side of Old Hwy One in Hawks Park. Coyote is taking his Kayak to the River.  Maybe he'll catch a trout or snapper or even two or three.  A nice fat fish would make a good Monday Supper. I have to get Number Nine ready for a new tenant. The coffee pot is empty and it is time to start.  

Not much of a post, I know,   but it is, after all, Monday. And like the Coyote says,

“ Never push a Monday too hard.”  Wise Words,  I like to think.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Bird Refuge

#13

Sometimes I Ride, Sometimes I Sail

Sometimes, when I am not Up On Two Wheels, I am instead Up on Two Hulls.

Cromwell and Me

I sail the local waters on a Hobie Cat catamaran, sometimes alone, and sometimes with my Sailing Buddy, the Erstwhile Sam Cromwell, local Potter and area Bon Vivant. Here's a tale of One of Our Rides...

Shipyard Island

We cut in quick and hard across the north end of Shipyard Island. The starboard hull is leaping in and out of the water like a porpoise skipping in the sunshine. At this moment I feel more akin to anything happy and natural as I ever will. The wind is from the Southeast at 12 to 14  knots and this Hobie is damn well screaming across the Indian River on a day that started out with us looking suspiciously at the tops of palm trees in search of any Evidence of Wind; but it is blowing well enough now. Cromwell has a big stupid grin on his face, sitting there on the mainsail boom, steering with his left foot. I’m hiked out to windward, bottle of rum in one hand and the other hand hanging on tight to the port shroud as I sling as many of my 200 pounds as I can into the wind, for fear we might go over. This part of the lagoon has a bottom uncomfortably close to the top and we have been upside-down more than once.

The Lagoon

I let out a loud “Wee-hoo!” and listen for an echo, but when you are in the Mosquito Lagoon sound travels far over the water...and never comes back.


As we come abreast of the campground at the North End of the Island, Cromwell puts the rudder over hard and we sweep right up onto the sandy beach. I am always surprised at the gentle action of driving onto shore in a catamaran. She just sighs in, as though the land were as natural a place to be as the water. After beaching the boat we stand around for a minute getting accustomed to the lack of motion and the feel of solid ground. Cromwell digs into the cooler for a couple of beers.


“That was sweet,” he says, a huge grin still plastered on his face. He hands me a frosty, dripping cold can. I slip it into my day-glo-orange holder and take a sip. Damn. After a screaming beam reach across that thin, glistening open water, so flat and smooth you want to weep, then the frostiest of cold beer...


“Sweet indeed, my brother, we were truly haulin’ ass back there. And my compliments on your mastery of the Cap’n Dave Hang-Five sailin’ style. Pure barn stormin’.”


“Thank you, my brother. And Cap’n Dave thanks you. And wasn’t the rum just somewhere around here somewhere?”


“Just over there jammed in next to the life vests. I stashed it there at the precise moment you did that wonderfully executed little onshore jibe.” He rummages around in the Pile of Stuff we always have strapped all over the Cat.

What Next?

“Ah yes, here it is, stashed precisely as you said! Salut!” He raises his arm in a toast and I raise my beer to clink against the half-full bottle. Cromwell, looking out across the great expanse, the afternoon sun making brilliant sparkles on the surface of the crystalline water, says, “Now then, what next?”


And I don’t know what to do next. The day is so perfect, so clear, everything seems so clear, it could just end here. Just precisely here. “ I don’t know what to do next,” I say. “Let’s go look at The Stream.”

The Stream

What we refer to as ‘The Stream’ is actually some kind of man-made cut running right up the middle of Shipyard Island. Small finger cuts run at right angles to the main canal, which is about three miles long. These small finger cuts are about forty to sixty yards long and quite mysterious. We walk over from the camp area to where the stream enters the main body of the lagoon. The Mosquito Lagoon is so vast here, some ten miles wide, that the effect is quite that of being alone on a desolate island in some far away place. In fact, you are alone on a desolate island in some far away place.


Cromwell spoke first. “I think you’re right. The way the tide is running, we could just put her in here and drift straight down the middle of the Island to the South End.”


“Precisely. Then, when we get to the South End, we can cut North hard out of the Stream and catch this southeast breeze on a long broad reach, running with the current, one tack all the way to the landing with one hull in and one hull out!” We do a perfect high five. It really is a perfect day.


“How much beer do we have left?” Cromwell asks. The question is a ritualistic one, for we have long ago learned to bring Plenty Of Beer.


“Looks like enough for the journey,” I reply, glancing through the cooler. “Plus the Rum.”


“The Rum must be saved for medicinal use only,” he says. “So speaks the Captain.”


“Aye-Aye, Cap,” say I, carefully stowing the bottle in its snug nest among the child-sized life preservers.


“Captain’s Reserves stowed as ordered. Prepare to shove off?”


“Prepare to shove in is more like it, don’t you think, Watson?”


“Indeed, Holmes! Let us shove in, then, the game is afoot!”

This Is How Ya Do It

We gently ease the boat into the shallow stream in the middle of the island. The falling tide creates a kind of false current which we plan to ride three miles south to the far end of the Island. The high shell mounds on both sides of the stream, combined with the huge heaps of “diggings” made by the mysterious creators of the canal are effective at blocking the wind.


The sails slat lazily about. Caught in the current at about 3 knots, I steer by lying back on the trampoline and hanging one leg over the rudder crossbar. Cromwell hands me a fresh beer.

Pelicanus Goldentoponos

The day is preternaturally fine. In the middle of March it is still too cold for Ocean Sailing on a beach cat, and too rough, although we constantly talk of giving it a try. But here in the Indian River, a half mile west of the beach, the water is warm, the days are crisp and clear, and as I lay back and listen to the primitive sounds of the primordial island all about me, I thank God that whatever other trials and tribulations are laid before me, I at least get a day like this one once in awhile.


The little Hobie is handling like her reed-raft ancestors handled centuries before, responding lightly to the helm and skimming swiftly across water that is little more than ankle deep. One huge old Gold-Cap Pelican finds his deep thoughts suddenly disturbed by this brightly-colored intrusion ghosting slowly by. Rising grumpily from his perch he slouches away, his great, ponderous flapping producing just enough lift to carry him slowly away from this rude apparition. He cruises, graceful now, in a long, slow, gliding arc that carries him ultimately back to his original resting place. The Sun is a Lazy Friend, smiling and burning and warming our skin and warming the trampoline beneath our bodies.

Typhoid !

“Feeling a bit feverish, Cap.” A dragonfly buzzes over the tip of my nose.
“What’s that?” cries Cromwell, “Typhoid on my vessel? It shall not be! Break out the medicine!” He reaches over to the rum-nest and pulls forth the bottle. Taking a hearty draw, he coughs and chokes and passes the bottle to me. “Har! Strong medicine,” he says, gasping a little.
“Aye, Cap,” I say, “Just the thing for a touch of the ol’ typhoid, though, just the thing.” I take my own hearty pull and pass the bottle back. The dragonfly hovers daintily over the life vests. If we time everything precisely the medicine will last just long enough to get us to the South End. From there we will not need any more medicine, for our hands will be full enough, full of wind and wire and screaming; screaming across that sweet, smooth, glistening lagoon, the glorious burning sun easing into the horizon, settling gently into our thousand-hued wake.

This One's For the Cap

But just now there is no indication of the excitement ahead. Just now is all Warm Sun and Dragonfly; all subdued comments about nothing;  it is occasional rustlings in the ice chest;  it is Pelican and Dragonfly and Quiet Stream.


“Here’s to Cap’n Dave,” I say.
“Here’s to Cap’n Dave,” said Cromwell.


Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Old Sailor's Home
#12