Dances With Wolverines

Here We Go Again

I live in a Trailer Park in Florida.

I know, we've talked about this before, but I want to Addendum the Story, so to speak.  And no doubt add to my impressive reputation for Political Incorrectness.

What's This Got To Do With Bicycles?

 Life here at the Whispering Pines Trailer Park  is remarkably like what I visualize an Indian Village in the Old Days as being like. We certainly are Tribal in our existence. Every trailer, like every teepee, is well acquainted with each other. There are communal feasts and communal celebrations. (Almost every night.) When an Elder Passes, the rest of the tribe swarms like Benevolent Vultures unto that trailer for the Passing Out of the Belongings. Sometimes the simple act of one member of the Tribe moving on to New Hunting Grounds Down the Street (or Jail) means a Bonanza of Crap to be shared amongst Those Still Free.

The Smoke From A Distant Fire

Also, there are Visual Similarities. Many of the people here, myself included, go about clothed in what might pass for quaint Indian garb. That means we spend most of the time in a pair of worn out shorts, flip-flops and little else. (The Braves,  I mean.  The Trailer Park Girls...well, that is a subject for another time).  The Smoke of Many Fires fills the air, because everybody does a lot of their cooking on a grill. It just makes sense in an environment that seldom sees temperatures less than ninety degrees and usually closer to 100 for most of the summer. Why heat up a hot-ass trailer with cooking heat when you can just step outside and throw some fresh caught fish on the grill or at worst resort to some cheap Winn-Dixie cheeseburgers?

It Ain't Over 'Till It's Over, Rover

Also the Dogs. I don't know how things were set up in Old Indian Villages, but I am pretty sure they had dogs. If not, we are making up for it now. Every trailer in Whispering Pines has at least One Dog. I know I do. But I Am Poor, and One Dog is all I can afford. Both my neighbors have at least two and Coyote, who has lived here the longest, has four. But his dogs are Chihuahuas and Four Chihuahuas actually equals Two Dogs. (But For the Great Spirit's sake  don't tell them that)  When a Stranger or the Bluecoats (guess) enter the Park the combined howling and growling and general cacophany of barking is impressive. It's funny but true: I know Every Dog's Bark and from my teepee (I mean trailer) at Center Court I can get a pretty good idea of what's going on by which dog is barking which bark at any given time and place.

We Pause For A Senior Moment

Did I ever tell you guys what Three Dog Night means? Probably. I Am Ancient and thus privileged to the Rite of Repetition. Or did I already say that? For example, did any of you know that the Wright Brothers started out as Bicycle Mechanics? Not just any old bicycle mechanics either: they had their own line of bicycles known as Atlantis, Columbia, Enterprise, Endeavor etc. that they stole from the names of old Sailing Ships. 

Now we return you to our regular programming.

The Crux of the Matter

Every Old Indian Village had a Shaman, or, as we call them now, Old Fart Who Thinks He Knows Everything. The Shaman was usually a pretty weird dude who mumbled a lot and could often be found Staring at the Sky and he usually drank Potions with Eagle Signs on them. And with that comes the Truth: today, in casual conversation with Miss Jo the Trailer Park Manager (My New Boss) I realized I am the Second Oldest Guy In the Park. Old Charlie the Refrigerator Repair Guy got carted off last month. He was still alive, but I suspect the Wolves In the Great Forest Beyond the Park have got his scent by now. That only leaves Jungle Jim between me and Eldest Status. What burden will that carry?

Well, for one thing, I will have to step up my intake of Potions With Eagle Signs.

I Ain't John Smith,  But That's What They Call Me At the Village Motel

Be that as it may, I am enamored of this Romantic New View of my life here at Whispering Pines. Miss Jo the New Manager is one Smokin' Hot Pocohantas of a Certain Age and the easiest Boss I ever had, so far. If I wanted to carry the analogy further, I guess Bobby the Trailer Park Mayor would have to serve as our Chief and I could go on and on with the whole thing but in reality, I'm just riffing along until I start being a Bicycle Guy again.

Feel My Pain

I have no idea what that entails but there is one Bicycle in the Stand for Uncle Bill (A Wally Comfort) and my own dear Mongoose Alta (awaiting a wheel) sitting on the side. Bill's Bike only needs Two Tubes and a Lube 'n Tune but since I refuse to drive anywhere for Bike Parts and we have had Afternoon Storms for a month now I don't have the parts. Tomorrow that will change because it is Wednesday and from now on, On Wednesdays We Ride.

No,  I Said My Pain

Thus Speaks the Second Oldest Bike Shaman In Training At Whispering Pines Trailer Park. Plus, I need a break from Pressure Washing and Roach Killing and Rot Removing and Air-conditioner Swapping. I need a break from Linoleum Laying and Wall Painting and Barbecue Sauce Empire Starting and On and On and On.

Ruby,  Don't Take Your Love To Town

Somehow I fear my readers need a break from my endless ramblings that have Nothing To Do With Bicycling but what the heck, We're All Friends, right? Right?

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Historical Diorama

#29

What the Left Hand Is Doing

Like Bess Said,  It's Summertime

One of those fantastic Summer Storms that hit Florida at this time of year is raging outside the trailer. All the windows are open and cool gusts of rain-cleansed air blow into the room like the laughing breath of Baby Gods.  The Yellow Dog cowers beneath my table, for she likes not these frightening aberrations on our steady Dog Days of Summer; flashing lightning and banging thunder are not her Favorite Things.

But me, I love it. For whatever reason, heavy weather has always enraptured and delighted me, sometimes on Long Rides and sometimes when caught at sea, the Blast and Crack of Mom at Her Best (Or Worse) has always been a welcome break in the Old One Day After Another Deal. The reminder that there are powers beyond our control is somehow a comforting one. It seems to take all the responsibility of the Burden of Power away from my mortal self and for that brief period of The Storm all we have to worry about is Staying Alive.

Blame It On Radio

And don't despair, my friends, I too realize I am ending paragraphs with the titles of songs. After well over thirty  years in the construction business spent listening to radios on job sites it is inescapable that I would inadvertently insert musical references into my writing. Please bear with  me while I'm Ridin' the Storm Out.

About Centuries

Anybody Been Riding? Not me. But some other guys have, it seems. My Buddy Wayward Home has a pretty good description of a Real-Life Century on his Blog recently.

If you are like me, you have read with fascination about these seemingly effortless 100 mile rides being done by People Who Never Sweat and seem to dash about the Wine Country in immaculate cycling garb while chatting about the stock market. I want to be like those people.

But alas, I ain't.

I sweat and I bonk and I cuss and the sweat pours out and I seek Beer and Shade and I try to  think up ways I can talk somebody into giving me a ride and maybe I can get them to buy my bicycle and then I ride some more. Then I ride some more.

Then I ride some more. Listen, it's a Hundred Miles. That's a lot. But Ol' Wayward Got It Right in his description and I encourage everyone to read it and if it convinces any of you to Stay On the Porch, good for you. How much for the bike?

WWJWD?

You can do like I did, and ride Metric Centuries, then go around casually mentioning “I rode a Century today” and get confused looks from the other people in the Trailer Park who don't understand how anyone can ride a Hundred Years on a Bicycle in one day and then you explain that a Century is a hundred miles in Cycling Parlance and it is OK, because by then they have stopped listening and even if they were still listening they won't believe you. So that ain't exactly a lie and it gets you accustomed to thinking about Centuries and by the way, while a Metric Century is a typically effete Euro-wimpy Century it is still 60 miles and I rode a hell of a lot of them before I got my John Wayne On and busted out a Real Live Daytona 100.

I bet the Duke would have tore 'em up at the Tour de France.

A Girl Duke

Another cycling Blogista I follow is Riding A Century of her own and like the Trailer Park Cyclist not all of her Writing About Riding is just exactly about bicycles but this Lady Lays It On the Line and I have been meaning to mention her to you guys Just In Case. Of course I am talking about the redoubtable Judi over at Miles and Madness. I won't bother telling you about her, just go see. She is another Real Person and talks like one and I always get excited when I stumble across a hero and here one is.

Oh No,  Here He Goes Again

Cycling for me is a metaphor for a Larger Truth and as a Normal Human, (which I someday hope to become) I don't get all the details. But while the sore butt and the mechanical oddities and numb hands and other numb parts are a constant reminder that cycling is also a Real World Experience, there really does seem to be something else going on here, and it is a good thing. Cycling writers like to mention the word Zen now and then and that is all right with me. As a Trailer Park Master of Budweiser Zen, I am amused and delighted that my fellow scribes attempt to capture the Elusive Clydesdale of Serenity when describing what is actually Exhaustion and Dehydration and an Approaching Physical Breakdown.

Then You Get A Flat.

Carpe Delirium! 

But be that as it may, Long Rides are the the Real Deal and I love them. Go out and get some punishment, you will be glad you did.

I Can't Believe I Made It All the Way

The Storm Has Abated, as they say, and so has the Muse. Not that good of a Muse tonight, anyway. I mean, WTF is this "laughing breath of Baby Gods"?  That I even dare to type such a sentence tells you a little about what riding Too Long can do to your brain.  

But I wanted to drop in and say Hello, I wanted to keep in touch, so to speak. The Voice has been Silent for Lo These Many Days, which is as it should be: his job is Advice, and right now I don't need any. Right now what I got to do is Storm around this Trailer Park and Fix-It. I gotta do what I gotta do and then I will Ride Long and Hard and then I will come on here to complain about it.

Until then, My Friends, Saddle Up the Palomino...

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Juke Joint

#28

The Weatherman

Unnatural Affection

How unnatural is it to be in love with your bicycle? I went for a roundabout ride today, covering some fifty miles or so in very random and easy fashion. This is the riding I live for! No idea of pace or distance or even where I am, I was just Riding for the Hell of it and just going nowhere, but getting places all the same.

I Need A Fix

One of the places I went to  was this horrendous super-shiny commercial plaza a couple towns away. You all know the kind of place I mean: a few dozen acres of cow pasture or scrub oak suddenly transforms into this Mini-Disney of Retail. A Multi-Screen Movie House, two or three Chain Restaurants and then all the in-fill stores that accompany the Big Boys like Remora on a Shark. My purpose in going to this place was to scope out a new chain restaurant that is being built there. In my Old Days of Glory, I was a very prolific builder of restaurants. I was thinking maybe there would be a little work there for Ol' Tim Joe, a little work and maybe some cash for the cash box and the Internet Bicycle Parts Suppliers who Feed My Habit.

Danger!

To get there I had to traverse an Interstate Interchange, probably one of the least bike-friendly spots known to man. Sidewalks that look like they will carry you precariously through to the other side instead abruptly end.  You then find yourself on a narrow shoulder with ground glass and wrecked tire debris and then even that  tapers off to nothing at the exact blind spot where a distracted driver could suddenly come blasting around those bushes texting and eating and murdering you all at the same time. It is horrendous.  I have encountered these interchanges before. They were once known as clover leafs but there is nothing lucky about them, unless one counts one's self lucky to survive the encounter.

Plucky

But the Trailer Park Cyclist counts on Pluck Not Luck, pluck and alertness and a really good reliable two-wheeled steed built with my own two hands using those aforementioned quality bicycle parts purchased online. She got me through and I cruised through this “open air mall” somewhat dazzled by the sterile cleanness and general plasticity of the place. I was of course the only cyclist in sight; I would have been appalled to think that Children Riders or even my Fellow Cyclists would have to brave such harrowing circumstances to get to this place that belongs to SUV's and Sleek Sedans and the Slaves that maintain them.

Anyway

But Judge Not, Tim Joe, Lest Ye etc.   So I instead focused on cruising around this giant place looking for the Job Site where maybe I could get a phone number or maybe even run into an old acquaintance from The Day. But no. Even though the newspaper had said work would start tomorrow, there was not the least sign of a new building going up or the plethora of containers, trailers and equipment that accompany such a project. What the Hell?

Now I had to go back through that damn interchange again. For nothing.

Urban Assault Vehicle

This kind of riding is new to the Old Schwinn.  She is more accustomed to Long Rides Down Country Lanes,  or Multi-Mile Highway Grinds. Instead,  for this kind of work I like to ride my old Mongoose Alta with the Flat Bars and Fat Tires. She is converted to single speed and is about as bomb-proof as you could ask for. That Alta is built for Urban Assault and that is what this was. But that Alta is hanging in the work stand waiting for a re-build on the rear hub. I have had the new bearings for days now but the old hub, after twenty years and god-knows-how-many-miles is worn and the bearing races are grooved and the cones are pitted and I really should put a new wheel on her but for now...well, you guys know the story. So I gotta Do the Deed and put the hub back together in less than pristine fashion and that just ain't what I am about. But the bike has been in the stand too long and I miss her so I'll do a sub-par repair for now and start shopping a new wheel later.

But let's keep that info between us.

The Unforgiven

I picked my way back through that dang hostile environment of Four Leaf Interstate Inhumanity and started gently cruising at slow speed along routes that were very familiar to me but that I had not seen for a long time. Years, in fact. I cruised past buildings that I had built and I cruised past saloons we had trashed while building those buildings. A couple of the guys who had been with me on the Building and the Trashing are Gone Now...one of them was My Brother. But Life Goes On for the Wicked and I guess That's Me and one of the ways I try to pay my respects to The Fallen is to tackle each new day as though it was my last. Sometimes people can get frustrated with a guy who insists on turning each experience inside out and twisting it to make sure there's no juice left before moving on. But I figure I owe it to those guys to Live a Little Extra to make up for their not being here with me to Share the Ride.

You Get What You Deserve

This is one of the reasons I ride a bicycle. As all of you know, cycling puts the rubber on the ground and your ass in the elements. You breathe the air first hand, not filtered through some mechanical cooling system. You hear the sounds and see the sights and smell the smells and interact with the wildlife, even if it is only dodging suicidal squirrels and strategic bird poop. On rides like this one the physical exertion is non-existent. I am cruising, reminiscing, trying to work things out. I am casually watching dark ominous clouds building just ahead and I know what it means when I see that the oncoming cars have their wipers on.

Elemental Man

I hit the storm, or it hits me. Who can tell? But this is a Hard Rain and there is No Shelter handy, nor do I seek it. This is Summertime Florida, man. These showers hit and the lightning strikes and then, just like that, it's over and old Poppa Sun comes back to do his thing and you are drying and pedaling and feeling Righteously Alive and looking around for someone to yell Hello! to but on this stretch it is just me and my Old Schwinn and I am feeling pretty damn good and thinking about how much I Love This Bike.

Fishing Is Everything

She is Just Right and I bought her for twenty bucks and a half pint of good rum and now I got Way More than that in her and I'm not done. She still has a new front wheel coming and a saddle and some bars, she has been promised a Tiagra Rear Derailleur (but I might surprise her with a 105). As my learning grows I am becoming a Shimano devotee. I wanted to rebel against their Dominance in the Industry but then one day I realized that I have been using their fishing gear for as long as I can remember and suddenly my whole attitude changed. All the joy and fish that I owe to my old Shimano Reels is now reflected in my Bicycle Parts Philosophy.

I'm pedaling South on US One, a sometimes grind but not today. The wind is from my starboard quarter and lifting and they repaved this highway last year with a nice wide shoulder. The World Is Wet and Clean and this ride is turning out a lot better than I thought it would. Old Tim Joe has been hiding out at a Trailer Park while he figured out Bicycles and Long Rides and how to write the last few chapters. I still don't have them clear in my head, but I can see now that soon I will. It Is All About Bicycles, somehow; somehow, it is All About The Ride.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Weather Station

#27

Fourth of July

Independence Day

The Fourth of July at Whispering Pines Trailer Park comes in with a Bang and goes out with an even bigger Bang. The boys start with the light weight stuff, (firecrackers and roman candles and so on) around the First and gradually build up to the illegal ordnance on the actual Fourth. By then the Hawks Park cops have given up and sometimes even roar up and down the street in front of the Park with their sirens screaming and lights flashing, shooting their guns into the air. Okay, I made that last part up but everybody here is pretty much on a first name basis with most of the seven or eight guys that make up the force and there are police cars here so often that nobody pays much attention until the handcuffs come out.

Andy and Barney

Here on my side of the Park next door to the Managers office Uncle Bill sets up his cooking gear and starts in on the ribs and gator and shrimp kabobs and after the Boys In Blue (Black, Actually) get done telling the Bobby the Trailer Park Mayor for the twentieth time that “No, a miniature canon doesn't count as fireworks,” they stop by for a bacon wrapped shrimp kabob or pork sandwich. It makes for a fairly pleasant working relationship. Hawks Park doesn't even have a jail.

The Pseudo Century

I started my Fourth of July Morning by riding a Century but I tried out a new route and miscalculated: it was only eighty miles. I stopped at the Park for a water (OK Beer) break and the new Park Manager was out front with a cooler, a big umbrella and several very comfortable-looking lawn chairs. She also had a table covered with various mixables and, well, she looked lonely. I had planned to push on for another quick twenty miles to keep things honest, but...well, she looked lonely. And I was curious about the contents of that cooler...

So I walked over to say Happy Fourth and she opened that cooler and there they were, a couple dozen 12 ounce cans of the special Red, White and Blue Budweiser Independence Day Special Edition Brewskis.

“I got them for You!” she said. “You've been working so hard around the Park and doing such a great job I wanted to show my thanks!”

Trailer Park Diplomacy

Well, as the Trailer Park Cyclist, friend of Man (and Woman) I felt it was my duty to accept with grace by cracking one open. I went next door to Release the Hounds, Miss Daisy the Yellow Dog and her frisky new sidekick Toby the Trouble Puppy. Miss Jo released her own mad dog Rocco the Magnificent, Daisy's best friend and love interest, and in moments, the Party started. Crazed dogs ran wildly around the yard. Neighbors dropped by to have a beer and play with the puppy. A huge gopher tortoise wandered in from nowhere, to the amazed delight of the dogs.

Uncle Bill

Then Uncle Bill pulled up with his Barbecue Rig. He is Uncle Bill because he is Everybody's Uncle. He also is the sole possessor of what I am sure is the World's Greatest Barbecue Sauce. My Readers Know Me, and they know that I am not given to exaggeration. Much. Well, a little, maybe. OK, a lot. But this time I am giving you the Straight Truth when I say that this sauce, and UB's considerable skills with pork, chicken, ribs, shrimp and gator is something you have to experience to believe. And in fact, you may get the chance.

Commercial Announcement

The Trailer Park Cyclist and Uncle Bill are in serious negotiations to bottle and market this stuff. The bottles are ordered and we are considering putting together a rig to visit around the country selling food and sauce. So if you see a '72 Eldorado Convertible with a stuffed alligator on the hood pulling a Barbecue Trailer in your neighborhood, give a shout. If there is a scrappy-lookin' Schwinn Super Le Tour in the back seat, that means I talked him into bringing me along and we can go for a ride.

We Now Return to Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

When Uncle Bill sets up anywhere, a crowd soon gathers. Also, the Hawks Park Fireworks display is right at the end of our street, so pretty much everybody in town shows up and parks their cars all over the place and walks down to the River for the show. Some never make it, because Whispering Pines is an Attractive Magnet Indeed, what with the allure of all that cooking and the horseshoes and dogfights and the Trailer Park Girls and so on. Me, I was in the same lawn chair I had been sitting in for the last four hours, the one next to the cooler. That cooler was apparently magical, for it never emptied. The brands would change, but the beer never stopped flowing.

The GF's Fam

The Blonde's kinfolk arrived en masse, a half-dozen impossibly giant four wheel drive pickups loaded to the top with kids, coolers, food, dogs, yahoos and fireworks, all of which were making a lot of noise when they got there and turned up the volume as they unloaded. And this was just on our side of the Park. Bobby the Mayor had the same scene going over at his place (the Country Club. Bobby has two lots by nature of frequent and mysterious fires and other mishaps every time the Park attempts to install a trailer next door.)

Besides these two hell-raisin' Fourth of July blast-outs, the City of Hawks Park was having their own Hoedown and Fireworks display just a few hundred yards away at the City Park by the River. So things were hoppin', to say the least.

God Bless America

It was all very Loud and Chaotic and Redneck and Very American and I loved every minute of it. My Old Bike was propped against a tree next to where I was sitting and I got to answer questions about “those skinny-tired bikes” and how (or why) anyone would ride a hundred miles on a bicycle. I don't think I converted anyone but I did get to talk about the Fall of Schwinn as a Symbol of what's wrong with America, except I think that gopher tortoise was the only one listening. He had taken up residence under the chair next to mine and spent the night there. Uncle Bill was the star, as usual, dispensing food and beer and Swamp Wisdom in equal doses. He is one of those guys who loves everybody and everybody loves him, which I suppose is How It Should Be.

But What About the Eighty Miles?

The pseudo-century was uneventful. The only thing I can say, really, is how badly I want a Brooks saddle. I'm still doing these long miles on the cheap knock-off seat from my old Mongoose. It ain't that bad, really, but it is bad enough. I rode almost continuously, stopping only once to stock up on Gator Ade and trail mix. Thirty miles of my ride was through the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge, but the only wild life I saw was me. I had the place to myself and really enjoyed the “training” aspect of all that straight flat blacktop, flying along with a baby tailwind and an open blue sky on the Nation's Birthday.

No, Seriously

I have a lot on my mind pertaining to bicycles that I want to go into, but can't get a handle on it just yet. I want this to be a daily Blog but I want it to be good and fun and sometimes it just ain't in me. But I'm working on it. I also have two trailers to rip apart and put back together for waiting tenants. One of them is a Real Mess. You have to live in a crappy trailer park on the highway to fully understand what a real mess is all about. Some of these people are less than tidy, to put it kindly,   and when they finally bail out they leave an incredible amount of debris behind, including cats and dogs and iguanas. Yes, iguanas. Bobby the Mayor handles those. I handle the Fix-it.

Also, I have to do some serious shopping for a '72 Eldorado and a Stuffed Alligator. Anybody?

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Circus

#26

Pinch Flats and Politics

Remember the Hindenberg

Mike Varley over at Black Mountain Cycles was talking about frame pumps and pump pegs today. He uses them and makes sure the frames he designs have them. Anyone not knowing what a pump peg is might (at first encounter)  be confused. I know I was. I thought it was some kind of fitting for injecting helium into frames to lighten them. No, seriously, that was my first guess.

The more I get to know me the more I worry about myself. 

 But Wait and See if there are not Helium Injecting accusations at the Tour this year.

And who knows, maybe Helium Filled bicycles are the Wave of the Future. Please remember you First Heard About It Here. After all, the Wright Brothers were Bicycle Mechanics before they got into that Aeroplane Thing. 

 Who would ever have imagined that this:

Would one day lead to this:

So you can see where I get some of my notions.

Where Was I?

From Frame Pumps to International Space Stations is merely One Small Step for a mind like that of Ol' Tim Joe. I think.  I seem to have lost my train of thought...

Wedgies

Today's post has nothing to do with any of this except in some wildly abstract way. In a comment I made on Mike's site I mentioned how I have mounted my frame pump in typical Trailer Park Fashion using bungee cords and velcro straps. And it is a damn good thing that I did so, because today I had a flat on a longish ride Far, Far Away from any source of help or succor. And without succor, let's Face It: You're On Your Own.

One of the cool things about being insane is that now I was happy to get a flat, after years of walking the bike home or worse yet, having to call the Blonde In Residence to pick me up in the mini-van as though I were a dejected ten year old who had just lost his soccer match and got a wedgie to boot.

See Me Proud and Prepared

Not Anymore, Baby! Hah! Not only do I have a Poorly Mounted Frame Pump, but I also carry a Spare Tube! (Cue fiendish laughter.) And yeah, I didn't forget the tire irons, which actually should be called tire plastics for the sake of accuracy, or something. Stand Back, everyone, I'll handle this!

Le Danse Macabre

I forgot to mention that this flat tire occurred precisely at the same place on this lonely gravel road where some Unfortunate Fellow Creature had apparently Gone On To Greener Pastures. I never saw the carcass, because there was a veritable Begger's Feast of Big Black Vultures clumped together doing That Thing They Do. When I first pulled up, they eyed me warily and pretended to be concerned by fluffing their huge wings in dark and vaguely threatening fluffs, and when I removed the Frame pump they were definitely interested in what That Thing might be. But they all stuck around nonetheless, turning back to their Breakfast Buffet with only occasional glances my way.

So while I performed my First Ever Roadside Flat Tire Repair I was keeping one eye on what was happening over there about thirty feet away.

What's Mike Got That I Ain't Got?

Mike Varley has reported that it takes him about ten minutes to fix a flat in the wild. But has he ever done it amongst fifteen Giant Black Scary Birds hopping around with Raw Flesh dangling from their beaks? I was working pretty quickly because I wasn't sure what Vultures Do when the dead food runs out and the only thing at the Dessert Bar is an Old Sweaty Cyclist hunched over a bicycle. I certainly didn't plan to wait around and find out.

Luckily, changing flats is something I know about and this pinch flat was obvious and easy. The only difference between the Side of the Road and the Shop  (besides the carnage)   was that there was no Classic Rock on the radio or Cold Beer On the Bench. Well, there was no Bench, either...Next time I will carry glueless patches, also. But I swapped tubes, pumped away with the new frame pump, got enough Air In There to beat it on down the road to a less macabre spot and put in some more air.

Presta No Presto

Which brings up a point that is only peripherally related to today's theme, (whatever it is): Presta Pressure Gauges. A while back I learned to always travel with one of those handy-dandy stick gauges that you slap on the end of the Schraeder Valve and hey presto! A little stick pops out and tells you how many PSI's are in the tire. I do it three times and if all the readings are the same, I ride off reasonably confident that All Is Well and the Dreaded Pinch Flat won't be Comin' Round Here No More.

Now That I Have Your Attention

I can't tell you the Frustration and Near Madness that pinch flats have caused me. Well, actually, I Can Tell You if anyone is still reading. It is probably funny, but wasn't to me at the time...

It Happened At the Library

About a year ago, before I became Head (Only) Big Man In Charge of Fix-it at the Whispering Pines Trailer Park, I experienced a Period of Poverty so intense that Yea, Lo, and Verily the Internet was cut off. I was not proud of this, but neither was I defeated. The Local Library has Free Wi-Fi and Air-Conditioning, and I have a laptop. So everyday I would saddle up the old Mongoose, strap my rather ponderous seventeen inch Hewlett onto my back and pedal the seven miles to the Palace of Interwebular Satisfaction.

One day, however, I came outside only to discover that I had a flat on the rear. “Well”, I thought to myself, these things happen. I'll just walk it home.” After the first mile I let my Good Sense gain the upper hand on my Pride and I called the Blonde for a ride. Mini-van comes, I load bike, Home We Go. I pull tire, find weird little snake bite holes, apply patch: no harm, no foul.

Chili

The next day it happened again. At the Library. This time, I call the Blonde immediately and start yelling at her about cheap Chinese products and no good patches and how it gets Too Hot in Florida and Bicycles Are Stupid anyway and she says “Alright I'll pick you up but I've got to hurry 'cause I have a pot of Chili on the stove.” To which I replied “I'll meet you at the corner of US One and Palmetto to save time.” and started jogging (with the bike) away from the bike rack and down the street. Her Chili is That Good.

Anybody Need A Bathroom Break?

I would like to make this Long Story Shorter but it is already too late for that and I think, in hindsight, it gets better.

An Interlude of Sanity

For two days I forgo the pleasures of the Web and Free air-conditioning and I ride my Old Single Speed mountain bike on the Beach and around town and on the Bike Path Along the River. I am not confessing to a Fear of the Library;  who is afraid of the Library? But all the same, Money Was Tight and I was running low on glueless patches and all that Web surfing isn't very good for you.

Whaddaya Want For Nothin'?

But naturally, being only a human and not a very well-disciplined human at that, it finally came time to “check my e-mail. I'll just drop in for a minute.” I carefully rode my bicycle the seven miles to the Library. On the way, along my usual route, I used my laser vision to scout for imperfections in the road or bits of glass. While I felt silly doing it, once I got to the neighborhood of the Library, I was Watchful for Snakes. Yeah. Well? What of It? Those holes looked Just Like A Snake Bite. That's how bad this was getting. I pulled up to the where the bike racks were, hopped the curb, and went inside.

Not This Time, You Won't

But I was crafty. I went over to my usual spot, set up my computer, all the while watching for Suspicious Activity, and making sure I wasn't being watched. Then, before anyone could guess what I was doing, I moved Stealthily and Quickly back to the front foyer. Directing my Stern Gaze towards the bicycles, I was a Tiger, ready to pounce.

Nothing. Well, the bored security guy in his baggy cheap uniform was sitting out front taking a smoke break. When did Public Libraries start needing security guards? Confident nothing would happen with a Guard On Duty, I went back to my computer. I dallied about on the Internet for a while, but could not get comfortable. I should have been looking up snake-bite-lookin' holes in inner tubes, but even MY strange brain would never think that one up.

Then It Happened

 I returned to the bike rack and automatically squeezed the rear tire, a habit that remains with me to this day.  I was (to put it mildly) transmogrified to find it flat. I dropped to a crouch, looking wildly about me for whoever (or whatever) was Doing This Thing To Me. I went back inside to see if any of my Legion of Enemies were present. At that moment, it was Clear To Me I was being Stalked by Fanged Demons. Fanged Library-Goin' Tire Bitin' Demons were the only Logical Explanation.  Except...

I Blame Sarah Palin

I noticed that dumpy security guard looking my way. What's his problem? Wait a minute! HIM! That's it! It is some kind of Super-Evil Tea Party Plot to get Homeless Guys to stop coming to the Library and soakin' up free air-conditioning and dirtying up the restrooms and chewing on the magazines...THAT EXPLAINS EVERYTHING! That Security Guard is a Fanged Demon Hired By Sarah Palin to Bite My Bicycle Tires!

Dial 911! Wait, They Might Be In On It Too!

I call the Blonde. “You won't believe the sinister plot I have uncovered it is probably going on in every city in America and I've got to get home and write a Letter to the Editor Before it's too late...” When she hears the words “Letter to the Editor” she knows it is time to kick in Emergency Plan Budweiser. “Tim Joe, take it easy. Why don't I come get you and we'll go for a Drive on the Beach and what if I pick up some Beer and Ice on the way?”

All's Well That Ends Well

She Did and We Did and eventually I learned about Pinch Flats and and what those Snake Bites mean and I bought a pressure gauge and used it daily and never again  have I had my tire attacked by Fanged Demons.  

Presta Schmesta

Until today. Having recently put a New Rear Wheel on the Old Schwinn I now have entered the 19^th Century and a Whole New Way to put air in the tire and as of yet, I can't find a simple stick-type pressure gauge. All I can find are digital and dial gauges and most of them get poor reviews. The LBS wants me to solve my problem with a Floor Pump With a Gauge that they happen to have on sale at twice the worst Internet price. 

 So...Fanged Demons and Vultures today, Gauge Hunting tomorrow.


Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Pinch Flat Paradise
#25

Gotta Ride

I don't know,  man...

What Might Have Been

As a Blogular Genius and Instrument Of Bicycle Wordism I ain't doing so hot. I have prepared two or three posts in the last few days that got put onto the back burner. Then I turned the back burner on High and torched what may have been really great Words of Wisdom but now We Will Never Know.

If It Was Fun They Wouldn't Call It Work

Here's why: As you are all aware, I Earn My Keep by fixing up old trailers in the Second Crappiest Trailer Park in Old Hawks Park. Turnover is high (as are most of the tenants) and lately I have been really swamped with Fix-It Work. I don't mean to complain, but this kind of work can be, on good days, disheartening. On Bad Days, Self-Immolation seems like a viable alternative. But Fear Not, Dear Followers, I Am Still Here, be it somewhat downtrodden and trailer sodden.

What Once Was But Now Ain't

Cycling? Who knows? I vaguely remember something about bicycles...Two Wheels, isn't it? The Work stand in the Living Room sits empty, a forlorn reminder of Days Past, when I was the Great Trailer Park Fix-it. Neighborhood Children would gather at my feet to hear tales of my Cycling Exploits and watch as I deftly adjusted saddle heights and squirted my secret Trailer Park Cyclist Chain Lube onto their, uh, well, chains. (that came out a little weird but I'm too tired and down-trodden to fix-it)  But anyway,  where was I?  Oh Yeah:   Gone, Gone are those Old Days of Glory!

Tales of Brave Ulysses

Miss Daisy the Yellow Dog nearly bit my ankle today when I dashed into the trailer for a Cold Hot Dog on a Stale Bun. Nothing is going right and there are still Stinky Old Trailers to tear apart and put back together. How Long, O Lord?

Well, As Long As It Takes, apparently. But the cool thing about being a Trailer Park Dude is that Disappointment and Heartache being your Only Friends means that sooner or later, things will have to get better. And all this whining is just the noise I make on weeks that have less than a hundred miles of riding in them.

It's true: I am an Addict. Without Road Miles, I begin to snivel and itch and shake and whine.

The Voice ain't been around for days now and as big a Pain as he can be, I miss him.

What to do?

Ride.

Voice? Is that you?

Just go for a long ride tomorrow morning. These stupid trailers aren't going anywhere and you seem to be losing it pretty bad.

Well, I'll be danged. Good Ol' Voice! I'm getting Up Before Breakfast Tomorrow and doing You Know What!

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Asylum for the Going Insane

#24

Trailer Park LBS

I cleared all the furniture out of the small living room in my trailer and set up a work stand and a bench. I was already known as a Bicycle Guy around the Park, but nobody associated me with Bike Repair. Now they do. In my 12x12 area there are my two personal bicycles and a Beach Cruiser belonging to one of the kids. There are two or three bikes on a waiting list for my free repair services sitting around the Park and I am sure there will be more.

At this point I am not interested in being paid, which is a Good Thing because nobody around here has any money. But I make it clear that One Good Deed Deserves Another and I generally expect there will be some sort of compensation for my efforts down the line.

Full House

But space is already an issue and I have no idea what to do about it. My situation here at Whispering Pines is a fairly cozy one and I have no plans to leave any time soon. There is room for a shed outside and I was planning to build one sooner or later but now that Bicycle Fix-it is a Reality I can see that I will need A Lot More room. Bicycles have a way off taking up space as I am sure all of you know.

But I'll work it out somehow.

The First Paying Customer

The Manager here at the Park dug an old Giant MTB out of one of the Trailers last week and asked me if it was worth fixing. I told her it certainly was and I plan to strip it down and clean it up, lube the cables and so on and do my Trailer Park Single Speed Special conversion. I did it to my Old Mongoose a couple years ago and really liked the results. The first thing I look for when someone comes by with a bike for me to look at is whether or not it has horizontal drop outs or at least semi horizontal. Horizontal dropouts means the chain can be adjusted once the rear D is removed. Many of them do have semi-horizontals and this is Florida: there ain't a hill in sight and these riders around here mostly just want a bike for the bike path along the river and riding to the corner market. Gears are of little use.

Strip It Down

I will remove the derailleurs front and back, take off the cassette and make a spacer out of a piece of PVC pipe. Then I will put on a single cog retrieved from my stash or from the LBS. Tires are usually an issue on these bikes. They sell these bicycles at the Big Box stores with huge 2.25 knobbies that will never see a single track and serve no purpose on the sidewalk riding they will be doing. Comfort bike tires (1.75) are inexpensive and ride way better.

The end result is a bike of improved simplicity and considerably less weight. Hopefully one less bike in the landfill and one more rider in Old Hawks Park.

My Master Plan

I have given a lot of thought to producing a few of  these Single Speed Conversions and seeing if I couldn't sell them for enough profit to buy more parts. The bikes the neighborhood kids are riding have cassettes and chains that are rusty and cheap rear derailleurs that have seen so much abuse that they are riding around in one gear anyway. I have found a pretty decent wheelset on the Web with a coaster brake rear that would work pretty well and enable me to remove the rear brake and cable and simplify things even more.

When we were kids in the sixties (yeah, I'm that old) the Stingray craze hit and there was always that One Guy in the neighborhood who could take your Regular Bike and put on the banana seat and the hi-rise handlebars. He would have two or three conversions available for sale. My first real bicycle was just such a Stingray Conversion. So that's kind of what I'm thinking about with my Trailer Park Specials. We'll see. First I gotta figure out this space problem.

The Ocean

This morning I took a short little ride to the Beach to make sure the Ocean was still there. It was. The water was smooth and clean and looked perfect for a sail. But a tree branch fell on my Prindle on Christmas day last year and wiped out the Port Hull. Merry Christmas, Tim Joe. I sold it to a guy who had the money to buy a used hull to try to do repairs so I am without a Beach Cat for the first time in many, many years. Cycling has been filling that void but today Mama Ocean was calling out to me in that seductive way she has about her.

Danged poverty.

Oh Yeah

But I just remembered I know about this guy who somehow has an eighteen foot Hobie and has never sailed it. Oddly enough, he also used to be a bike mechanic at some famous shop in San Diego. So perhaps tomorrow I will give him a call. Sailing would be good. Plus this guy, who I barely know, supposedly has some pretty wild cycling stories from his time as a race mechanic in SoCal back in the day.

Stay With Me

I know today's post wasn't much, but I can't help it. There are some wild developments taking place in my life that have nothing to do with Cycling and I'm pretty preoccupied. So while I'm typing about one thing my mind is on another. I want to tell about it but not yet. Once I get it Figured Out and Rolling you guys will be the first to know. Rest assured it's a Fun Thing and my Readers Will Be In On It.

So, later Dudes!

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and House of Mystery

#23