On The Road
by: Bill Oetinger 5/1/2005
The Trophy Bride
Spring is the traditional season of new beginnings. Rebirth and renewal. Blossoms and baby bunnies. So this year, in the first flush of April, I bought a new bike. This may not strike you as an earth-shaking piece of news. Most of you have probably bought a new bike once or twice or a dozen times. But it had been a long time since I had done so, and in fact, I pretty much had my whole bike persona wrapped up in the long-term relationship I had developed with my old bike: my Merlin.
I bought my Merlin in 1993. A review of the Merlin in Bicycling magazine at about that time said, “This may be the last bike you ever buy!”...a claim based on the overall excellence of the bike and on the more-or-less indestructible, corrosion-free titanium frame. I took that assertion to heart, and I cherished the notion of riding the same bike to the end of the road...one bike, one rider, pedaling over the horizon, off into the sunset. I logged an average of 7000 miles a year on the bike for 12 years. 84,000 miles. (It wasn’t new when I acquired it either. Probably had another 20,000 miles on it.) 100,000 miles may not be a lot for a good car these days, but for a bike, it seems like a mighty big pile of miles.
I liked everything about the bike, but I especially appreciated the way it looked: the classic frame with the perfect welds and the satiny silver tubes (no decals at all). It was, to me, the very definition of quiet, understated elegance. The essential distillation of the frame-builder’s art. And the bike’s look had a great deal to do with how I defined myself as a rider: understated and under the radar. I called it my stealth bike.
Over the past few years, I have written at least three essays in this space on the subject of my Merlin, likely inflicting upon my readers far more than they ever wanted to know about one man’s obsession with his bicycle. I was even contemplating another column about how I was cleverly collecting old 8-speed Dura Ace gruppos from my friends who were upgrading to 9 or 10-speeds, so that I was stockpiling a virtually free, lifetime supply of quality components. Putting my obsession into words only helped to bind me to the bike in a “mated-for-life” scenario.
But, sadly, like many another marriage, there finally came a time when the bloom was off the rose...when the honeymoon was at long last over. Perhaps it’s my fault. Perhaps I wasn’t as good a custodian of my bike as I might have been. I’ve tried to be a responsible mechanic, but what I don’t know about bike maintenance could fill a hefty manual. So maybe I missed some essential bit of wrenching that would have kept her happy. That unbreakable, rust-proof ti frameset still appears as good as new, but over the past few years--with ever-increasing frequency--the bike has shown a tendency to squeak and creak and rattle in mysterious ways.
Mysterious to this ham-handed mechanic, anyway. But before you begin speculating on these mystifying noises, let me assure you that I have spent countless hours taking the bike apart and putting it back together; swapping out parts singly and in wholesale job lots; lubricating, cleaning, filing, polishing, adjusting, tweaking, test riding... Trust me: there is not a part on the bike that has not been examined under a jeweler’s glass; not a part that hasn’t been replaced. Few bikes in history have been so thoroughly inspected. Some of the squeaks I figured out and fixed. But new ones kept popping up with aggravating regularity.
And they were never noises I could replicate in the shop, with the bike up on the stand. I could make all sorts of finicky, tidy repairs so that the old girl felt as smooth as silk in the shop, and even as quiet and polite as you please for a test run around the neighborhood. But just a few miles into my next real ride, the gremlins would reappear. It was almost literally driving me mad.
In addition to listening to the maddening squeaks, I have been listening to the advice of all of my friends and riding companions, many of them far more accomplished wrenches than I. On one ride not too long ago, the bike was making a horrible croaking noise with each pedal stroke, rather like a large frog being stomped on by a Doc Martin. All of my friends were listening to it and speculating about what it might be. And then suddenly, between one pedal stroke and the next, it stopped. Not a sound. Wes said, “Well, that’s the damnedest thing I ever heard!” It stayed blessedly quiet for the rest of the ride, but of course, on the next ride the noise was back, as bad as ever.
Finally, on a cold, windy day in late March, I set out for a solo ride following yet another marathon session of disassembly and reassembly. The bike was as silent as a bank vault at the outset, and I was flattering myself that this time I had finally laid the pesky problem to rest. But at about 18 miles, it commenced to squeak again. On a lonely road in the middle of nowhere, I realized I had had it. I was not going to take that damn bike apart one more time. I hated like hell to give up. I didn’t want to admit defeat. I wanted very badly to solve the problem and carry on with my beloved old bike. My honor was at stake! I’m a staunch believer in reusing and repairing and recycling. Discarding and replacing run against my grain. But my resolve ran out. I was exhausted with banging my head against a wall of frustration. I threw in the very greasy towel. I started looking for a new bike
Philosophically, emotinally, I felt a deep brand loyalty to Merlin (even though they’re now merely a vassal state within the Litespeed empire). So I looked at them first. I found one model that really caught my fancy: the Cielo. Naked carbon tubes and elegantly sculpted titanium joints (sort of super-lugs). What a lovely bike! But then I looked at the price: $7200 with Dura Ace. Ouch! I’m not exactly poverty stricken, but neither have I won the lottery lately, and that struck me as a whole lot more of my hard-earned money than I could really justify spending on a bike.
Then my favorite local bike shop announced a monster sale. Everything marked way way down. The timing was right and I was ready. I went in with an open mind and an open wallet and started taking bikes out for test rides. Lots of interesting bikes. Eventually I worked up to the Trek 5900. The “Lance bike,” if you will. 16 pounds of pure performance. Lethal as a well-stropped straight-razor. I was very impressed, and a couple of my friends who own them gave hugely positive reviews. “Best bike I’ve ever owned!” Stuff like that...
But there was one more bike I wanted to try, and that was the Trek 5.9 Madone. If I understand the Trek hierarchy correctly, this is the successor to the 5900, although it does not strike me as an exactly linear progression from one to the other, as they have quite different personalities. Whatever...as of last year, it was the latest, greatest thing from the folks whose bikes have won the Tour de France for the last six years. As state-of-the-art and cutting-edge as they come.
None of that hype and hoopla cuts much ice with this old curmudgeon, but what did impress me immediately was the ride. I only took it once around the block by the shop before I went back in and asked to have it for an extended, all-day test. I knew right away this was something special. It’s about a pound heavier than the featherweight 5900, but somehow that extra weight translates into a sweeter ride...still very tight and cohesive, but a little less harsh. I think the 5900 is probably the ultimate climber’s bike, while the 5.9 is for the rolleur: a bike you can ride hour after hour without fatigue, and at 17 pounds, still not exactly a lard-ass. The comfort of a touring rig with the performance of a serious race bike.
On that first test ride, after only about 20 miles on the bike, I hit 52-mph on a bumpy, tricky descent and felt dead solid and completely comfortable doing it. I ride that road often, and I know doing that downhill at 45-mph on my old bike would have made me nervous. The high side of 50 would have felt very sketchy. I would have felt like I was pushing the envelope for the conditions. But the Madone felt so smooth and steady, I had no idea I was going that fast until I checked the tell-tale later. That right there pretty much sealed the deal for me.
The deal: there were some other sweeteners in the transaction. This particular bike was the store’s special demo bike: their showstopper, built up with all sorts of upgraded bells and whistles to wow the customers. (Miss Manners reminds us it’s bad form to boast about one’s possessions, so I won’t itemize all the goodies. But this bike is, let us say, well accessorized.) What with the killer sale the shop was having and another steep markdown for it being a slightly used demo bike, the price was very attractive. A whole lot of bike for a lot less than I had expected to spend.
So I did it. I bought it. and now the new bike and I are getting used to one another. I’ve put a few hundred miles on it so far, including a number of major climbs and e-ticket descents, and the jury is in: superb! I took it as an article of faith that my Merlin was the best bike in the world in terms of all the important criteria concerning bike performance. Well, perhaps it was, 15 years ago. But the industry has not been standing still over those busy years, and this new bike is a quantum leap ahead of my old one in all ways. Lighter, tighter, smoother, faster...all of the things a bike is supposed to do, it does extremely well. It’s probably far more bike than I will ever need, like a 180-mph Ferarri that rarely gets driven at more than a hundred. I have not got the strength, the skills, nor the courage to extract from this bike all the performance that has been built into it.
But I’ll do my best to live up to the bike’s potential, and the bike will help me to be a better piloto. No, it won’t turn me into Lance. It won’t even move me to the front of my club ride peloton. But it will make me a more efficient, more confident, more comfortable rider, and all of that will make me a happier rider. Best of all, it will make me a quiet rider. No more squeaks. No more rattles. At least not for a few years.
However, while the well-knit feel of the bike had me enthralled right from the first turn of the cranks, I have to admit the looks have taken some getting used to. Recall the bike aesthetic I had embraced and nurtured: the classic frame; no graphics; no color...nothing to attract one’s attention. This new bike may literally be quiet, but visually, it's as loud as a rock concert. With its opulently sculpted carbon frame; with its flashy paint and splashy graphics; with its cutting-edge, too-cool components...it simply sceams, “Look at me!”
Some of my friends--those more open-minded about innovation--think it looks seriously hot. Others with more traditional values shake their heads and convey a sense of slightly veiled pity that I should be such a rube as to have fallen for this voluptous but rather vulgar tart. Well hey, I can live with their snickers. As Forrest Gump said, “Handsome is as handsome does,” and this bike performs so handsomely, I am coming to appreciate its extrovert styling as form following function.
Meanwhile, as I’m enjoying my new honeymoon with my new bike, my old bike is still around. I’ve put a new hook up in the shop, and there she hangs, dissed and discarded. When I go out to the shop I feel as if she’s regarding me with a sort of sad reproach: “I know I’m getting old and crotchety, but how could you do this to me, after all we’ve done together and all we’ve meant to each other?”
It makes me feel guilty, as if I had thrown over the old, faithful wife of many years for a glossy, long-legged trophy bride...as if I’d suddenly showed up at the dance with Heidi Klum on my arm.
I haven’t completely given up on the old bike. I’m convinced it’s still a good, worthy machine that deserves to be on the road, in the mix. I would still like to figure out why it squeaks and fix the problem. It will probably never happen though. I’m too busy capering about with my new love. The best solution might be to sell it as a project bike to someone who thinks they can succeed where I have failed. Someone who is a real mechanic, with an encyclopedic, intuitive knack for bike maintenance. If you’re such a person, and if you have a yen to own a classic Merlin, you know where to find me. Send an e-mail. I’ll get back to you when I get home from riding my new bike.
Bill can be reached at srccride@sonic.net