On The Road
by: Bill Oetinger 5/1/2007
Think globally; shop locally
You won't have read this particular story before. Something like it perhaps, but not exactly this. However, the conclusions I draw at the end will not be anything new to anyone who bikes or reads about biking.
A couple of weeks ago in late April, I set out for a solo ride. The club ride had been rained out the day before, and on this day of rather sketchy but promising weather, I was putting into practice my "chasing blue skies" plan (described in another recent column). I was heading wherever the rain clouds weren't, looking to accumulate maybe 70 or 80 easy miles without getting drowned in the process.
The theory was good and the weather was cooperating, and I thought I had the world by the tail. But then, at around mile 20 on my day, Murphy's Law found me and put me through the wringer. I was on Chalk Hill Road, a very pleasant country road northeast of Santa Rosa, and I had just crested the one little summit on this road and was ready to steam down the other side of the hill on a long, slinky glide. I stopped at the summit for a brief break, and it was then that I noticed that the rear tire was a little soft. Spongy. There was no pretending that it just needed a little air. It was on the way down and needed to be fixed. So I set about the tedious chore of swapping out the tube.
First I spent quite awhile searching for and eventually finding the exceedingly tiny chip of glass that had chewed the mini-hole in the tube. Once I got that sorted out, I put in my spare and pumped it up. So far, so good. But then, when I pulled the pump off the valve stem, the sealer cap on the stem tore off with the pump. Pssssss! All the air escaped from the tube that now had no closing mechanism. Shit!
Has this ever happened to you? I have been biking and fixing flats for 40 years, and only in the past two years have I begun to experience this extremely frustrating mechanical meltdown. It has now happened to me about six times. I have come to the tentative conclusion that my mini-pump is the culprit. Something about the way it grips the valve stem is damaging the pin-and-cap thingy in the center of the stem.
So, amid much cursing and grumbling, I find the hole in the first tube and put a patch on it. I am mounting this tube--my only remaining good tube--when a rider comes up the hill, sees me, and tosses out the obligatory: "Need any help?" Now...I know you've been in this spot, either as the rider on the side of the road or as the rider going past. If you are riding past, you make the offer of help. It's what you do. But secretly, you hope the person says, "No thanks! I'm fine!" Because you really do not want to stop. And if you're the one messing with the tire, you are prone to say exactly that, because you don't want to be any trouble to anyone, and besides, you feel you ought to appear capable and self-reliant.
And that is exactly how I replied to his offer of help, although sotto voce, I did add, "but it's my last tube..." He didn't hear that part and went zipping off down the other side of the hill. I finished mounting the tire and pumped it up. I then removed the pump from the stem with all the care a diamond cutter brings to working a big stone. I eased that baby off soooo carefully... Pssssss!
Ripped that damn cap right off another tube, leaving me on this country road with no useful tubes. Now what? If you are like 90% of the people in the modern world, you would have whipped out your cell phone and called someone for help. But I am in that other 10%...the cell phone luddites. Don't own one. Don't carry one. Don't even know how to use one. This is one of the few occasions in my life when I might have liked to have had one. On the other hand, on a Sunday afternoon, my wife was working out in the garden and wouldn't have heard the phone ring. (Unless she had a cell phone with her in the garden, which she didn't.)
So I did what those of us in the dark ages do: I started walking, and as I walked, I stuck my thumb out for each car that went by. It's a funny thing, but just before the valve stem debacle, I had been thinking about the scenario of being stuck out on a back road, far from help, and needing to figure out how to get to some form of help. A prescient, prophetic vision or just a coincidence? Beats me. But there I was, on a moderately remote road, miles from home, etc. Fortunately, it was not an absolutely remote road. Chalk Hill's southern end plugs right into the town of Windsor and thence to the bigger town of Santa Rosa. As such, it carries a fairly steady stream of traffic. Every minute or so a car would go by. Many were big SUVs that could easily have hauled my bike. But they didn't stop. After about 15 minutes, two guys did stop in a VW Jetta. They really wanted to help, but with all the good will in the world, we couldn't figure out how to get the bike into the trunk, even with both wheels off. While we were struggling with this, another guy stops--with a much bigger vehicle--and asks if he can help. And one of these fellas says, "No thanks! We're fine!" And I'm thinking: yes, I do need help! But he was gone. After several minutes of trying to tie the frame in knots to get the trunk shut, I had to give up, thank the guys politely, and send them on their way.
Back to walking and thumbing. After about a mile, a young guy with a big pick-up stops and we tie the bike on top of the load he has tarped in back. Off we go, back toward civilization. Turns out he's going to within a block or two of my regular bike store in Santa Rosa. What luck! He's what I might describe as a classic big pick-up owner: a solid, straight-up sort of guy; a general contractor building custom homes, and, for fun, a serious competitor on the bass tour. In short, he's not the kind of guy I would expect to be friendly toward a cyclist. Superficially, he filled the bill as the kind of guy who would would refer to cyclists as "bumper bait." And yet he was there for me when all the yupps in their fancy SUVs were blowing right by.
He very kindly drops me right outside the door of NorCal Bike Sport at midday on Sunday. I roll the bike in and the first person I see is Phil Scheidler, the shop manager. Phil is an excellent fellow...a real gentleman. He is from Kentucky originally, and he still retains a bit of that southern drawl and the slow, easy charm and courtesy to go with it. I say, "Phil, I've got a problem: I need help here and I only have about five bucks in my pocket." He doesn't bat an eye. He simply says, "Tell me what you need and we'll make it work." No discussion about money. Just fix the problem.
So I get two new tubes and I get a new pump. I was convinced that pump was the problem. (I had snagged the little pump out of the lost-&-found after the Terrible Two a year or two before. Hey, a free pump! But considering that it has now destroyed at least six tubes, that free pump turned out to be one of the more expensive pumps I have ever owned.)
Normally, the service bay at NorCal is a bee hive of busy activity. You have to schedule a service appointment a week in advance. But maybe on this Sunday things were a little slow. I don't know. What I do know is that Phil personally and immediately put my bike on the rack and mounted both a tube and the new pump in its bracket...and didn't charge me for the labor. He rang up the purchase and gave me the receipt and waved me out the door. It was only a bit after noon, and I was able to continue with my truncated ride, finding ways to dodge more rain clouds until I logged 74 nice miles. Phil never fretted about the money. He simply assumed I would pay the bill as soon as I could. I dropped a check in the mail the next day, along with a thank you note.
I don't know if I can complain too bitterly about my bad luck with the pump and stems when I compare it to my good luck with the guy in the pick-up and with the superb service and the personal trust of Phil at the bike shop.
What are the conclusions I take away from this little misadventure? As predicted at the top, they are predictable. First of all, about the guy in the pick-up: If you are like me, when you're out on your bike, you will assume the big pick-up--and the guy in it--relate to cyclists about the way lions relate to zebras. Perhaps this is true, some of the time. But not always. Working from stereotypes is never a good idea. Pre-judging is the root of prejudice. Next time you see the burly boy in the big rig, don't automatically assume he's the enemy.
Second of all, about the local bike shop: this is as clear and classic an example of why we patronize our local bike shops as you will ever see. I'm not a lunatic shopper, spending endlessly on more and more bike goodies. But when I do buy bike stuff, I buy it at my local shop...not from a mail order outfit and not from some giant, franchised chain bike store. The conventional wisdom is that I might be able to get at least some of the stuff I buy at a lower price if I went on-line or to the biggest big box around. Maybe...maybe not. I haven't even done the web surfing to figure out if it might be so. I drop my bucks in the local shop, where they go toward the paychecks of the guys and gals turning the wrenches in the back room.
If it costs me a buck or two more on some items, so what? That is a small price to pay for the comfort of knowing I can walk into that local shop and have my bike up on the rack and getting attention on the spot (at least in an emergency). A couple of bucks is a small price to pay to be a known patron of the store...a friend and a neighbor...someone the store staff is willing to help, even when he doesn't have a dime in his pocket. They know I'm good for the costs. They know I'm going to be around. It's trust, the simplest and purest of human connections and the basis for all community.
So...a little story about a little bike ride that could have turned into the ride from hell...a ruined, wasted day. But instead it turned into a quality ride and a positive experience, thanks to the kindness of a stranger and the trust of old friends.
Bill can be reached at srccride@sonic.net