With the warm weather on Saturday, I almost went riding, but living off 4th Line (the pothole capital of the world), it was too dangerous, as the potholes were full of water, so you cannot gauge the depth, nor edge shape of the hole. Therefore, weaving around them on road that used to have quite light traffic, but now is quite busy, appeared almost suicidal, so I decided to wait until things dry up. But yesterday, that didn’t happen, as it snowed all day, so still no ride. But the time of year and that first ride, had me thinking of an article I wrote for the Sault Cycling Club, when I had a regular column in the Newsletter, just entitled, “The Roving Reporter”.
This story is a reprise, of a reprise.
I originally wrote this in 1996, and it reflects a back and forth of my thoughts between that day, almost thirty years ago and also the memories from a ride twenty-five years before that, in the mid 1970’s, when I was going to school in Ottawa. In the 70’s, my life was school and racing, (not necessarily in that order). In the 1990’s I was no longer competing seriously, but cycling was and continues to be, a huge part of my life. The piece is about lessons learned about life.
Please note, that cutting and pasting this onto the Spaces Page, removed the italics and indents I had used to denote the time changes. I therefore added a dotted line when that occurs, so I hope the transitions are still evident.
Hope you enjoy it. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- BARUM TIRES Originally written 22 April 1996
It’s mid-winter and I am sitting in the basement workshop, doing something I have not done in many, many years. Gluing on a pair of Barum tires.
They haven’t changed much -- the thin green sidewall, the tread pattern, the cloth tape that will eventually pull away from the rest of the tire, the black elastic band, made from a sliced inner tube, holding it in its folded position and the familiar bump that will finally enlarge and make it unrideable long before your first puncture. As far as tires go, these possess a unique character unlike any other, and even their smell brings back memories of a time long ago. It isn’t so much the act of stretching the tire before mounting it, but the crack it makes as the tight threads give way under your foot as you pull upwards trying to stretch it, hoping to find just the right amount of slack, so it will roll onto the rim, without getting the tire setting glue on your fingers. -------------------------------- My thoughts regress to 1975, to a damp basement on McLeod Street in Ottawa. Sitting on the floor, in wool shorts, wool tights and a wool jersey, that exudes an odour when wet, that will ensure one always rides alone . -------------------------------- After inspecting the rim and removing a few large clumps of old dried on glue, I apply a new coat of red adhesive cement. Not the pure white Tubasti, we used “back in the day”. -------------------------------- Today's ritual is one, I liked the most. The first ride of the season. It’s early March, the roads are mostly clear, the sky - dark, foreboding, the wind gusty. But who cares ! It was time to actually RIDE a bike. Not pedal on rollers as I’ve been doing the past three months. Andy and Marc were waiting upstairs. I pumped up the Hutchinson I had mounted last week in preparation for this day. As it reached 6 bars, it just blew up. So now I was about to commit the deadly sin of riding a freshly glued on tire -- a new Barum ..... ------------------------------ The tire having been stretched, was now ready to put on the rim. After inserting the valve stem and firmly inching it along, the tire went on Straight, until I reached the last ten centimetres. Trying to push the remainder over the rim, my thumbs burnt with pain, as the seemingly immovable piece of rubber and woven cotton, resisted all my efforts. Finally, using my palm and forcing it over the edge it rolled on, covering my hand, the sidewalls and one side of the rim with red sticky glue. Not like the old days when I was in practice. -------------------------- The ride today was about 85 kms return, to Osgoode, a flat ride, due south, with good friends. Both those guys had smiles as big as their faces, even on bad days. Today … well it was like they were little kids anxious to try a new playground and I was holding them up frantically pumping the tires and slamming the wheel back in the dropouts. They didn’t care. The ride could wait, but I felt I was ruining their day. Running around grabbing my gloves and a toque — so anxious and supposedly aware of my friends’ feelings. Had I only known, I was the only one upset by my tardiness. I could hear them laughing and talking upstairs, as they leaned against their bikes in the foyer, occasionally picking up their front wheels and dropping it a few inches, so the bike would bounce. An unconscious action, but one to me that yelled ‘hurry up’! ------------------------------ Reluctantly pulling out some solvent and a rag, I now had to try to clean up my mess the best I could. The liquid stung my fingers, raw from my fight with the tire. The fumes in my nose. Who cares thought to myself, I'm not going to let this ruin my time with my bike. My composure compared to back then was vastly different yet so similar. ------------------------------ Running up the stairs carrying my bike, I slip on my cleats and almost fall. Pushing my way out the door I jumped on. The first pedal stroke, the cold air in my lungs, I was alone with my bike. My friends were there, but at first I didn't notice. I was with others, but could not share the initial excitement. But soon this faded and we acknowledged each other's presence. The pace gradually quickened, as we each tested our legs and egos in the first training ride of the year ...... ------------------------------ It probably would be several more weeks (and as it turned out-- almost a few months) before I would get on that first ride this year, so the motions, the rhythms, the inbred actions of ceremony of the wheel, were my only thoughts. Revelling in the acid smell still permeating the basement from the solvent, I returned to the next wheel and slowly, lovingly repeated the process. Half inflating the tire, I nudge and straighten it on the rim. Holding it by the axles, I spin it and marvel how after all theses years, the tires still are not straight with a small bump every revolution. But then again, without that genetic defect, I probably would have forgotten those older times. --------------------------- Sweating ~ even in the cold ~ my jersey clung damp to my chest, the fluidity on the pedals was not as I had wished. I guess I need a lot more training, I thought . And Marc ~ boy he's fit. I just can't jump on those small hills like he can. My competitive nature was constantly taxed. I looked at my friends as other competitors, looked at my ride as training, looked at the Spring, not as a reawakening, but as the start of 'The Season'. My legs were burning. We had been pushing hard for over an hour ~ no one wanted to be the first to capitulate and say slow down and admit defeat. ------------------------- My first ride this year is in stark contrast. I'm with friends, but now I realise this is the point. The ride is perhaps a rite of passage and it's also a reaffirmation that we are alive. The time is spent telling jokes, and catching up with the past few months, the bike disappeared beneath me. It was an easy chair sitting in a group talking around a fire. We rode over 400 km that week in Florida, and canoed, walked, and drank, and ate less than healthy food. --------------------------- Turning back home into the wind, a few kilometres up the road, someone finally gave in. I can't remember who, but we all were toast. A funny thing happened ~ we sat up ~ rode three abreast and started talking. Before we knew it we were back home, in Ottawa. I don’t remember riding back, I didn’t FEEL it, even riding into a headwind. ---------------------------- Back then I thought I had wasted the last half of the training ride. Now I know that the ride back was the best part. Marc and Andy were my best friends back in 1975 and it was in those times; the easy, slap-you-on-the-back and pull-on-your-saddle rides that reinforced the friendship, not the lactic acid in our legs .....
Those Barum tires, their shape tells it all. Perfect circles, no beginning, no end, and always a bit bumpy. This year, my first ride was with Andre, John and Rich
With the warm weather on Saturday, I almost went riding, but living off 4th Line (the pothole capital of the world), it was too dangerous, as the potholes were full of water, so you cannot gauge the depth, nor edge shape of the hole. Therefore, weaving around them on road that used to have quite light traffic, but now is quite busy, appeared almost suicidal, so I decided to wait until things dry up. But yesterday, that didn’t happen, as it snowed all day, so still no ride. But the time of year and that first ride, had me thinking of an article I wrote for the Sault Cycling Club, when I had a regular column in the Newsletter, just entitled, “The Roving Reporter”.
This story is a reprise, of a reprise.
I originally wrote this in 1996, and it reflects a back and forth of my thoughts between that day, almost thirty years ago and also the memories from a ride twenty-five years before that, in the mid 1970’s, when I was going to school in Ottawa. In the 70’s, my life was school and racing, (not necessarily in that order). In the 1990’s I was no longer competing seriously, but cycling was and continues to be, a huge part of my life. The piece is about lessons learned about life.
Please note, that cutting and pasting this onto the Spaces Page, removed the italics and indents I had used to denote the time changes. I therefore added a dotted line when that occurs, so I hope the transitions are still evident.
Hope you enjoy it.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
BARUM TIRES
Originally written 22 April 1996
It’s mid-winter and I am sitting in the basement workshop, doing something I have not done in many, many years. Gluing on a pair of Barum tires.
They haven’t changed much -- the thin green sidewall, the tread pattern, the cloth tape that will eventually pull away from the rest of the tire, the black elastic band, made from a sliced inner tube, holding it in its folded
position and the familiar bump that will finally enlarge and make it unrideable long before your first puncture. As far as tires go, these possess a unique character unlike any other, and even their smell brings back memories of a time long ago. It isn’t so much the act of stretching the tire before mounting it, but the crack it makes as the tight threads give way under your foot as you pull upwards trying to stretch it, hoping to find just the right amount of slack, so it will roll onto the rim, without getting the tire setting glue on your fingers.
--------------------------------
My thoughts regress to 1975, to a damp basement on McLeod Street in Ottawa. Sitting on the floor, in wool shorts, wool tights and a wool jersey, that exudes an odour when wet, that will ensure one always rides alone .
--------------------------------
After inspecting the rim and removing a few large clumps of old dried on glue, I apply a new coat of red adhesive cement. Not the pure white Tubasti, we used
“back in the day”.
--------------------------------
Today's ritual is one, I liked the most. The first ride of the season. It’s early March, the roads are mostly clear, the sky - dark, foreboding, the wind gusty. But who cares ! It was time to actually RIDE a bike. Not pedal on rollers as I’ve been doing the past three months. Andy and Marc were waiting upstairs. I pumped up the Hutchinson I had mounted last week in preparation for this day. As it reached 6 bars, it just blew up. So now I was about to commit the deadly sin of riding a freshly glued on tire -- a new Barum .....
------------------------------
The tire having been stretched, was now ready to put on the rim. After inserting the valve stem and firmly inching it along, the tire went on Straight, until I reached the last ten centimetres. Trying to push the remainder over the rim, my thumbs burnt with pain, as the seemingly immovable piece of rubber and woven cotton, resisted all my efforts. Finally, using my palm and forcing it over the edge it rolled on, covering my hand, the sidewalls and one side of the rim with red sticky glue. Not like the old days when I was in practice.
--------------------------
The ride today was about 85 kms return, to Osgoode, a flat ride, due south, with good friends. Both those guys had smiles as big as their faces, even on bad days.
Today … well it was like they were little kids anxious to try a new playground and I was holding them up frantically pumping the tires and slamming the wheel back in the dropouts. They didn’t care. The ride could wait, but I felt I was ruining their day. Running around grabbing my gloves and a toque — so anxious and supposedly aware of my friends’ feelings. Had I only known, I was the only one upset by my tardiness. I could hear them laughing and talking upstairs, as they leaned against their bikes in the foyer, occasionally picking up their front wheels and dropping it a few inches, so the bike would bounce. An unconscious action, but one to me that yelled ‘hurry up’!
------------------------------
Reluctantly pulling out some solvent and a rag, I now had to try to clean up my mess the best I could. The liquid stung my fingers, raw from my fight with the tire. The fumes in my nose. Who cares thought to myself,
I'm not going to let this ruin my time with my bike. My composure compared to back then was vastly different yet so similar.
------------------------------
Running up the stairs carrying my bike, I slip on my cleats and almost fall. Pushing my way out the door I jumped on. The first pedal stroke, the cold air in my lungs, I was alone with my bike. My friends were there, but at first I didn't notice. I was with others, but could not share the initial excitement. But soon this faded and we acknowledged each other's presence. The pace gradually quickened, as we each tested our legs and egos in the first training ride of the year ......
------------------------------
It probably would be several more weeks (and as it turned out-- almost a few months) before I would get on that first ride this year, so the motions, the rhythms, the inbred actions of ceremony of the wheel, were my only thoughts. Revelling in the acid smell still permeating the basement from the solvent, I returned to the next wheel and slowly, lovingly repeated the
process. Half inflating the tire, I nudge and straighten it on the rim. Holding it by the axles, I spin it and marvel how after all theses years, the tires still are not straight with a small bump every revolution. But then again, without that genetic defect, I probably would have forgotten those older times.
---------------------------
Sweating ~ even in the cold ~ my jersey clung damp to my chest, the fluidity on the pedals was not as I had wished. I guess I need a lot more training, I thought . And Marc ~ boy he's fit. I just can't jump on those small hills like he can. My competitive nature was constantly taxed. I looked at my friends as other competitors, looked at my ride as training, looked at the Spring, not as a reawakening, but as the start of 'The Season'. My legs were burning. We had been pushing hard for over an hour ~ no one wanted to be the first to capitulate and say slow down and admit defeat.
-------------------------
My first ride this year is in stark contrast. I'm with friends, but now I realise this is the point. The ride is perhaps a rite of passage and it's also a reaffirmation that we are alive. The time is spent telling jokes, and catching up with the past few months, the bike disappeared beneath me. It was an easy chair sitting in a group talking around a fire. We rode over 400 km that week in Florida, and canoed, walked, and drank, and ate less than healthy food.
---------------------------
Turning back home into the wind, a few kilometres up the road, someone finally gave in. I can't remember who, but we all were toast. A funny thing happened ~ we sat up ~ rode three abreast and started talking. Before we knew it we were back home, in Ottawa. I don’t remember riding back, I didn’t FEEL it, even riding into a headwind.
----------------------------
Back then I thought I had wasted the last half of the training ride. Now I know that the ride back was the best part. Marc and Andy were my best friends back in 1975 and it was in those times; the easy, slap-you-on-the-back and pull-on-your-saddle rides that reinforced the friendship, not the lactic acid in our legs .....
Those Barum tires, their shape tells it all. Perfect circles, no beginning, no end, and always a bit bumpy. This year, my first ride was with Andre, John and Rich
..... my legs didn’t burn.
Spring training will never be the same.
THE ROVING REPORTER
(is back !)