When I first read A Tale of Two Pieces of Seatbolt the immediate
thought that came to my mind was not something regarding high quality
local bike shops or annoying people who would rather talk about the
latest and greatest weight weenie component instead of servicing a
customer. The immediate thought that came to my mind was "what the
hell could he possibly have done or been doing to possibly break a
seatbolt?" I mean puh-lease, of all of the things you could break on a
bicycle, the _seatbolt_...sheesh.
But, just as the fates were not with me Monday morning when I had a
flat front tire apparently caused by a small piece of wire but actually
caused by me being smug that three people had flats in my immediate
presence on Sunday's activity but a) none of them were me, b) none of
them were riding my bicycle, c) none of them were carrying essentials
for repair, and d) one of them actually ended up using my valve
adaptor... so too the fates were not with me Monday afternoon when I
broke my own seatbolt!
I got to the beach about 30 minutes late for the official start time
of training figuring that it'd be alright cause the paceline'd be
coming round to start the second loop anytime now, only to find out
that they'd just left. Well fine, at least I'd go and meet them
halfway, turn around early and get a fair decent bit of practice in
anyways, and maybe since they'd be a little bit more tired than normal
they wouldn't drop me quite as soon. Just as I was passing the
Sheraton I heard a loud *cthrunk* over the sound of my headphones.
Immediate stop, check my rear pockets, check the ground, nothing has
fallen off the bike. Must've broken a spoke. Inspect the wheels. No
problem there. Put my hand on the saddle to steady the bike as I get
back on and... and... it comes off in my hand.
I'd done a fair bit of practice with standing up on the pedals
before. Never actually gone more than a few hundred meters standing up
but I can stand up and pedal at the same time. Seatbag in the one rear
pocket, saddle and broken bolt in another, and I'm ready to go. Seven
kilometers of nasty headwind worth of ready to go. And I can't go down
on the drops. Yeurgh.
But it's a 50km day so the coach will probably be riding his
motorcycle and I'll be able to get a lift into town, right? Wrong.
That's okay, the bike guy with the useful place to play cards...
err... I mean repair shop two kilometers in from the beach will
probably be riding this evening and I'll be able to get him to open up
and help me, right? Wrong.
I really hate taking the bus with my bike.
Really really hate taking the bus with my bike.
-M