Daylight, Daylight, Where For Art Thou?

So, the clocks fell back again last night. At least here in the US of A. I'm sure there are plenty of other posts on the subject (here's one which caught my eye), but I will add one more.

I have a hard enough time sleeping. I don't need extra, artificial, impediments to my already faulty circadian rhythms. This morning, after the overnight time change, I wound up getting up shortly after 4am (5 o'clock would have been bad enough). On a Sunday, for chrissakes!

Starting tomorrow, I can look forward to several months where I ride my bike to and from work in pretty much complete darkness. While nighttime riding is fun on occasion, I'm sure my risk of injury roughly doubles when I go from riding one way in darkness to two. And it probably adds a little bit to my lovely wife's stress to know I'm out there pedaling in darkness. Note to other cycling commuters: make sure your lights are fully charged before heading off to work tomorrow morning.

I work at a trading firm which (like almost all others) trades markets worldwide. The change from Daylight to Standard time, especially now that Europe and the US don't change at the same time, is annoying, at best. Given the differing change dates here and on the continent, we now have four points where problems can arise, two in the spring, two in the fall. To try and remain in sync with American traders, some overseas exchanges actually change their open and close times so we don't see a change relative to our clock! I'm sure there are other industries where the Spring and Fall clock rituals are more problematic (and attempts at adaptation even more absurd).

Permanent DST sounds like an excellent idea to me. Can we please stop messing with the clocks?

The God of Salt Can be an Angry God

I ride an old Trek set up as a fixed gear much of the time, and it's pretty much my full-time winter ride.  (I have a couple other bikes I don't really mind sacrificing to the God of Salt, but I don't ride them much.) The pedals on the Trek have been complaining recently (creaking, mostly), so I figured it was time to service them.

I had another set of pedals ready to install, so this morning I went to do the swap.  Oops.  Not really turning.  I managed to get the drive side pedal off, and noticed some corrosion on the pedal threads.  Good old bimetallic electrochemistry at work, aided and abetted by the God of Salt.  On the non-drive side, I could barely get the pedal to budge.  I shot it with a bit of Liquid Wrench, greased the drive side pedal, reinstalled it, then rode to work.

On the NDS, the shoulder that normally butts up against the crank arm is now moved back just a skosh from the face of the crank arm.  Under normal circumstances, much (most? all?) of the force is transmitted between the pedal and the crank through that interface.  I hope the Liquid Wrench and easy pedaling will free up the threads a bit so I can remove the pedal this evening without applying heat.  Still, you should take advantage of my mistake (I should have been checking all steel/aluminum interfaces periodically, especially on a bike that sees winter's road salt - shame on me), and check your pedals, seatpost, and stem before they become permanent fixtures on your bike.

Phyllis

My oldest cousin Phyllis passed away recently. Naturally, I've been thinking a lot about her in the time since. Just as naturally (if you know me), it's taken me awhile to collect my thoughts and decide to put them down. I started writing this a couple days ago, on my way to the memorial service, somewhere between Portland and Seattle, sipping my coffee, trying to organize a few thoughts in a coherent way.

Phyllis has always been special to me, not because we grew up together or kept in very close touch during our adult lives, but because she stepped into my life in a significant way when I needed it most. My father died suddenly just after I graduated from high school. Though it wasn't always so, the Montanaro clan was always geographically dispersed during my lifetime. My dad and I lived in the Bay Area. My Grandma and various aunts and uncles came out west for the funeral from Chicago, Connecticut, and Miami. Phyllis came down from her home near Seattle.

After the funeral, most everyone returned to their lives far away, but Phyllis stayed. In talking with my cousins Pat and Judy, and my cousin-in-law Bob, I more-or-less confirmed my 45-year memories that she stayed for a couple weeks, went home at some point, then returned. I'm not sure how long she was there in total, but it was a very significant commitment of her time, and must have placed a burden on Bob and their children as well.

There was a lot to do, essentially none of which I remember any longer, much of it probably mundane stuff which just had to get done. I was a seventeen year-old kid, about to head off to college in the fall. I'm sure I hadn't any idea what to do. But Phyllis certainly did. You see, her dad, my Uncle Jim, died suddenly when she was seventeen. While the circumstances were much different, there was still that strong similarity, losing your father at a time when you can least afford it, just as you're about to head out into the world on your own, and like it or not, need advice and sometimes a nudge in the right direction. I think she, better than anyone else, understood my situation, and stepped in to help.

During the past couple days, visiting with a good chunk of my extended Montanaro family for the first time in a long while, I heard phrases like "love and strength" and "second mom" used repeatedly to describe Phyllis. I think she was the embodiment of those concepts, and I will always be grateful for her presence in my life.

Bicycle Lighting

Over the last several years, cycling has witnessed a sort of lighting arms race, with brightness now measured in hundreds of lumens. I'm sure that by now some company has broken the kilolumen barrier. It's gotten to the point where many morning Freds ride around with lights on their helmets whose brightness rivals Hollywood premiere search lights. If several Freds are riding in a pack, it can look pretty much like this image from the 1940 premiere of Charlie Chaplin's The Great Dictator.

To make matters worse, riders wearing these photonic cannons think nothing of looking at other people passing by, briefly searing their retinas and rendering them momentarily blind. This is far from a good thing when you are riding on a multi-use path with other cyclists, joggers, pedestrians and the occasional dog, who have suddenly become invisible to you.

These multi-hundred dollar portable searchlights have their uses off-road, where there is little other natural light to light the way. They really have little, if any, use on bike paths or city streets. I can understand the desire to see and be seen, but I doubt riders with such headlamps are increasing their safety on surface streets when they blind drivers in two-ton metal cages either.

Well, that was an adventure

The Base Two Cycle Club in Evanston does a pancake run a few times a year, riding from Evanston to Algonquin, eating breakfast at Bella's Short Stack before returning. Round trip is about 95 miles. One such ride was planned for Labor Day, and I rode for the first time. I still don't know the exact distance, however, as you will soon see.

The forecast showed a reasonable chance for rain, so I decided to ride my fixed gear commuter, an old Trek 520 set up with Schwalbe Kojak tires (700x35). Plush. As I knew I would be slower than the rest of the group, I planned to leave a bit early. I checked my mail before I left around 5:20. Nothing. I then checked it again when I got to the meeting point about 5:35. There was this rather ominous mail from Ed Reed saying, "Consider there are many hills west of long grove." I thought, "crap," but responded, "A bit late for that now. I'm not too period [sic] to walk a few.... Wave as you go past." (I include my smart ass phone's spell correction for proud...)

As I'm riding along I'm a bit worried. I've done the Dairyland Dare a few times and used to live west of Albany, NY where every ride was a hill ride, unless you took NY Route 5 to Amsterdam, right along the Mohawk River. I didn't know we even had hills in Illiniois. Maybe the Driftless Zone got close to Chicago? I plowed on, doing mental calculations about my current gearing, what I rode on the Dare this year, and figuring I would surely be walking up some hills. As it turned out, I needn't have worried. Fate had other plans for me. I did do some walking, but it was on mostly level ground. The hills were more more like bee stings, bumps just big enough to obscure your vision.

Well into the ride, a bit west of Lake Zurich, I flatted. I hadn't been running with sealant in these tubes and didn't have any with me, but I had the usual cornucopia of tube, pump, tire levers (not needed), and 15mm wrench. A couple messy minutes later (I forgot to pack disposable gloves), I had my wheel off and my brand new tube out ready to install. Put a little air into it to puff it up a bit. Sssssss... Try again. Again, with the snake imitation. Not being completely insane, I did something different the third time and listened for where the air was leaking out. Crap. A brand new tube with a leak. "Kenda, never again." I might have that tattooed on my ankle. Or copyright the phrase and reap millions from copyright infringement lawsuits. Or submit a suggestion for a new definition to the OED folks, something like "Kenda (n) - cycling products which rarely work, and never when you really need them." Whatever will keep me from ever buying any of their products again.

At this point, all I could do is wait for another bikie to to come along with a tube. I didn't have to wait more than a couple minutes before I saw three bikes approaching. I hailed them and they pulled over. One of them gave me a tube (brand new Bontrager still in its box). I noticed one of the other guys looked familiar. It was my dentist, Paul Fischl. In my surprise to see him so far from my home (but quite likely much closer to his), I forgot to inspect his bike to see if was full dentist.

They went on their way and I resumed messing around with my rear wheel. I installed the tube, pumped up the tire, and was just about to pull out, when who should I see but the Base Two folks heading west? "Hi!" "Hi!" And they were gone. I didn't worry about it, I hadn't expected to keep up with them anyway. I was only about 12 miles away from breakfast. Surely I would get there while they were still downing mountains of pancakes.

But no... In fairly short order (maybe another mile or two), I got a second flat. I tried pumping it up. This got me a quarter mile or so further. Lather, rinse, repeat a couple times. To preserve some semblance of sanity, I stopped doing that and started walking west. Google told me I was several miles from the nearest bike shop (and would it even be open on a holiday?), so I decided to call it a day and give Ellen a call. She kindly offered to meet me at Bella's to give me a ride home. With a verbal guarantee of a ride home ringing in my ears, I turned right at Ridge Rd and kept walking. Not paying close (or, apparently, any) attention, I missed the turn-off for Spring Creek Rd and continued walking to W. County Line Rd, where I discovered my mistake. While not terribly busy, it's not the best bike road in the world (no shoulder and speeding cars, obviously with very important places to be on a Labor Day morning). Consequently, I didn't see any other bikes until I got to Meadow Hill Rd. At this point, a guy riding a beautiful blue and white Dave Tesch stopped. I was so floored by his bike that the first thing out my mouth wasn't, "Buddy, can you spare a tube?" Rather it was "Wow! You're riding a Tesch!" I eventually came to my senses though, and he gave me a tube, pointed me in the direction of Spring Creek Rd, and went on his way, north on Meadow Hill.

This is the point in the story where tire size becomes important. Recall that I was riding 35mm tires (very comfy, and, evidence suggests, without sacrificing rolling resistance). Both tubes I had been given were of the narrow-as-a-straw variety, however. I pulled the now flat tube. Still thinking that I must have missed a piece of glass in the tire, I inflated the tube a bit to see where it was leaking. Lo and behold, it was leaking around the valve stem. Only then did it dawn on me what probably happened. When I pumped the tire up, the reinforced area of the tube around the valve stem resisted expansion, leaving the area right around the valve stem poorly supported by the rim. Tightening the valve stem nut pulled the tube down to the rim, and caused a leak around the valve stem in short order.

Lesson learned, I didn't pump up the tire as much this time, and also resisted tightening the little presta valve nut too much. Perhaps better would have been to spin on the valve stem nut before mounting the tube to provide support from the rim without demanding the valve stem area expand much. At any rate, the new tube held this time and I was able to make it the rest of the way into Algonquin for my now (I think) well-deserved breakfast. But... Not before I passed the Base Two gang headed home after their own well-deserved repast. Another couple waves. A few minutes later I arrived at Bella's Short Stack, which despite its name, doesn't feature 37 varieties of pancakes on its menu, just buttermilk. Pass the syrup, please...