I spent all day Friday (on and off) preparing for yesterday's bike ride with my friend Phil. The last thing I did, before going to bed close to midnight, is put my bike in the trunk of my car. While wheeling the bike into the garage, I noticed that the rear wheel was rubbing on the brake pads. Upon inspection, I discovered that there was a broken spoke. This is the first broken spoke I've had since buying the bike in May 2001. My most recent ride was on 1 February, so either the spoke broke while the bike was sitting, which is unlikely, or it broke during my West End ride without my noticing it.
I have replacement spokes and know how to replace them, but the broken spoke was on the gear side of the rear wheel, and I lack the tools to remove the gears. Damn. I had no choice but to call Phil to cancel our ride. I hate disappointing people, but there was nothing I could do. Early yesterday morning, I decided to take the bike to Bicycles, Inc. for replacement of the spoke, after which I would ride on my own. I decided to inform Phil, in case he wanted to ride later. I told him that I didn't know when the bike shop opened and didn't know how long it would take to replace the spoke. I said I'd call him from the shop.
Unfortunately, the shop didn't open until 10 o'clock. I had the foresight to take something to read (Thomas Nagel's 2005 essay "The Problem of Global Justice"), so I sat in my car for an hour and a half, reading. Finally, the shop opened and I got the spoke replaced (for $22, counting labor). I called Phil and made arrangements to meet him at our usual location. Better late than never!
The sky was overcast and the wind stiff, but we needed to begin our training for the rallies, which will start later this month. Phil and I fought the southwesterly wind for 20 miles. Our speed at times was as low as 10 miles per hour. On crosswind sections, my bike was pushed sideways. It was almost funny how slowly we were traveling. We agreed that the suffering would help us down the road by improving our fitness. It's better to suffer on a training ride than in a rally. Finally, mercifully, we reached the southernmost point of the course, in Venus. We knew that the final 28 miles would be easy, and it was.
I told Phil during the return trip that it felt like cheating. The wind blew us along Highway 67. It was almost effortless to go 22 miles per hour. We talked and had fun. I forgot to mention that Phil's front tire went soft shortly before we reached the store in Venus. Somehow, a hole developed near the stem. We replaced his tube, using a CO2 canister to inflate it. Phil hadn't used a canister before and wanted to find out how to use it. The canister became cold in my hand as the air came out of it. Very interesting.
Later, we stopped at a country store in Cedar Hill. We flew down the hill (I hit 38.1 miles per hour) and rode across Joe Pool Lake, reaching our vehicles at 2:30. We were tired but satisfied. Each time we ride, it'll get easier and we'll suffer less. My average speed for the 48.8 miles was only 14.67 miles per hour. Twenty years ago yesterday, in College Station, Texas, I rode 50.4 miles at an average speed of 14.66 miles per hour. It was windy that day, too. I learned this morning that the average wind speed yesterday at DFW Airport was 20.7 miles per hour. The maximum was 32 miles per hour. At least it wasn't cold or rainy. The high temperature for the day was 77º Fahrenheit. It won't be long before we're mired in the heat of summer.
Keith Burgess-Jackson, J.D., Ph.D. 