I opened a box that was delivered sometime in September. Inside was a new Gatorskin for my bicycle. So I flipped the frame, pulled on the rear quick release, spun the tire out of the chain and dug for a tire lever.
I have red tire levers, and they get a bit grimy because everything about my bike seems to get dirty. There’s a smear of grease on the hook that got there who knows how. There are nice deep grooves in the plastic at the hook from sliding around the frame, pulling the bead and freeing the tube.
I did all of that today, too. I took out this massive looking Gatorskin and wrapped it around the back wheel. That wheel has been sporting a trainer tire — which has no tread and is designed to spin on a silver drum — since my big crash. Since it is time to ride again the trainer came off. The new Gatorskin, designed to defeat pebbles and glass and things, went on.
I haven’t changed a tire in months, but it comes back to you. Just like, well, you know.
So I put the tube in the tire and mount it all to the wheel. Pick up the chain, set the wheel into the forkend, wedge it through the brakes and double check the chain. All of this felt like a bad sports montage in a Disney movie, the kind where the character is on the way to a significant personal achievement.
Spin the wheel and we’re one step closer to riding again.
Spin the wheel and notice an unusual noise.
After a bit I notice the chain is rubbing on the derailleur. This is peculiar. More work, examining other derailleurs in the house, a furrowing of the brow. Some online research, which was unusually unhelpful. A big, long sigh.
I have to go to the local bike shop, where we can all laugh at my simple questions. Load up the car, drive over there:
Of course.
Cycling insists on teaching me patience.
