First Snowfalls

Last night we had our first snowfall of the season here in Ottawa. Although daytime photos of freshly fallen snow are more beautiful, this snow will probably be gone by morning. Still, it reminds me of something I once did as a kid.

In Timmins, I attended Earl Miller Public School for my formative years. There was a trail that started not too far from where I lived, that went through the bush, over a small creek, and eventually came out near my school. If you were on foot, you could get out right at the school. But if you were on a bike, you would have to shoot past the school and loop around about a block. On more recent visits, they’ve remedied that in addition to adding all sorts of extra playground equipment, but that’s not this story.

Anyhow, during the early and late months of the school year (and school went through almost all of June back then), I would bike these trails to school and arrive with my legs pretty well caked with mud. I learned something very important from mountain biking as a child: always have a spare set of clothes. The trails were fun. There was one spot, just around a corner, where it would drop quickly, and then there was a big climb on the other side. If you weren’t paying attention, you would hit the exposed root and flip over your handlebars as the wheel caught.

Anyhow, I was a little late to get up one morning. My mom had already left for work, as we had long become accustomed to  (that wasn’t bad parenting back then, apparently it is now). My brother went to a french immersion school across town, and always rode the school bus. I usually had the option to walk or bike to school, though apparently there was a bus that could pick me up only a couple blocks from my house. We would never remember said bus until January, when we ceased caring.

So given the choice to walk to school or bike, I naturally did what any kid would do: slept until the last possible minute and then biked as quickly as my little legs would carry me. Well this particular morning, the joke was on me. It had snowed the night before, so there was a thin layer of slush on the roads, and snow throughout the wooded trail. Weather patterns are really different today from even 18 years ago, so I’ll go ahead and tell you it was still September.

So there I am, standing just outside the door to my house, locking it up and thinking words that kids in public schools aren’t supposed to admit they know (and I’m sure many kindergarten students today would have been able to show me up for my sailor talk of grade 5). I hopped on my bike, strapped on my helmet that I wore religiously along that back trail, and headed out.

The sidewalks weren’t too bad. A little slushy, a little wet, but otherwise passable. When I finally entered the trail, it was a lot like trying to follow a mud trail after a few days of rain. My tires sank and slid in the mud and slush. By the time I made it to school, I was covered head to toe. I cleaned off my helmet using the outside tap meant for the gardening hose, entered via the office doors, waved my muddy hand and gave my whitest smile at the secretary, and then stepped straight into the washroom to get myself cleaned up.

When I finally was all cleaned up, and warmed up by the hand dryer, I came out of the washroom, got my late slip with the note “had to get out of muddy clothes caused by the ride in” and headed in to class. The ride home was equally messy. My brother and I always got home before my Mom, again that was normal then, so I got myself cleaned up, cleaned up the mess my footprints created, and then used the big sink downstairs to handwash the mud off my clothes.

Did I hate handwashing mud off clothes? Probably. I probably hated it a lot. But it was a heck of a lot better doing that, than listening to my mother complain about it, and tell me that I couldn’t bike to school anymore. I loved biking to school.

While I was behind those handlebars, I had control. Kids don’t feel like they are actually in control and truly free very often. For me, when I was on that bike, I was truly free. That’s why I still love biking today. Every time I go ahead and start peddling, I get that rush of freedom with the nip of the wind on my face.

I’ll handwash mud out of my clothes any day, just give me my bicycle.

Admitting Defeat

The past couple of weeks I’ve been getting excited about being able to hop back on a bike after Thanksgiving. My brother had obtained one for me from his roommate, and although a few repairs (ie tubes, tires, greasing, rack & bell addition) were necessary, they were certainly doable at relatively low cost. The spare tires were already there, just needed to be installed with fresh tubes, and everything would be peachy.

To the left you’ll see a shot of the bike, a Jeep TJ Sport. I’ve got one wheel off in the photo because I was in the middle of switching out the tube and tire. Yup, there’s a bit of rust on the gears from improper storage, and a bit on the chain too, but nothing that can’t be handled by cannibalizing good working parts off the old Carerra Algonquin. Pulling off those parts was a part of my first order of business. So I went to work removing front & rear light mounts, rear rack, carry-all, and bell. The extras that turn the bike into something useful for commuting. I went out and bought the tubes for the wheels, a tire-liner to prevent them from getting ripped as I plowed along the roads, a new bell because the old one was no good, and a can of cleaner for the chain and gear wheels that I had been looking for anyways. I’ll talk about my cleaning and grease stuff in a different post sometime.

So there I am, everything ready to go. I pop the front wheel off the bike, remove the tire and tube. I could see through the tire at several points, and it only took me a couple seconds to see where the tube was split. I grinned. Honestly, I did. This was what I was expecting, and I was prepared for it. I got the new tube, tire liner, and tire in place. Then I filled it with air and it looked good. The tire is still nicely inflated now, so I know I did a good job.

Then I got to the back wheel. The gears are there, so I expected it to be a little trickier to get off. The basic mechanics of it are the same, but there’s a chain in the way. I looked online and found a site that had a picture showing the one extra step involved. Sounded easy. Well… The nut on the gear wheel side was definitely put on with a gun. And it seems the weather that it had been exposed to while rusting, softened the nut itself. After only a couple of tries. The nut was completely rounded. Not fun. I went out to Canadian Tire and found a nut splitter. Unfortunately it’s manual, but no worries, I have decent muscles. To the right, you’ll see the results… After I tried to get around the nut splitter’s shortcoming.

The nut splitter would not stay over the back portion of the nut. It went right through the standard front part, but the area that looks a lot like a connected washer, it just slipped right off. I went at that part with a chisel and hammer. Took almost an hour to get as far as I did, and the last 20 minutes or so I was making no headroom on the nut, and was actually destroying the chisel (which now rests in the trash).

So after a moderate sum was spent on parts and tools, after we went through all the trouble of getting the bike down here from North Bay, and after all the work removing parts and attaching them to the new bike, I have to stop where I am and finally admit something. I’ve now been screwed by older bikes twice since I returned to Ottawa. I need to get one NEW.

Do I have cash for a new bike? Nope. It’s pretty much coming up on the end of the season here anyways. I’ve eyeballed a lot of bikes at Kundstad, the M.E.C. and Bushtaka. There area a lot of sweet rides out there. Hopefully, last year’s models will be reduced to a good price when I’m shopping for a new bike early in the spring.

So there it is! I admit defeat, and am done biking for the season. Until a new bike arrives, I’ll be posting a bunch of memories and probably responses to news articles or research on new bikes. So the blog will still be interesting.

Have recommendations? Post them below.

Growing Up Cycling

I hauled my mountain bike down to the shops and had my suspicions confirmed. My 2003 Carerra Algonquin, cannot be repaired. So once again I’ve gone a week without a bicycle. On the bright side, I have done a fair amount of walking this week. But it really doesn’t compare. I miss having the wind blowing over my ears as I zip by on my bicycle. Thankfully, my brother was able to obtain his roommates old bike for me for cheap, so I should be back riding it when I get back in Ottawa, after I fix it up of course.

As I write this, I’m actually on a Greyhound headed to North Bay. From there, I’ll be hopping in a car and riding all the way up to Timmins, Ontario. I grew up in Timmins, though I don’t really consider it home. It does hold a special place in the heart, but my home has been Ottawa since I first moved down there for school over a decade ago.

While I was growing up, I used my bicycle a lot. As a kid, I wasn’t big into sports. I didn’t even like hockey, as sacrilegious as that is to admit as a Canadian. I was in karate, I swam, and I was a part of a scout group. Those all fell by the way-side, one by one. First karate, then swimming, and then when I went to university, the scouting. Did cycling ever fall by the wayside? Unfortunately yes: during my first couple of years in Ottawa, and again during the most recent year when I was in Timmins (2006?).

But like everyone, it all goes back to when I was a kid. When I was really young, maybe grade 7, my brother and I got new bicycles. They were big, shiny mountain bikes. He got a black 18-speed, and I had a silver 12-speed. My brother was taller than me, despite being younger, and his bike was too tall for me, otherwise I’ve sure I would have had the higher-speed bike. We were both very proud of our new bikes, and our new bike helmets.

That was also the year we learned the rules of the road for cyclists in Ontario. We learned how to properly signal, where we were supposed to keep on the road, and that kind of stuff. We figured we were pretty cool, pretty smart, and given that all the other kids on our block were three or four years younger than us, pretty much in charge.

So what did we do? Did we ride the crap out of our bicycles on trails, getting full of mud, scraping our arms and legs like regular grade 7s? Surprisingly, no. We decided that we were going to be bike-police on our block. We gathered up the kids and taught them the hand signals and the shiny newly learned rules of the road. We also made it clear that it was required, by law, to wear a helmet (for those under the age of 10). We came up with our own ride-tests, and the younger kids seemed to have fun playing along.

This went on for about a week, and we glorified in our childish power. I was good at spotting people ignoring the rules, and my brother was good at catching them, and meeting out some sort of punishment. I think we had kids do a lot of push-ups or something. Eventually though, like all things in childhood, we got bored of it and moved on. I know my brother stopped using the hand signals for turning and the like pretty quickly. Me, although I stuck with it longer at the time, I was just a kid, and ended up doing what all kids do: forget the rules, I’m going to hit the muddy trail.

I look back though, and I realize what an interesting week that was, when we first got those new bikes. I can’t help but wonder if any of those kids still bike. Do any of them now follow those rules of the road that we tried to teach them when we were young and full of ourselves? I guess I’ll never know. But it’s good to look back on things sometimes, and brings a smile to my lips every time I think about how I was a bike-cop on my block in Timmins.

There will be no cycling stats this week. As previously mentioned, the bike’s out of commission. I should have a newer bike next week, and some stats to go with it.