The condition of Miss Piggy's drive train
18 February 2012
Miss Piggy's tires were wearing thin, so I put on a new set a couple of weeks ago. It took me something like an hour to do it. The Mavic Aksium rims are deep, and Michelin's Pro Race tire beads are tight, tight, tight. But I did it, filling the tubes, checking every few pumps for blebs, finding none, and letting the bike sit until last night, when I topped off the air.
It matches. Sweeeeeeeeet!
Last night I was out of it, though. I'd gone home early from work feeling sick and spent several hours asleep. By bedtime I was feeling better.
Now it's almost time to leave for today's ride. I'm finishing breakfast -- hot oatmeal -- but I'm no longer hungry. Uh-oh. I'm upstairs with the thermometer in my mouth when I hear Chris knock on the door. 98.6, it reads, which is a little high for me, but normal. Still, I'm feeling a little off, a little "muzzy-headed" as a friend from England puts it. The first thing to go when I have a fever is my judgment; I tend to feel invincible. Also I feel as if I'm walking on air. I don't feel those at the moment.
It's 8:35 by the time we're ready to leave, a little late, but we can get to Pennington by 9:00 if we hustle. We push off.
Thump thump thump. "Hang on," I say, and start inspecting the rear wheel. There it is, a bleb that somehow eluded me twice. Chris rushes to let the air out of the tire before it blows. "The tube is shot," he says. We decide to throw our bikes in his truck and drive to Pennington. We can fix the flat up there while I'm getting everyone signed in.
I get the tire started; it takes two steel-reinforced levers to do that. Chris takes over while I sign people in. I'm so spaced out that I can't remember the trick for getting the rear wheel back into the frame. Chris comes to the rescue again; he's faster at all of these things than I am anyway.
Oh, crap. I've forgotten my sunglasses. This is now like one of those dreams I have every so often, where I just can't seem to get my shit together in time for the ride to start. Howard F has a spare pair, though.
We have a few new riders: a couple from Cherry Hill, and someone who has been riding in the C+ group for a while but is looking to move up. She's loaded down with water bottles, gear, heavy clothing, and commuter lights flashing in both directions.
I've picked a mellow route to Lambertville with a few moderate climbs for the way back. Our first few miles are pretty flat and I'm in the big ring.
Glenn is here. I haven't seen him in donkey's years. We catch each other up as we ride down Pennington-Harbourton Road. At the end I try to shift to the middle ring.
Nothing happens. I try again. Nothing. The shifter is moving but the derailleur definitely isn't. Chris and Jim take a look. They try to move it with their hands. Nothing. I pull the chain to the middle ring, but the derailleur overrules me and puts it back on the big one. "I'll just ride like this," I tell the group more than once. "I'm sorry," I say to the new folks. "My rides aren't usually like this. Honestly." We've managed to get the thing to budge a little, but not enough to move the chain. "I guess I could turn back," I suggest, and Lauren from Cherry Hill nods. "But I'll just ride like this. I'll deal with it."
We start off again, my chain grinding against the derailleur. Well, at least I'll find out how well Cheryl and Andy's spin classes have prepared me to grind up a hill. I don't know how my back will take it, but I can always stand.
"There's a bike shop in Lambertville," I suggest to Ron. "They have coffee and snacks there. We can stop there."
On one of the flatter roads Chris has to catch me up and slow me down. Because I don't have my own glasses, I don't have my rear-view mirror. "I can't help it," I tell him. "I'm stuck in the big ring!"
He stops me so that I can take this picture, too.
At the moment, I feel like that rubber chicken.
We arrive at the northern end of Lambertville and take Union all the way to the southern end. I pull into Pure Energy, hoping that, at the very least, the mechanics can move my chain. We're pretty sure that the shifter is broken; there's nothing that can be done on the fly about a broken shifter.
The sign reads, "Closed for February Break." I wonder what grinding up Quarry/Rocktown is like in the big ring. We turn around and head to Lambertville Trading Company, the closest coffee shop.
Ron and Chris descend on the derailleur with an Allen wrench. They loosen the rear screw so so that the chain falls to the granny gear, then they play with the limit screws to move it back to the middle. "Yeah, baby!" I exclaim. I won't be able to shift to the big ring now, but all that means is that I won't be able to hammer on the way home.
They did a good job for the climbing gears. Anything farther out sets the chain to grinding again. After climbing out of Lambertville I start to feel wiped. All that big-ring stuff must be catching up to me. Or I have a fever. For sure my judgment left a while ago, when I didn't turn back. My legs feel light and my face feels a little hot. Whatever. We don't have that much further to go.
I spin, the chain grinds against the derailleur. I give instructions: I tell them to watch for me to make a hidden turn. "Or listen for me."
Grind, grind, grind. At the intersection of Pennington-Titusville and Route 31, I hand Howard his glasses and peel off toward Hart's.
I watch Ross undo the mess we've done with the derailleur. There's nothing wrong with it. He takes the shifter apart and finds a loose screw, its origins unknown, from somewhere in the tiny workings of the still-under-warranty shifter. "You won't pay a dime," he tells me.
I'm beginning to think that my bike is cursed. That, or she has a crush on Ross.
Chris picks me up. I buy him a slice of pizza next door and he drops me off at home.
Shivering, I take my temperature. Normal. I get a shower and take it again. 99. I take a nap for two hours, cats at my feet. I take my temperature again. 99.7.
I'll be sleeping in tomorrow.
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