Beaker Bites the Dust

A down tube shouldn't look like this.

30 July 2020

If any of my fleet were to be t-boned, the only one I would be able to replace would be Beaker. Not that I was thinking this when the campus maintenance worker hopped into his little truck and, with the door still open, hit the gas right into me.

I heard my helmet hit the pavement as I landed sideways between the truck and a decorative boulder next to the path. This didn't happen on a road. It happened on a walkway.

I rolled over and sat up, my Fly12 front camera still flashing. The driver leapt out. "I'm sorry!" he said. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"You were going so fast!"

"You hit the gas before you even closed the door. I have it on camera."

"You were going so fast! I didn't see you!"

"I have it on camera."

"I'm gonna call Public Safety to make sure you're all right."

"I don't want to get you in trouble," I said. The last thing we need right now is some pumped-up cop, and I am no Karen.

But he insisted. I wanted to ride away. I had to get to a Zoom meeting in half an hour. I stood up. Nothing hurt. I was bleeding from road rash on my shoulder and, strangely enough, the tips of my fingers. 

I picked Beaker up. The front wheel was in far too close to the down tube. I went to turn the wheel and it fell out of the fork. Then I looked at the down tube. I wasn't going anywhere. It was bent. Crushed.

I didn't even see the second dent in the down tube until the Public Safety detective looked the bike over with me. 

She noticed that the front rim was bent too. She took some pictures, asked me questions, and said she wouldn't let me go to the lab without going to Employee Health first. 

I told her that I fully expected the university to pay for Beaker's replacement. I had nothing to lose by trying for reimbursement. She said we'd talk about that later, after the report was filed and after I sent her the video.

By this time I'd texted Jack, texted my colleagues, and called Michael at WheelFine. It was getting too late to start working for the day, so I decided to call it a wash, go home, clean up, and bring Beaker's remains to Michael to assess the damage.

Public Safety wanted me to leave the bike with them and fetch it after the medical visit. It was the only way they'd drive me home. I tightened my grip on Beaker. "The bike stays with me." 

They talked me out of it, so I unhooked the camera from the handle bar mount. At least I could hold onto the video evidence.

I'd posted the pictures on the Free Wheelers Facebook, and on my own Facebook. Comments were flying in, which cheered me up. My friends can be cheeky. I cheeked back.d

The nurse practitioner who took me in to clean me up asked what happened. "Facilities destroyed my bike," I said. 

She frowned. "What kind?"

"Tommasini. Custom." She looked pained, as if she knew exactly how I felt right now. 

And she did, because she has three bikes of her own. "I only ride on trails," she said, "because of this," she added, gesturing towards me.

So while she mopped me up we talked about bikes. She lives in the heart of Hunterdon County. We had a lot to discuss about the roads and cafes up in her neck of the woods. "Ever been up Mine Road?" she asked.

"Once. It was one of those humid days and the road was wet. We went up the easy way. I'm never going back."

"How about Ludlow Station?"

"Nope. I tried Fiddler's Elbow though."

Back to business, she warned me that I'd be stiff and sore later, and cautioned me that if I were to display any signs of head injury I was to check myself into the ER immediately. 

By the time she let me go and I called Public Safety for my ride, and by the time the officer took me home, it was getting on towards 1:00. Because the Public Safety SUVs have the cargo area blocked for some reason, he couldn't take me and my bike both. He would drive me home, then go back to Princeton to pick up my bike. 

On the drive home he peppered me with questions about road bikes and fits, what he should look for, how long my rides are, and all sorts of questions we seasoned cyclists love to answer.

Only after he arrived with Beaker did I notice that the top tube was also crushed.

Beaker was surely toast.

Maybe we could saw off the lugs and I could hang them on a wall.

It's always good to see Michael, even if we're standing six feet apart in masks. I don't even know how long I was in the store. He looked the bike over and suggested that, since the rear triangle was still intact, we could send the bike back to Italy to have the front tubes replaced. If that could be done.

Or we could order a new frame, which would be more of a sure thing and also faster.

Michael had me take pictures of the few decals and the badge so that the factory would know what color I wanted and that we didn't want any logos.

He called the dealer while I was emailing the dealer the pictures. The dealer dug out my order while Michael made some measurements.

"July 30," Michael said. That was today's date. "2014."

"Yeah, 2014," I said.

"Six years exactly. That's when the frame shipped."  He grabbed a pen and scribbled "73014" on a scrap of paper. "I'm playing this number!"

We discussed the wheels too. The front rim was shot. The hub looked okay. 

Truth is, I'd been wanting to replace the wheels anyway. Pretty as they are, they're too spongy. I lost half a mile an hour in average speed when I switched over to Campy and got these wheels. "I've been tracking it for two years," I explained. I only track my commutes; it's the same route all the time.

He agreed with me, which surprised me a little, since he built the wheels. He brought out a pair of rims, Campy Munchen 72, the same rims Rowlf has. They're stiffer.

While all this was happening, other customers were coming in and out. Obeying Covid rules, I'd sit outside when new people came in. One person who came in had left his old farm truck running across the street. It was breaking down. His cell phone battery had run out. He used Michael's phone to make a call, and I sent a text for him so that someone could come to fetch him.

It was that kind of day.

Eventually, Michael wrote up a detailed invoice in that big, loopy handwriting he has. I'd already given him my credit card for the frame's down payment. This invoice was for the whole thing.

Ouch.

At least I didn't have to buy the drive train or the peripherals again.

As for the busted Beaker, we'll hang onto it for now. Should I get the urge, I could send it back to Italy and have it repaired, if it's even possible. "With a new color," Michael suggested.

Fire engine red?

"You could take the parts off the LeMond." He hates Gonzo more than I do.

Back home, I loaded the Fly12 video onto my laptop, my heart in my mouth. What if I was wrong? What if he started his engine before I got to the intersection?

I wasn't wrong. Fly12 puts the videos into five minute segments. Conveniently, the segment I needed began as I started down the path, the orange truck clearly visible and definitely stopped at the bottom of the hill. The door was definitely still open a little when I passed, and when I passed is when he hit the gas and the bike went sideways. The whole thing, from the start of the path to sending me ass-over-teakettle, took eleven seconds.

I sent the video to the detective. I sent her the invoice too.

Beaker is dead. Long live Beaker.