Beaker Comes Home

 

Beaker's Old Frame, Minus the Smashed Bits

18 October 2020

It was 5:00 on a Wednesday when I picked up Michael's voicemail. If he was calling me it could only mean two things: either Beaker's new frame was in, or, after two and a half months, I was going to have to wait longer than the promised three.

"I wanted to know if you want a new chain," he said.

Wait, what?

So instead of going straight home, I drove out to Wheelfine to pick up Beaker.

She was on the stand when I got there, awaiting the seat post. We took a look at the old frame again (it's under the bike in this picture, the most visibly damaged tube conveniently obscured by the rear wheel above it). 

Anyone who knows Michael knows that my arrival to pick up the bike would not be connected to my departure without at least an hour between the two. And so it was. He had an idea for the old rear triangle. "Make a stool out of it," he'd suggested over the phone. "I can't put a big-ass comfort seat on an Italian frame!" I protested.

He brought out the example:

"Try it!" he said. "I use it when I'm building wheels." I did, and it was surprisingly comfortable. "Okay," I said. "Go ahead and play with it." What else could I do with a bashed-in frame?

Michael got to work on the seat post, using sandpaper on the end of a drill bit to smooth out any rough spots on the inside of the seat tube.

Did I mention that Michael has a touch of OCD? "Here. Look at these rims," he said. They were the ones he was going to use to rebuild the wheels that died so that I might live. "The stickers go in opposite directions. I'd have to take a heat gun to it. It was too much for my OCD," he said, so he chose a different set of rims and hoped I wouldn't mind. I didn't, because they'd be stiffer than the set I had before. "They were pretty," I said, "but they were sludgy. I lost half a mile an hour on my commute time." It's the only speed I track.

In order for Princeton to reimburse me for the frame, wheels, and labor, Michael had to write up a receipt they'd be able to read. While he did this I wandered around the shop. I think he's cleaned up in here a little. There's room to walk now. I'd never noticed the wicker baskets before. Who else but Michael would have two shelves full?

I handed him my credit card, took a picture of the receipt, and sent it to my Risk Management contact. 

"One more thing," I asked. "Can I have the head tube with the lugs?" So he put the frame in a vise and sawed off the head tube for me. The damage on the top tube came right up to the lug. It was a close cut, but he got it.

Princeton put the money in my account the next day.

I didn't tell the Slugs that Beaker was home. When they asked on the usual Friday Zoom call if the frame was in, I told them that it was, and relayed the wheel sticker story. But I didn't tell them that I'd be taking Beaker on Jim's Sunday ride. I wanted it to be a surprise.

After glassblowing class on Saturday, I did the mucking about with the GPS mount. That was easy. I was halfway through mounting the cyclecomputer, because belt and suspenders, when I decided I didn't like the way it looked and took it off. It had been fine there when Beaker was covered in Velcro, cables, and lights, but now that she was free of that stuff, I wanted to keep her lines looking clean. 

You see, ever since Rowlf became my interim commuter bike, I realized that Rowlf should have been my commuter bike all along. Stiff and heavy, the bike is less well suited for long hauls than the rest of my fleet. The handle bars curve in a way that annoys my wrists after a few hours. My commute, though, is a mere 7 miles. And it turns out that Rowlf, even when weighted down with lights and me with a backpack, is still fast. Half a mile an hour faster fast. Also, it took forever to get the lights set up on the handle bar. I really don't want to have to take it all down again. So there it is. Rowlf has taken over Beaker's job. Beaker can run free.

To get all the way to Franklin Township before 9:00 a.m., I have to leave home not much after 7:30. Sunrise these days is after 7:00. When I passed near Maidenhead Meadows, I had to stop and catch the mist rising over the field as the sun went hazy through some clouds.

I thought the light might be good at the Princeton Battlefield, but it wasn't right for photos, so I didn't stop.

Carnegie Lake looked promising.

I'd told Jim I'd meet him down at Six Mile Run, so I wasn't concerned about not getting to Claremont School by 9:00. As it happened, I was a few yards away from turning into the parking lot when Jim and Dave H came towards me.

We went north on Canal Road. The leaves were just starting to turn.

Beaker was doing well enough. I couldn't tell if she was any faster with the new wheels. She felt faster, but my legs were tired; I'd blown glass four times in the past week, which, while not a workout, is a lot of rapid stand-up-sit-down-stand-up, lifting, and sweating. As is my custom, I left Jim's ride before the end. The last time he'd done this route -- it's a figure 8 that goes up into Weston first -- I bailed too close to the end and wound up with 60 miles. I decided to leave earlier toady, turning off in Skillman, following Camp Meeting to Hollow, and turning west on Route 518. I figured I'd go into Hopewell and climb out on Carter, but maybe that would be longer than if I took Province Line. That meant two hills instead of one, and, in the end, I came home with 60 miles again.

My legs needed a break. The back of my knees hurt when I climbed stairs and when I descended. I took five days off, the first real break since the beginning of January. I thought it would help, and by the end of the week I could mostly get up a flight without wincing. A smart person would take more time. Not me. I only listen to my body so much. I wanted to go on Tom's zoo ride, so I did, and the back of my left knee got mad at me for it. There was yard work to be done after the ride, so I didn't exactly rest either.

I registered for Jim's Sunday ride anyway, figuring if my legs hurt in the morning, I'd cancel. They didn't, so I didn't.

Which isn't to say my legs weren't tired. They were. I don't recover quickly. I never have.

It was 37 degrees when I left the house. I underdressed, knowing that by noon it would be in the mid-sixties. Only after I'd set out and my fingers got cold did I realize that there's a big hole in one of the fingers of my glove liners. I should have put in toe warmers too; as soon as my hands warmed up, my toes started to freeze. It's always a little harder to pedal with leggings on as well. I was into the wind all the way to Griggstown. When I checked my average speed I was ashamed.

Well, a Slug is as a Slug does. At this speed I'd never make it all the way to Claremont, but all I had to do was get to the Griggstown fire station to meet Jim and his crew there. As I got close to Griggstown, there was a low mist on the water. I turned onto the causeway and took pictures.

I considered stopping at the fire house to stuff some toe warmers into my shoes, but instead I went on, turning up Butler Road. Halfway up I met Jim's group coming down.

We retraced my path, now with a tailwind. It didn't refresh me much. Somehow I managed to hang with the group.

We took Rosedale to Province Line, and Jim led us through the new stretch of LHT that landed us at ETS. It was there that my water bottle slipped out of my glove-linered hand. By the time another rider picked it up and handed it off to me, Jim was well ahead. The others had stopped.

Jim had circled back.  "Dropped my bottle," I said.

"Oh!"

"We turning here?"

"Yeah."

So I turned onto Research Road, knowing full well that the rest of the guys would overtake me in seconds.

When they didn't I figured there must have been a minor mechanical. I stopped at a pretty curve to take a few pictures.

Still they didn't appear. Maybe they didn't turn after all. Well, if they've gone up the Carter Road hill without me, maybe I'll just turn left instead and go home.

But there they all were, back on the main loop. I put up an arm in a half shrug as I got near enough that Jim could see me look puzzled.

"I said, and I quote, 'We turning here,' and you said, and I quote, 'yes.'" 

"I did," Jim said, but then his GPS and he had a disagreement, and, well, they all went straight instead. 

So I ended up climbing Carter with the rest of them, and bumping through Bayberry too (the chip-seal has long since sealed, but it's not going to be a fun road again for a while). At the other end I decided I'd had enough. I'd gone 35 miles already; it would be something like ten more for me to get home.

On my way through Pennington, I stopped at the Pig to make sure they still exist. They do, with the same Tuesday through Saturday, 8:00-12:00 hours. Only now they're serving some pastries: muffins and sticky buns and scones and such. No cookies yet, but this is a good sign. 

Anyway, as tired as I was, Beaker kept me with the group and got me home in good enough shape that nothing hurt when I climbed the stairs. She and Kermit are going to share flat ride duties now. Kermit will take the long hauls; he doesn't have chrome lugs or a quill stem that must not be obscured by an unsightly top tube pack. 

Next Saturday I'm blowing glass again. But the Saturday after that is Halloween. I'm going to lead my traditional ride through Lambertville. We'll start from the Pig.