36 Busted Spokes, part 1
Forty years ago, I began a 13,000-mile bicycle trek around America. This is the story of Day 1 of the ride, with more to come. I am calling this series 36 Busted Spokes because that’s how many times I had to replace a spoke during our 10 and a half months on the road.
Day 1 — Sunday, October 5, 1980
We were stalled, 15 miles in, waiting for delivery of a spare part. The only thing grinding worse than the chain on Scott’s bicycle were our teeth, frustrated with this unexpected, unwanted delay.
The sky had been overcast as we began our ride two hours earlier, rolling down a suburban street in Rockville, Maryland, at 7:30. My bike shimmied a bit as I coasted down the hill until I got the feel of the 50 pounds of gear strapped to the sturdy steel frame.
There were five of us navigating the prototypical suburban streets of that suburb of Washington, D.C., that morning. My brother, Chris, and I were riding Austro-Daimlers. Our cousin, Don, was on a Schwinn Paramount. And Scott, cousin to three of us, was pedaling a custom built Proteus. I don’t recall the ride of our fifth cyclist, Scott’s father and Uncle Bob to the rest of us, our escort the first eight miles.
I was feeling a pack-full of emotions, but relief that we were finally underway was chief among these. We had futzed around my aunt and uncle’s home for a few days making final preparations. Getting our bikes ready. Packing gear. Those few days felt like eons after anticipating this day for five years.
I was also anxious. This suddenly felt like a huge undertaking, like imagining an ocean crossing, then looking out at the vast seascape from the dinghy just as you’re pushing off shore. A part of me demanded an explanation of just what I was thinking. Was I in good enough shape? Had I saved enough money? Would my gear hold up? Was the fact that my companions were all relatives a good thing or a bad thing. Those concerns would be answered, eventually, as well as an infinity of other unforeseen challenges that awaited us.
But most importantly, I felt the joy of simply riding a bicycle. The sense of freedom and self reliance. Anyone who explored the neighborhood on their new bicycle as a child understands the exhilaration of zipping along on two wheels. Bicycling is one of the few adult activities that we can share with our 12-year old selves.
And now the impatience of delay.
The chain on Scott’s bike started skipping soon after his dad turned home. Don suggested a stiff chain link as the culprit, but Scott was not convinced. After a few more miles, we found a pay phone beside a closed-for-Sunday municipal building and Scott called his parents, where his father had just arrived.
The freewheel is the set of cogs that attaches to the rear wheel hub. It is “free” because when you are not pedaling the wheel can rotate freely. The rear derailleur switches the chain up and down the freewheel so you can adjust the gearing to the terrain and speed. When the chain is on the largest cog, each pedal rotation cranks the rear wheel a shorter distance, thus making it easier to go up steeper grades. Conversely, when the chain is on the smallest cog, the rear wheel turns more quickly with each crank, so you can go faster when the terrain allows it.
Together, a bicycle and rider create a remarkably efficient locomotive machine. As long as everything is working properly. When the chain skips you experience a jerking action as you pedal, making a smooth, efficient cadence impossible. So it is understandable that Scott would want his skipping chain fixed. Even if it meant a temporary halt.
Half an hour after Scott called for help, Uncle Bob and Aunt June arrived bearing a spare freewheel, which Scott promptly installed. The chain continued to skip. So Scott relented and let Don loosen the chain links by bending them slightly back and forth in a direction perpendicular to the plates. A quick test ride revealed the chain no longer skipped. After another set of good-byes with my aunt and uncle, we were able to continue our first day’s ride.
This hour-long pit stop would have ramifications lasting over the next 11 months. Physically, it meant that Scott didn’t have the low gearing he had planned, as the replacement freewheel didn’t have cogs as large as the one he’d started the trip with. A special tool is needed to remove a freewheel, since all the cranking on it from pedaling wrenches it very snugly in place. Scott didn’t have the right tool for the new freewheel, so he would have to live with it for the rest of the ride or find a bike shop that could help.
Scott’s insistence on replacing the freewheel before even trying Don’s suggestion annoyed the rest of us to various extents. We didn’t recognize it at the time, but it was just the start of the friction that would build up in our small group the more time we spent shackled to each other. For the next 13,000 miles we’d be carrying that tension as if it were an additional weight in our panniers.
But worry about group dynamics wasn’t very high on our list of considerations that morning. We were happy to get moving again, to put more miles behind us. Our journey was genuinely underway.
See the next installment of this series: 36 Busted Spokes, Beginnings
