There is in our culture the archetype of the guy who takes on a job and goes in way too deep.
In “Apocalypse Now,” Colonel Kurtz goes to fight in the jungle and loses his identity and his sanity:
In “Moby-Dick,” Ishmael goes to sea and…well, I’ve only just started reading it, and he hasn’t even gotten on the boat yet, but I’m pretty sure that when he does it becomes like a whole thing:
[This is the edition I’m reading.]
And then there’s me. I used to be a normal cyclist. Sure, I had certain retrogrouchical tendencies, but I mostly rode contemporary bikes with contemporary parts. But then I took on a simple job as the Classic Cycle Old Crap Test Pilot, and it’s like I’ve become so lost in the swirling mists of time that I don’t think I’ll ever come out again.
But today offered a rare moment of clarity, because I caught a glimpse of myself, and I realized I’d gone too far. Yes, I was riding the Cervino, which isn’t so bad in itself:
And yes, I was wearing a wool jersey, but hey, it’s comfortable, and it also goes with the bike:
And okay, fine, I was wearing these gloves:
And these shoes:
But I knew immediately that I’d gone too far as soon as I put on a pair of wool shorts:
Most people are familiar with this scene:
Well, in cycling, the “R”-word is “Retrogrouch,” and in donning a pair of wool shorts in addition to everything else I’d officially gone full retrogrouch. Now, in my own defense, I wasn’t trying to go full retrogrouch–mostly it was laundry day and they happened to be clean. (As for why I have wool shorts, Brooks gave them to be when they sent me to L’Eroica.) Still, I couldn’t help feeling as though I’d crossed some sort of retro-rubicon, especially with the tubular tires strapped to the underside of my saddle. Plus, you’ll note that the shorts even have a big goofy button on them, so I looked like Steamboat Willie:
Fortunately, while this is mostly Paul of Classic Cycle’s fault, he may finally save me from myself, because it sounds like the next piece of old crap he sends me to test pilot will be a departure from all this, and not only that but it won’t even be made of steel. Then again he’s lied to me in the past–once he told me he was going to send me the latest gravel bike from Specialized, and when it arrived it turned out to be this:
By the way, have you seen what the Eye Of The Tiger Bike is looking like these days?
[Photo: Jerzyluca]
Clearly moving to Jersey was the best thing that ever happened to it.
So yes, a visit from the Modern-ish Bike Fairy may be in order, and even without the wool shorts people now pass me and say stuff like, “Hey, nice bike, training for L’Eroica?,” to which the only honest reply is, “No, I wish, I’m just a pretentious asshole.”
Speaking of today’s ride, once again I stopped at the free range pharmacy:
I’m not saying why, but I will share which aisle I visited:
So from that you’re free to conclude that either I smell, or I have a foot problem, or both, and I won’t confirm or deny that it had anything to do with my vintage bowling shoes:
At the time when all that crap was going on I used to say that these stickers will be around forever like those fallout shelter signs you still see on buildings that have been up since the Bay of Pigs or whatever, and so far I’ve seen nothing to indicate I was wrong. It’s also possible that my frame pump is similarly symbolic and vestigial:
Before heading out it occurred to me, “You know what? I’ve been riding around with this thing since August of last year, I should probably see if it actually works.” So I deflated the tire and attempted to pump it up, and found that it didn’t actually work, or at least not really. So I opened it up, which took about two seconds and no tools, put a tiny bit of lubricant on the little plunger thingy, and put it back together and tried it again, after which it kinda worked. Now I admit I’ve never actually owned one of these old Silca frame pumps before, so I have no idea how well they’re supposed to work. (My frame of reference is the Zefal HP, which of course works great.) Like in its current state it would probably get me home, especially on a tubular where I don’t really have to worry about pinch flats, but I’m also carrying a mini pump for insurance, though this does bother me on a deep psychological level:
I’m sure there are some pump-splainers out there with lots of insight, but maybe in the meantime I’ll just gut the pump and fill it full of spare CO2 cartridges for maximum irony.
