04: Bike Service

Is it attention deficit youth, or cranky old age that creates communication errors? Are we so picky and demanding that we confuse and traumatize the younger generation, or is their attention upon us so briefly that they have no idea what we said or wanted, except for a half remembered word and an assumption based on context?

I hate paying bike shops to do anything. I used to build bikes myself, but some jobs require tools and facilities that I do not have; like changing a free hub, for instance.

The Trek shop in South Tampa were supposed to do just that; install a new free hub in the rear wheel. Nothing else. Not look at it, not clean it, not inspect it – replace it. The old one wasn’t broken or even slipping, but it was 11 years old and I don’t want it to fail in the Mojave Desert or any of the three mountain ranges.

Maybe I could have avoided the impending confusion by taking only the wheel and leaving the rest of the bike at home; but I didn’t. In the shop, I also decided to get top mounted brake levers installed and ordered a frame pump and new Armadillo tires to take away and put on later.

One week after the promised date and without the courtesy of a phone call to advise that it was ready I went to collect it. John wheeled my bike out and I accumulated supplies.

Nice job on the brakes, but the wrong tires were draped over the handlebars, the pump had never been ordered and ‘install new free hub’ had morphed into ‘check bottom bracket’.

I’ve never subscribed to the ‘customer is always right’ concept because the customer can sometimes be a complete pig. I am usually polite and I am always precise so, if the person to whom I’m speaking gets distracted and doesn’t write down what I said, whose fault is it? Is his job to listen, or to allow his eyes to wander over anything and everything else that might be occurring in the shop?

I pointed out the problems but John stared, zombie-like, at another customer for almost a full minute before handing me the bill and a pen as if I’d said nothing worthy of interest.

My politeness slipped. It may not have, had they not kept me waiting for two weeks. It may not have, had John offered to get the job corrected immediately. It may not have, had he called the other store to see if the correct tires and pump were in stock. It might not have, if the bill hadn’t included $79 for unspecified parts and $25 for installation.

My politeness slipped further when he tried to pretend that the job had actually been done, but that the computer had reported it wrongly and that I should call back if I had any problems.

It disappeared altogether after he called the mechanic at home and discovered that no such work had been done but then turned back to me, smiling as though the problem was now solved. Free hubs weren’t a stock part, he said, and they hadn’t wanted to take extra time by ordering one. So they’d done me a favor?

My voice rose. I paid for the brakes but nothing else. Cancel the tires, cancel the pump, delete the erroneous bottom bracket entry and take back all the merchandise and then added gruffly - loudly enough for other customers to hear - that I would never be back and was going down the street to Flying Fish bikes.

Should I have doffed my cap and slithered away, perhaps to grumble with close friends and repeat this tale of misadventure as prime conversational material for the next 20 years? I am English, after all…

I thought not.

So – if you’re in South Tampa and need bicycle service, you know where not to go.

And what if you happen to be from the Trek shop in South Tampa and feel that this account has unfairly caused you to lose customers?

Sue me.

03: Training

It’s real.

I hurt.

Even I, who can usually find plenty of reasons for not doing so, know that some training is better than none.

People who live in Florida have as much of a notion about hills as a Dutchman. Tired and sweaty on Sunday, after 43 miles around San Antonio and Zephyrhills - what locals amusingly call the Florida Alps - it became obvious just how much the first two weeks of the tour will hurt.

It’s not just the distance, not just the heat and not just the hills – it’s having all those at the same time and then having them again the next day and the next and the next…

Greater Los Angeles is relatively flat, so that presents no difficulty, but then there are more than 500 miles to ride in 6 days in temperatures of at least 100 degrees Fahrenheit.

The first part, on the shoulder of I10 through the Mojave Desert, has moderate gradients but which go on endlessly until you’ve lost the will to live. Following that are never-ending switchback ascents through the Sierra Nevada Mountains – less hot and less traffic and nice views, but climbing over 7,000 feet in two days will make my legs burst.

That’s 7,000 feet.

In 2 days.

Sweating, tired and proud of myself on Sunday, I passed a sign that proudly proclaimed an elevation of 324 feet.

There’s not much to say about that, is there…

02: Preparation

3 weeks to go.

504 hours.

30,240 minutes.

Don't ask how many seconds - that would just be anal.

Ok, if you want to get detailed, it's 9 laundry loads, 3 gas-ups, 6 movies, 4 dance lessons and about 120 bathroom trips for purposes other than taking a shower. I’m not going to guess how many times I’ll wake up with female company and a smile on my face but, if recent history is any indication, a disappointingly low number.

Loads of things to do, but preparation is key. There are spares to buy, parts to replace and equipment to install. I need tubes, tires, spokes, patches, glue, gloves, computer, bike bag and more. What happened to the fun of cycling?

The checklist gets longer every time I cross something off. Stress, stress, stress and it won’t end until the bike gets shipped and I reach Los Angeles and find it reassembled and ready to go; assuming it gets there. But if not, then I’ll sue. Hey – this is America. Knowing when to sue (always) is question number one on the citizenship test.

Just as well the other stuff got done already: get loan, pay rent, quit job, renew lease, purchase house and order maps. My hair would go gray, if it wasn't already white.

I feel like a prisoner in a WWII prison camp, tunneling for freedom and scattering dirt across the exercise yard from pockets in modified trousers. The checklist is my personal tunnel and every item checked is another bag of dirt. Just a few more walks around the compound and I’m out.

People think I’m insane. Me? How about their strange questions and useless advice? What use is a GPS that plugs into a cigarette lighter? Or a universal charger for a phone, laptop, camera, shaver and all the other things that have no place on a bike? Or a AAA membership?

What would you expect to pay for 50 hotel rooms and meals and on-the-road support, I ask the doubters whose eyes widen when they ask the cost and think I’m somehow being ripped off? But that’s only the first half – and don't forget four months' loss of income. Add it up and it's half the gross national product of Cuba.

Emails flit back and forth daily from riders and staff with advice on equipment and supplies. If I took any of it seriously, I’d accumulate gallons of A&D ointment to smear on my backside (and stain seats across America), stock up on Power bars and Gatorade powder, ingest countless articles on nutrition and rush to purchase leg warmers, arm coolers, head bands, sweat bands and all kinds of personal equipment.

How about an assault rifle for protection in the badlands? Maybe a little motor to help on those hills? No one’s mentioned those.

Laziness and the flatlands of southern Florida have attracted flab to my middle and decreased my stamina. The SAG van driver will get to see my sun-scarred countenance often during the first week, when I’ve ground to an exhausted halt or fallen off, screaming from quad cramps and twitching from calf spasms. Maybe he’ll take a picture.

What I really need is a good dose of training but there’s always a good excuse – allergies are playing up, there’s a party at the weekend and, of course, Happy Hour. Can I buy fitness in a pill at GNC? Maybe they’ll give me a gold card.

Hiking will help, so I’m going to Joshua Tree and the Santa Rosa mountains for a week. Not quite the same muscles, but it’ll generate a sweat, burn up a calorie or two and can’t do any harm - unless I fall off a ledge or get eaten by a mountain lion.

As a last taste of civilization after that, the entire 8th of May will be spent in an air-conditioned IMAX theatre somewhere in Los Angeles, watching Star Trek XI.

One to beam out...

Energize…

01: Introduction

I’m going to ride my bicycle across America, from Los Angeles to Boston.

Again.

You might ask why; you’d not be alone.

Why would I want to pedal more than 3,400 miles in all winds and weathers, when I could just as easily (a lot more easily, actually) get a plane?

Why would I endanger myself on a trek that’s filled with risk of everything from simple injury to death?

Why would I take months from work and pay to cycle from the Pacific to the Atlantic in 7 weeks?

For sponsorship? To prove something? To lose weight or to get fit?

No.

Because I can.

I am not a fast rider and not particularly fit. I expect to be the last one to each hotel, especially at the beginning. But did you notice that one single word – 'again'? Does that indicate something? A certain level of madness?

Perhaps. Not content to suffer once, this will be my third time. Same bike, same route, same company, different shirt.

After breakfast on Sunday May 10th, over two dozen cyclists wearing yellow shirts proclaiming 'Crossroads', will line up, two by two outside the Marriott in El Segundo. We will pedal gently to Manhattan Beach Pier, sit for some photos and then ride across the continent to Revere Beach, Boston. At each end, we will dip a wheel in the ocean.

There, easy. Nothing to it. A day at the seaside, a few pictures and a bit of cycling – what could be nicer?

Except that not everyone will make it all the way; some will suffer injuries and some will give up. Statistically, about 25% won’t be there 7 weeks later for the photos in Boston.

But that’s not the end of it.

When the hangovers have faded and other riders go home to brag about their new figures and reunite with lonely spouses, I shall re-mount my bike. Alone, I will ride another 2,000 miles south to Fort Myers by way of the Skyline Drive and Blue Ridge Parkway and then put my bike on the ferry to Key West.

After a week of living like a hippie I’ll get back on the bike for a third time and ride the last stretch up the Florida keys, across the Everglades and Aligator Alley and home to Tampa. (Unless that nice Mr. Obama has fixed things with Cuba, in which case I’ll take a week out and flit over to Havana for a cigar).

By the time the welcoming sign of the local pub comes into view, I expect to have worn out 8 tyres, patched around 50 punctures and burned off as much as 40 lbs. My legs and bum will have climbed more than 150,000 feet - even without the Blue Ridge Parkway and Skyline Drive - and transported my bike, my gear and myself more than 6,000 miles.

I will also have posted about 40 entries to this blog, many of which will appear in OVI magazine at : www.ovimagazine.com.

A voice recorder will travel with my bike and posts will be recorded as events occur, colored by mental state, heat, exhaustion and isolation, written up later and uploaded when a wi-fi signal is available.

Nothing controls the subject or how I will express it. My comrades on wheels, Crossroads staff, the environment, Americana and culture, personal history – all are blog fodder, should by mind wander in those directions.

I will be sometimes frustrated by the curious and illogical actions of my new friends and I expect to frequently desire the removal from this earth of many a fool who drives as though cyclists need culling. Such items may be a familiar occurrence here.

This blog is not intended as a travelogue. Amusing tales stem more often from disasters and confrontations with stupidity, not from a smooth, daily journal like a schoolgirl’s diary, so don’t expect much about scenery and blue skies. Perhaps a little – it would be false to write as though there’s nothing of interest in the two deserts and three mountain ranges through which we will pedal.

Be warned. If you cringe and insert @#$ to avoid spelling 'butt' or ‘tail’ or substitute false phrases like n-word or find offence in religious, racial or gender slurs, you may want to read with one eye closed. Words are meaningless alone, it is the context that matters and, whilst my vocabulary is not controlled by street slang, it is occasionally appropriate.

Read on; or perhaps that should be, ride on…..

Mike J.