riding past galaxies
At the bike shop, the Frenchman sticks out like a bulldog amidst a pack of greyhounds. The staff's all lean, wiry courier types with long limbs and aerodynamic hair, except for him and his scraggly beard and oversized paunch -- a girth that might either be age or neglect, like he may not have ridden a bike for years because of a bum knee, but he is French and has thus forgotten more about cycling than any of us will ever learn.
The Frenchman was at the shop when, a little less than a year ago, I walked in and said that I was looking to get a touring bike. He looked at me before asking why, and I told him about how my company moved out to the suburbs, and how my old five mile urban commute was now a fifteen mile trek into the suburban wilds. I could probably do it on my hybrid but --
"that ride is no fun, yes?" was the way he finished my sentence before asking in follow-up, "What sort of hybrid do you have?"
"Trek 730."
"Not the 7300?"
"No, 2000 model, before Trek switched the numbering system."
"Ah. That's a good bike. Nice ... pure ... before Trek added the front suspension and turned it into a silly thing. And you want to leave that for a touring bike? You want to ride to Argentina, eh?"
"Maybe," I said -- because in truth, I've thought about it, "but first I just want to get out to Bedford."
"You want to stay with Trek?"
"You're going to show me the 520, aren't you?"
I've been eyeing the Trek 520 ever since I got it in my head to get a touring bike. Most cyclists want the light, springy stuff -- carbon-fiber rides that fly like birds -- fast yet delicate. They look fleet, but hang a few pounds of weight off them and they start getting skittery and loose. I wanted something that was tough enough to take forty pounds of gear like it was nothing, and yet fast enough to get me to work on time without a 6:30 alarm. And if it could take me to the West Coast in a month, then that's a bit of a bonus.
Other bike shops were pushing me to take cyclocross bikes. "You want tough," they'd say, "these bikes were built to ride mud courses, be portaged across streams, and ridden over snowfields. They take the punishment of a tourer, but they're a little more fun." They're also rarely designed to take baggage. Half the cross bikes I tried didn't have rackmounts, and the ones that did were too short to use any bags smaller than a fanny pack. Thanks, but no thanks.
The 520, as the Frenchman was quick to point out, was the classic touring bike. All steel, old-school drivetrain, wide tires, long chain-stays for carrying heavy duty panniers. "That bike," he said, "will take you to Argentina. If you break a derailleur cable on the way, you can improvise something with a coat hanger and some dental floss until you get to a mechanic. Can't do that with the new shifters on the market. If the frame breaks, you can get a guy in a village to weld it together for you -- unlike titanium. It's the best touring bike you can get without going custom."
He was right. I bought the 520 and it's been a year long commuting honeymoon.
I rode the bike out to a friend's LAN party in Somerville on Saturday, partly because I was enamored with the idea that everything that I needed for a LAN session could fit into my courier bag, and partly because I honestly planned to leave before the blizzard hit. Yet, you know how these things go. There's always time for one more Capture-The-Flag match, one more slugfest, and by the time I had unplugged, suited up2 and brought the bike out of Spex's basement, two inches had fallen on the road and more was on the way.
People always ask me if I was cold on my snowy rides, and I'm quick to remind them that I've ridden on days when it was too cold to snow, and now I wear enough cold-weather gear to make snow days feel almost balmy. No, I don't feel cold. I just feel fear. Deep, constant fear. There is a constant anxiety over wiping out, over whether the blizzard is hiding a storm grate that will send you falling into oncoming traffic, over whether that spot five feet up is ice or hardpack, over whether you should coast or speed up.
Giving into the fear usually means that you lose. Coast over ice and you'll fall. Brake too hard to slow yourself on a downhill and your front wheel will lock. Overcorrect on a bit of a drift, and you'll start to oscillate yourself off your ride. Your mind is constantly doing the Paul Atreides mantra in Dune, "I Shall Not Fear. Fear is the Mindkiller. Fear is the little death that brings total oblivion." And it's doing that for the eternity that it takes to go two miles.
And then you get used to it. You get used to the idea that your front and rear wheel could drift in totally different directions for a second, before lining up again. Your eyes train for the shadows of potholes underneath powder. You learn to keep pedaling, no matter how slick things feel, because it's just about getting through the stuff. Then you look up and see a galaxy of crystals drifting around you and for a moment it looks like you're flying through hyperspace.
Except, you know, hyperspace was never cold and wet.
The Frenchman was at the shop when, a little less than a year ago, I walked in and said that I was looking to get a touring bike. He looked at me before asking why, and I told him about how my company moved out to the suburbs, and how my old five mile urban commute was now a fifteen mile trek into the suburban wilds. I could probably do it on my hybrid but --
"that ride is no fun, yes?" was the way he finished my sentence before asking in follow-up, "What sort of hybrid do you have?"
"Trek 730."
"Not the 7300?"
"No, 2000 model, before Trek switched the numbering system."
"Ah. That's a good bike. Nice ... pure ... before Trek added the front suspension and turned it into a silly thing. And you want to leave that for a touring bike? You want to ride to Argentina, eh?"
"Maybe," I said -- because in truth, I've thought about it, "but first I just want to get out to Bedford."
"You want to stay with Trek?"
"You're going to show me the 520, aren't you?"
I've been eyeing the Trek 520 ever since I got it in my head to get a touring bike. Most cyclists want the light, springy stuff -- carbon-fiber rides that fly like birds -- fast yet delicate. They look fleet, but hang a few pounds of weight off them and they start getting skittery and loose. I wanted something that was tough enough to take forty pounds of gear like it was nothing, and yet fast enough to get me to work on time without a 6:30 alarm. And if it could take me to the West Coast in a month, then that's a bit of a bonus.
Other bike shops were pushing me to take cyclocross bikes. "You want tough," they'd say, "these bikes were built to ride mud courses, be portaged across streams, and ridden over snowfields. They take the punishment of a tourer, but they're a little more fun." They're also rarely designed to take baggage. Half the cross bikes I tried didn't have rackmounts, and the ones that did were too short to use any bags smaller than a fanny pack. Thanks, but no thanks.
The 520, as the Frenchman was quick to point out, was the classic touring bike. All steel, old-school drivetrain, wide tires, long chain-stays for carrying heavy duty panniers. "That bike," he said, "will take you to Argentina. If you break a derailleur cable on the way, you can improvise something with a coat hanger and some dental floss until you get to a mechanic. Can't do that with the new shifters on the market. If the frame breaks, you can get a guy in a village to weld it together for you -- unlike titanium. It's the best touring bike you can get without going custom."
He was right. I bought the 520 and it's been a year long commuting honeymoon.
I rode the bike out to a friend's LAN party in Somerville on Saturday, partly because I was enamored with the idea that everything that I needed for a LAN session could fit into my courier bag, and partly because I honestly planned to leave before the blizzard hit. Yet, you know how these things go. There's always time for one more Capture-The-Flag match, one more slugfest, and by the time I had unplugged, suited up2 and brought the bike out of Spex's basement, two inches had fallen on the road and more was on the way.
People always ask me if I was cold on my snowy rides, and I'm quick to remind them that I've ridden on days when it was too cold to snow, and now I wear enough cold-weather gear to make snow days feel almost balmy. No, I don't feel cold. I just feel fear. Deep, constant fear. There is a constant anxiety over wiping out, over whether the blizzard is hiding a storm grate that will send you falling into oncoming traffic, over whether that spot five feet up is ice or hardpack, over whether you should coast or speed up.
Giving into the fear usually means that you lose. Coast over ice and you'll fall. Brake too hard to slow yourself on a downhill and your front wheel will lock. Overcorrect on a bit of a drift, and you'll start to oscillate yourself off your ride. Your mind is constantly doing the Paul Atreides mantra in Dune, "I Shall Not Fear. Fear is the Mindkiller. Fear is the little death that brings total oblivion." And it's doing that for the eternity that it takes to go two miles.
And then you get used to it. You get used to the idea that your front and rear wheel could drift in totally different directions for a second, before lining up again. Your eyes train for the shadows of potholes underneath powder. You learn to keep pedaling, no matter how slick things feel, because it's just about getting through the stuff. Then you look up and see a galaxy of crystals drifting around you and for a moment it looks like you're flying through hyperspace.
Except, you know, hyperspace was never cold and wet.