As tight as a Yorkshireman
It was the bikes annual service today. Oh dear, it's time to get the wallet out and let my pet moth again see the light.
I need to be sure that my Koga bike, Fat Arse, is gonna be OK for the Scottish 500 which is only 7 or so weeks away. My Rohloff hub explosion last year drenched my gold plated Gates Carbon drive belt in fresh oil which I'm told if not immediately cleaned off would mix with road grit and make a rather good grinding paste designed for destroying expensive belts and sprockets. I fastidiously washed the damn thing in Wybunbury on the LEJOG thing last year destroying a set of hand brushes as the oil had the consistency and irremovability of glue which didn't best please the pub landlady when I handed the oily brushes back after a thoroughly good scrub. Sorry, it wasn't me.
I had spoken with Dave at Cyclesense in Tadcaster (Koga dealer and service agent) about changing the sprockets and gold encrusted carbon belt from a 54/19 to a 50/19 combo to give me the half gear lower that I desperately needed on the LEJOG thing, especially on ballbreaker ridge just south of Gloucester. I've no idea how he was able to retain a happy smiley face as he told me that two sprockets and a carbon belt would cost 350 quid plus fitting. Ulp! I don't know what drugs he's on but whatever it is that makes him happy when giving bad news to customers should be shared with the NHS as an alternative to valium.
I took the bike in yesterday before the bad weather arrived. Marc, a fine engineer promises to ring me if any significant work needs to be done during the service. I sit at home this morning in a darkened room praying to God that I don't need to let my captive pet moth out from my wallet. Please God. Not yet, not yet.
Marc phones about midday. I'm sat curled up in a tight ball like an expectant father waiting for the 'its a' moment. 'Hi Wayne, good news the belt and sprockets are fine but the bottom bracket and brake pads needed changing', he says. 'So including your new pedals and seat post that'll be 170 quid thank you nicely.' I'm sure he heard me faint.
I picked myself up from the floor and promised to be there later that afternoon with my pet moth to pick up the bike. I catch the Coastliner bus for the 7 mile or so journey to the bike shop. The driver was nice and chatty. I'm stood by her waiting for the bus to depart from the Bus Station and we chat about if she is ever under any pressure from 'management' to keep to the timetable. I know for example the route from the coast to York is often heavily clogged with traffic jams and so keeping to a timetable is probably hard work if nigh on impossible. 'Not really', she says. 'Safety comes first.'
I'm stood there wide mouthed with panniers and cycling helmet in my hand. I think I've found the one and only bus driver in North Yorkshire with that attitude. The number of rushing buses that have taken the skin off my right pannier cannot be counted cept for those that now have permanent knuckle imprints in their sides delivered by me in an act of desperation to save my bacon. Mmmm, baaacon! Nice lady though and good to find a considerate bus driver. But she's as rare as hens teeth; and virgins at the back end of a music festival.
Just as I arrive at the shop Marc rings me. 'Wayne, there's a problem', he says. I feel faint. My wallet aches with worry as though preparing itself for major surgery. 'I'm in the shed in the back', he says just as I walk in to the theatre. Turns out that the right hand Shimano XT Delore pedal has taken a strong liking to the crank and is refusing to budge. The allen key slot has already been fractured and Marc now has the pedal shaft in the jaws of a vice trying to twist it out. With his feet in stirrups he's screaming, twisting and turning but no the pregnant crank refuses to co-operate with the shaft just spinning in the vice's jaws. Fearing that time = money I give him permission to perform a caesarian, i.e to grind flats into the pedal's shaft to help get a grip of the situation. Still it twists out of the vice's jaws. The other vice is tried but in attempting to tighten its grip to the max its cast iron head shears off! We scream at the horror of it; at the oil, grease and sweat drenched scene of carnage. 'Grind it more, More! MORE!', I shout!
My pet moth by now is sat on the lip of my wallet watching the drama in the operating theatre unfold. The crank arm is now screaming with pain as Mark again tries to twist the pedal shaft's head out of the crank's orifice. I move in. I apply mole grip forceps to the vice to prevent its jaws from spreading. Marc strains at the crank, blood vessels about to burst and with gritted teeth and a huge effort there is a huge BANG! and the little shit is finally born. He's red hot due to the effort of coming through a reverse breach birth. Broken headed and unwanted I decide to take the little fecker home for fear that Marc would clobber him with a mallet for being such a difficult little Shimano. I hear the near silent applause from my moth die away as it scurries back into the wallet... and battens down the hatches.
Good guy Marc. Likes his job and a challenge and it shows. Has a perchance for Volvos (careful now with your vowels, he said 'Vol Vos') and for joining many others for charity to get 1500 crash proof cars together for a Guinness Book of Records world record attempt to beat the 2nd law of thermodynamics in that as hard as many might try, Volvos will never succumb to entropy and fall to pieces. And to cause motorway problems with exceptionally long queues into the Bruntingthorpe event. I hear that junction 20 and 21 on the M1 were the safest places anywhere in the UK that day.
Ok, ok I'm silly. 170 quid was not bad really for all the bits and hard work. I rode the bike back to York through a rather aggressive hail storm (ow!) but even that did not stop me having a smile on my face. The bike felt good. New pedals and crank bottom bracket felt smooth a light. My moth was able to hide in the darkest corner of my exceptionally deep and empty wallet and so avoided my pain at the counter with a not so smiley Dave. Good news is that my pet moth will be with me for the Scottish 500 ride in May. Alan, watch out.
Like me I think they're both really looking forward to it.
Nite :-)
I need to be sure that my Koga bike, Fat Arse, is gonna be OK for the Scottish 500 which is only 7 or so weeks away. My Rohloff hub explosion last year drenched my gold plated Gates Carbon drive belt in fresh oil which I'm told if not immediately cleaned off would mix with road grit and make a rather good grinding paste designed for destroying expensive belts and sprockets. I fastidiously washed the damn thing in Wybunbury on the LEJOG thing last year destroying a set of hand brushes as the oil had the consistency and irremovability of glue which didn't best please the pub landlady when I handed the oily brushes back after a thoroughly good scrub. Sorry, it wasn't me.
I had spoken with Dave at Cyclesense in Tadcaster (Koga dealer and service agent) about changing the sprockets and gold encrusted carbon belt from a 54/19 to a 50/19 combo to give me the half gear lower that I desperately needed on the LEJOG thing, especially on ballbreaker ridge just south of Gloucester. I've no idea how he was able to retain a happy smiley face as he told me that two sprockets and a carbon belt would cost 350 quid plus fitting. Ulp! I don't know what drugs he's on but whatever it is that makes him happy when giving bad news to customers should be shared with the NHS as an alternative to valium.
I took the bike in yesterday before the bad weather arrived. Marc, a fine engineer promises to ring me if any significant work needs to be done during the service. I sit at home this morning in a darkened room praying to God that I don't need to let my captive pet moth out from my wallet. Please God. Not yet, not yet.
Marc phones about midday. I'm sat curled up in a tight ball like an expectant father waiting for the 'its a' moment. 'Hi Wayne, good news the belt and sprockets are fine but the bottom bracket and brake pads needed changing', he says. 'So including your new pedals and seat post that'll be 170 quid thank you nicely.' I'm sure he heard me faint.
I picked myself up from the floor and promised to be there later that afternoon with my pet moth to pick up the bike. I catch the Coastliner bus for the 7 mile or so journey to the bike shop. The driver was nice and chatty. I'm stood by her waiting for the bus to depart from the Bus Station and we chat about if she is ever under any pressure from 'management' to keep to the timetable. I know for example the route from the coast to York is often heavily clogged with traffic jams and so keeping to a timetable is probably hard work if nigh on impossible. 'Not really', she says. 'Safety comes first.'
I'm stood there wide mouthed with panniers and cycling helmet in my hand. I think I've found the one and only bus driver in North Yorkshire with that attitude. The number of rushing buses that have taken the skin off my right pannier cannot be counted cept for those that now have permanent knuckle imprints in their sides delivered by me in an act of desperation to save my bacon. Mmmm, baaacon! Nice lady though and good to find a considerate bus driver. But she's as rare as hens teeth; and virgins at the back end of a music festival.
Just as I arrive at the shop Marc rings me. 'Wayne, there's a problem', he says. I feel faint. My wallet aches with worry as though preparing itself for major surgery. 'I'm in the shed in the back', he says just as I walk in to the theatre. Turns out that the right hand Shimano XT Delore pedal has taken a strong liking to the crank and is refusing to budge. The allen key slot has already been fractured and Marc now has the pedal shaft in the jaws of a vice trying to twist it out. With his feet in stirrups he's screaming, twisting and turning but no the pregnant crank refuses to co-operate with the shaft just spinning in the vice's jaws. Fearing that time = money I give him permission to perform a caesarian, i.e to grind flats into the pedal's shaft to help get a grip of the situation. Still it twists out of the vice's jaws. The other vice is tried but in attempting to tighten its grip to the max its cast iron head shears off! We scream at the horror of it; at the oil, grease and sweat drenched scene of carnage. 'Grind it more, More! MORE!', I shout!
My pet moth by now is sat on the lip of my wallet watching the drama in the operating theatre unfold. The crank arm is now screaming with pain as Mark again tries to twist the pedal shaft's head out of the crank's orifice. I move in. I apply mole grip forceps to the vice to prevent its jaws from spreading. Marc strains at the crank, blood vessels about to burst and with gritted teeth and a huge effort there is a huge BANG! and the little shit is finally born. He's red hot due to the effort of coming through a reverse breach birth. Broken headed and unwanted I decide to take the little fecker home for fear that Marc would clobber him with a mallet for being such a difficult little Shimano. I hear the near silent applause from my moth die away as it scurries back into the wallet... and battens down the hatches.
Good guy Marc. Likes his job and a challenge and it shows. Has a perchance for Volvos (careful now with your vowels, he said 'Vol Vos') and for joining many others for charity to get 1500 crash proof cars together for a Guinness Book of Records world record attempt to beat the 2nd law of thermodynamics in that as hard as many might try, Volvos will never succumb to entropy and fall to pieces. And to cause motorway problems with exceptionally long queues into the Bruntingthorpe event. I hear that junction 20 and 21 on the M1 were the safest places anywhere in the UK that day.
Ok, ok I'm silly. 170 quid was not bad really for all the bits and hard work. I rode the bike back to York through a rather aggressive hail storm (ow!) but even that did not stop me having a smile on my face. The bike felt good. New pedals and crank bottom bracket felt smooth a light. My moth was able to hide in the darkest corner of my exceptionally deep and empty wallet and so avoided my pain at the counter with a not so smiley Dave. Good news is that my pet moth will be with me for the Scottish 500 ride in May. Alan, watch out.
Like me I think they're both really looking forward to it.
Nite :-)
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