I was young. I
didn’t have a lot of money. I
should have been wearing a big sign that would have said, “Will
work for bike parts.” In fact,
I was working part time for two different bike shops, for just about that
reason. (Don’t think that didn’t create a bit of friction
from time to time!)
I had a new “build” in mind. I was collecting parts for the project. I had several boxes and crates full of
bike parts in my old clunker of a car.
Some of these things were from other projects. Some were “saves” from bikes I’d torn down. There were new parts that were intended
to go on the upcoming “bike of all dreams.” There were new parts that I’d acquired with a mind to using
them on something in the
not-yet-foreseeable-future. In
addition to the parts, I almost always had a certain amount of bicycle riding
stuff (shorts, jerseys, jackets, shoes, etc.) with me. I also had my all-purpose tool box
along.
I had, just the day before, acquired a frame that I intended
to use to build up a dedicated training rig.
As I’ve often mentioned before, I lived in the Virginia
mountains at that time of my life.
Also, during that particular historical epoch, that region of the
country was more remote than it now is, and it contained areas that were even
more remote than others.
On the day in question, I was en route between a very small town in West Virginia, and the
largish small Virginia town where I lived. The weather was not great, but it wasn’t terrible. It was sort of Winterish, late-Fall,
with the thermometer dropping.
Nobody in my circle of family, friends, and acquaintances knew where I
was.
I had chosen a route more for expediency than speed. In other words, I was on some not
heavily traveled back country roads.
Some of these still have not
seen pavement to this day.
The old clunker started running roughly. It got worse. It died.
Cars were somewhat simpler in those days. Making an engine run isn’t all that
hard. Remember the “Fire Triangle”? Oxygen. Fuel.
Heat. Cars use a fire in
the cylinders to make the power that moves them. The old thing about the Fire Triangle is that, “If you
remove any one of the three sides,
you don’t get a fire. My car had
apparently suffered a triangular removal.
I was breathing, so I could presume that oxygen was
present. The gauge said I had gas,
and I filled up before I left on this journey. The started wouldn’t turn.
Electricty is the stuff that cars use to make the heat. My car could be having starter problems, or…
A couple of quick checks confirmed that my battery was
pretty well flat. Another test
confirmed my worst suspicion. The
generator had failed. Again. Stuck.
I might see another car sometime in the next eight
hours. Or it might be a couple of
days. I was (by conservative
estimate) at least 20 miles from the nearest outpost of civilization. Worse, I really really needed to be home on that night.
I was rooting around aimlessly amid the clutter in the car,
kind of hoping for something that
would solve the car problem… remains of another generator, spare battery,
magic, something! …when the idea
started to form.
I spread a blanket on the ground and started arranging
things on it. Yes! It wouldn’t be
elegant, but it could be done.
About two hours later I had a working bicycle. It was the sorriest mish-mash hob-cobble
of miss-matched parts. It had only
one brake, two different wheel sizes, and about 2/3 of a functional driveline.
The handlebar was an ugly thing from an old cruiser. The non-aero drop bar brake levers didn’t fit well, and were
not in a good position. The tires
were mismatched and of questionable provenance. The saddle was also from that old cruiser, but it gave me something to rest butt upon. The bottom bracket was loose, and the
cranks were two different lengths.
Of course the pedals didn’t match either. The headset (carefully installed by hammer and woodblock)
had an ugly clunk to it, but it was rideable.
I gathered tools, copious spares, and sundries, stuffed them
in a backpack, locked up the car, and took off.
The 30+ mile journey to home was not one of the more
glorious things I’ve ever undertaken.
There was a major mountain along the way. I had to push the bike up the steeper parts, and the descent
(by all rights) should have killed me. (Had there been any other traffic on that road, it
probably would have.) But it worked!
A bit more than four hours after I set out, just before
darkness slammed down, I arrived home, tired, but triumphant. Home! Where there was a real
bicycle, food, warmth, shelter.
Post Script:
About two days after my (mis)adventure, I set out once again
by bike. This time I was riding
the real bicycle. I had with me a
brand new generator for my 1960 Ford. Said part must have weighed something
like 300 pounds, and probably would have been suitable (but for it’s incredible
unreliability) to be mounted in one of Virginia
Power & Light’s major power plants. After a grueling trip over the mountain, and three hours
cursing under and over the car, I had successfully removed the old generator
and replaced it. I then managed to
strain the car onto the road and get it coasting along at a good clip… backwards
and down hill. Key to ON! Transmission into reverse! And the engine coughed, caught, and… RAN!
Believe me folks, there are advantages to the day and age we now live in.
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