Campagnolo Delta Brake

The cover has been removed for illustration.  How many moving parts?  Thirty?  Forty???  What could possible go wrong?

Seriously, this is a great brake, somewhat limited in application, but super-strong with great modulation.  Hard to setup, won't work with tires over 23c, hard to adjust, and expensive to manufacture.  The cable binder takes a 3.5mm hex wrench, and to get the cover back on you have to cut the cable off flush, so good luck trying to make any subsequent cable adjustments.  There is a very narrow adjustment band and the pad thickness has to be matched to the rim width.  You can see how the arms don't quite line up with the body in this particular application.  I need thicker pads or spacers.  Maybe there's another adjustment in the pivots to account for rim width?  Arggh I don't have time for this!

The Fatal Flaw

Weinmann concave rims, made in Belgium. Great rims in my view. Extremely strong with a tall, flat braking surface. A little heavy perhaps, but having a rock-solid, impervious ride quality, as rims go. And this is a smart shape for spoke nipple support and probably torsional rigidity as well. Tourists' choice. Sometimes found with a shiny silver finish.

Centrifugal force holds ice, snow, and mud, making your wheels heavier. And dirty MagChloride-y water soaks in, seizing your spoke nipples. And destroying the adhesive on your rim tape. While the rest melts off onto your floor.

Little Things

Some years ago near here on the trail I rode around a rock, and I thought, "I should get that off the trail, it could cause an accident."

And then my little devil says, "nah, I don't have time for that."

And then goodie two-shoes says, "I should go back, and move that rock off the trail."

Then the little devil, "I'm late already."

"Someone could get hurt."

"It's not my problem."

"You know you should."

"Let someone else do it."

"Your ARE someone else."

"Heck with it."

"Selfish clown."

"Bleeding heart."

"Loser."

And pretty soon, I'm hundreds of yards down the trail, and I've forgotten what I was arguing with myself about, and it just doesn't seem important any more.

The next day, maybe two days later, I heard that someone had hit a rock on the trail nearby and broken their whatever, ended up in the hospital, etc.

And it was, I felt, my fault. Even though it may have been a different trail, a different rock, not that day. My fault. How many accidents have I escaped because someone picked up a rock? Or because someone changed a light bulb, or put their shopping cart in the corral, or stopped at a yellow light? Put in a new roll of toilet paper? Does the ten seconds it costs to anonymously correct a problem, saving someone potentially years of trouble, really cost that much in the end?

I stop and move rocks now. Big ones, anyway.

Oh, So Close

The man was sitting right in the middle of the sidewalk, his gear strewn all about him. I thought at first it was a "yardsale" but for the bicycle with its wheels in the air. With the Brooks saddle and Campagnolo Ergo shifters scraping around on the pavement. And the guy is not wearing shoes to match the pedals, and there is no helmet, and he's wearing jeans and a leather jacket on his 80-degree morning bike ride. I couldn't get by without leaving the pavement, and the whole scene looked a little suspicious, so I stopped.

Are you OK? Having some bike trouble? (nice bike)

ARRRrnnnghh. Mnaaaah. Piece o' shix.

Where did you get this bike? (or steal it)

Hrrmmn. Eh, brother, brother in, uh, Urbana Champaign. You know where that is?

Yes, it's a college town in Illinois. (liar)

Urbana Champaign, my brother...uh, he got it for me. There, over in Urbana Champaign. My brother.

What's the matter with the bike? (maybe I can get this bike from him and find its owner)

Aaah, Mnnnrrg. Crap.

I'll give you fifty dollars for that bike right now. (come on, you loser, I know your game)

He looks up at me like I just told him he won the lottery. And I can see the gears turning in his mind: Fifty bucks! Fifty bucks! All at once! I can't believe it.

Aaaah, OH, aaah, uuuh, no, I need this bike.

OK, I'll give you all the cash in my wallet for this bike. He looks like he might pass out with surprise. I pull out my wallet (Uh-oh, how much money DO I have?) and remove all the cash. I make a big show of this, with a dramatic sweep of my arm and a long ZZZZIP as I open my bike bag, and opening my wallet ALL the way and grabbing what I hope looks like a huge wad. And then airing it out in his face. Green Paper. He can smell it, I'm thinking. And I count out sixty-seven dollars. I hold it out to him, sixty-seven dollars in cash, it's the most he's seen all at once in who knows how long. This is his lucky day!

You will sell me this bike Right Now for sixty-seven dollars. (hurry up)

OK.

I hand him the money, grab the bike and get out of there. Ghost-ride it two blocks to my shop, then I call the police. Give them all the info they ask for, and they send an officer over for the report. He calls-in the serial number, and it's not reported stolen. (maybe I can keep it?)

Officer, how will I find the owner of this bicycle? (maybe I can keep it?)

I don't know, you bought yourself a bicycle, it's yours now. Good luck.

I can keep the bike?

The cop has bigger fish to fry, and he doesn't seem to have any idea what this bike is anyway, so I thank him and he leaves. Then I searched the internet for two days looking for some sort of post or list or registry or description or SOMETHING of this (presumably) stolen bicycle. No luck. (maybe I can keep it!)

Someone suggested that I call the manufacturer, to see if they can trace the serial number. I thought that was a good idea, so I started by calling the most local dealer, who keeps a list of customers and serial numbers. I gave them only the briefest descripton, preferring to wait for the rightful owner to fill in the details. Ten minutes later they called back with a close match, but not close enough. I turned them down and said to keep looking. (maybe I can keep the bike!)

A couple hours later they called back with another match, "The serial number is XXXXX." (aw, shoot)

We have a winner!

Riding home that night I paused at the spot where the bum was camped out, and I noticed some garbage on the grass. It was the cardboard hang-tag for a pack of sandpaper. The thief had purchased sandpaper at Walgreens and was busy defacing the bike when I got to him.

Sixty-seven dollars.

Untitled

I found this first two pieces furthest from the front door, right next to each other about as close as this. I think it's the point of impact. It flew all the way through the showroom, over two display islands and six or eight parked bicycles.

There are two other kinds of glass shards, comprising most of the shrapnel field, as such. Ten thousand pieces like these were scattered all over the floor, and piled up at the base of the doorframe:

All caused by someone's rock:

Which luckily was sent through the door glass, not a large window pane.
Which luckily didn't smash the Gunnar.
Or a carbon bike.
Or knock over my Norfolk Pine.
The thief didn't have any problem finding some money.
Which is what he wanted.
Didn't break anything other than the glass.
Didn't tear the place up looking for valuables.
Didn't take a bike.
Or my computer.
Or tools.
Or anything of value, really.
Just the money.
(ha, ha)
Thank you thief, I hope you enjoyed your $196.
You're worth it.

Another Busted One

Beware old handlebars.

And Worth It, Too

A young man leaned his bicycle against the glass, came in and asked if he could borrow some wrenches to put on a new seat he had got somewhere else.

I'm in the shop with two customers, plus him.

I don't loan tools.

Well, could you put it on for me?

$5 installation.

Well, do you have any tools?

The other customers are smirking at each other now.

Sure, I have this allen wrench set for $8.99. You can use it to install your saddle and do a lot of other services to your bicycle.

He takes the (new, packaged, priced) tool and starts working on his seatpost, right there in front of us.

I've felt some sort of tension in this transaction, but I've turned dutifully to the register and rung up a sale, Nine dollars and sixty-four cents, please.

I just wanted to use this tool. I don't have any money.

Our eyes meet. The idiot is lying. And I have his number.

I told you, I don't loan tools, and I sure as HECK won't loan a brand-new tool to you just so you can avoid buying either it or my efforts to do what you can't! What do you think is going on here? Do I look like a CHARITY? Does the sign say PAUL'S FREE CO-OP? How about a complimentary LARABAR and ESPRESSO with your service today?!

RRRRGGGH!

And now he's not only caught, but tried, sentenced and hung.

He can't get his head quite low enough as he reaches into his pocket to retrieve a twenty, then takes his change and receipt and shambles out.

(note: this twenty-dollar-bill was wadded up in his pocket, like he'd grabbed it on the way out of the house this morning like every morning, perhaps. He didn't have to rifle all his pockets and backpack, he knew that he had it and he knew where it was. Maybe mom won't miss it! Of course if he really was broke, like he said, he wouldn't have that twenty at all, or he would have it carefully folded and squirrelled away out of reach.)

Bastard left the old seat on my sidewalk.