A Case for Extreme Cyclocross Couponing

I may need to get a 3-ring binder, a set of Fiskars and read up on extreme couponing.  Getting ready for cyclocross is similar to getting a shopping list together.  “How are we on T.P.?  Are you good on tires?  Deodorant?  How 'bout cassettes?  The shaving cream feels a little light.  What’s that bar tape look like?"  The way it went last night, I’m gonna need two shopping carts at BioWheels bike shop, or a cyclocross intervention.

I pulled the IF Planet X off the hook, wheels out of their bags and took an inventory of needed parts.  Unlike the clippy-clip obsessed people on TLC, I do not have a shelf of fresh cyclocross tires piled next to 97 tubes of Colgate toothpaste and 43 boxes of Rice A Roni in my garage, but that would be super cool wouldn’t it?  At least I have a Groupon for the shop, a generous team discount and free reign of the BioWheels workshop.  However, I’m not going to get two cart loads of parts for $1.56 after coupons.  This is precisely the reason I told my wife I didn’t need any new clothes when she mentioned the sale at Banana Republic a few weeks ago.  I’d go naked to race cross.  Thankfully, she’s well aware of that weakness, is quick to point out holes in my t-shirts and is an extreme Grouponer.

It’s that awkward time of year when a cyclocrosser has to make the decision to ignore the rest of the summer races and focus on a season that’ll go through December, January if you plan on racing Nationals.  I should be writing out the racing calendar and back dating a training plan to this week, an empty rest week dedicated to gearing up and focusing on cyclocross season.  Instead I got lured into a Sunday mountain bike race and am intrigued by the criterium tonight.  There’s a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other.  Please Angel of CX, help me do this.

It barely shifted.  I haven’t ridden this bike since the Sub 9 Death March months ago.  I spun through the gears and adjusted the derailleur.  Like an old man with bourbon, I hit it with lube and exercised its joints back into functionality.  I pumped tires.  The Fango held, although the tread is loose in two places.  The Griffo wore out my triceps.  With sweat dotting the garage floor and freddies forming in my armpits, the gauge would not top 20 pounds and returned to zero quickly.  I unscrewed the valve stem and poured in sealant.  The pump squeaked.  My arms throbbed.  Then I saw the horror of sealant bubbles.  Help me Oprah.  Save me Tom Cruise.  It must have a half dozen pin holes in it.  I marked the holes, hit it with more sealant and, as if it were alive, let it sit overnight in hopes that it will heal on its own.  I know I’ll need two new tires, a 12-27 cassette, tire glue, a chain, cables, housing, bar tape, some swanky white Hudz, an oversized shopping cart and a good line when the credit car bill arrives.

Dude, Where’s My Giant Foam Thumb?

It’s the if-then philosophical algebraic method of cycling.  If you don’t have a spare tube and air, then carry a cell phone.  If you don’t have a cell phone, then ride with friends who do.  If you don’t have any friends…uh…you should either have two Nike’s or a giant foam thumb sticking out of your jersey pocket.

Occasionally I ride with Dude.  Dude’s cool and a steady strong heads up rider.  Dude is new to town and lives in an adjacent neighborhood.  Dude and I aren’t Facebook besties.  Dude doesn’t feed my cats when I go on vacation.  I don’t know Dude’s full story.  Our conversation has never went past paceline pleasantries.  I don’t have Dude’s number nor know his address.  He doesn’t know mine.  We’re like barbell friends, on the opposite ends of the same group ride.  I show up when I need a moderately paced civil ride.  He shows up when he wants to ride with familiar faces.  I’ve been the new dude, dropped between Loveland and Morrow my first year in town and sympathize. 

Dude’s hamstrings and quads are big enough to be featured on the sale poster at the cannibal neighborhood deli.  Friends on the ride marvel at his beef sticks.  Nicknames like Dude-asaurus Rex and Hamhock don’t even come close.  The legs of his shorts should be reinforced with Kevlar.  After a recent ride, he may consider running a motorcycle chain. 

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I equate riding in Northern Kentucky like this.  Take a piece of paper.  Crumple it up in a ball.  Unwad it and there you have a topographical map of NKY.  On your typical everyday Northern Kentucky riser, Dude got up on the pedals, took two stabs and the chain snapped.  Pop.  We turned to see Dude doing the top tube dance of death.  Putting a foot down, he saved it without injury.

“Anybody got a chain tool,” someone asked.

Silence.

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5 riders, an hour and a half from home and no one has a chain tool nor a spare pin nor a quick link.  In our defense, 4 of 5 don’t have the legs to break a chain.  To be sure there wasn’t a pin rattling around somewhere, we checked our saddle bags.  Nope.

“Dude, you got anyone you can call for a ride?”

Nope.

Dude’s new to town, living single in the city.  We’re his friends.  We’re all here.  So we did what any good riding buddies would do.  We left him.

Well not really.  Being at least an hour’s walk from the nearest intersection with a stop light or anything you could remotely call a town, we advised him to sit tight on this tiny road in Nowheresville, KY.  In two hours one of us would come back in a car to pick him up. 

“Dude.  What’s your cell phone number, so we can call and find you when we’re on the way back with the car?”

“I don’t have a cell phone on me.”  Dude quickly added, “Who am I gonna call?”

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We desparately held back the dumb found looks.  He’s serious.  Who’s he gonna call?  Dude was so matter of fact about it.  I tried to wrap my head around the fact that, if it wasn’t for us, he was completely prepared to walk home, like it was no big deal.  We figured he was at least 27 miles or a brisk six hour walk from home in bike shoes, 90 degree weather, with one water bottle.  Dude started asking about the fastest route back by foot.  If that’s what had to be done, he would’ve done it. 

Thankfully, another dude on the ride had enough time in his Sunday schedule to run back out in the car to save Dude’s day.  The thing is, and Dude specified before we pedaled off, Dude didn’t want a ride.  He asked for either a spare chain or the tools to fix it with.  That’s exactly what happened.  After sitting in spandex at the side of the rural NKY road for two hours not looking out of place at all, another dude drove back fixed Dude’s chain and Dude rode home.