Evasive Maneuvering: Bucket Truck of Death

Confident, the index and middle finger on my right hand began to squeeze the brake lever trigger.  It would send my rear wheel skidding out to the right at 25mph.  My left knee augered away from my bike to take the initial impact of my left hip, hand and handlebars hitting the rain soaked oily pavement.  Coming down the Gilbert Avenue hill into downtown Cincinnati I judged I had about a two foot ceiling and a 10-12 foot gap to shoot between the wheels and under an energy company bucket truck.  I think I would’ve made it.  Then it stopped.

Not The Exact Bucket Truck, But You Get The Idea

I tacked right and skirted around the front bumper, the truck jutting two-thirds of the way into my lane.  I looked back at the driver.  His window was down, bare arm on the frame.  We locked eyes.  It’s at these moments you wish you had something clever to say, something like, “What the F*** Bucket Head!”  Like Peter Sagan contesting a sprint infraction, the back of my Italian left hand leaped into the air toward the driver and the only quip my mouth could muster was “Dooooood!”  So I’m only a quarter Italian.

As I was coming down the hill in the left lane to make the left turn at the light only 150 meters away, the bucket truck was coming up on the other side of the median then made a sudden U-turn midway into my path to the light.  Had my bike rolled 20-25 feet closer I know I would’ve squeezed that lever.  At 25mph, a bike travels 36.6 feet per second.  Looking back, I estimate I had a little more than a half second to waffle on the option of grabbing a fist full of brake and taking myself human bowling. 

The light was red.  I slowed to a stop in the left hand turn lane.  The truck pulled up in the far right.  With no one else at the intersection, he could’ve quickly turned and drove away, but he stopped for me.  His eyes were wide, visibly shaken.  He shouted sincerely out the window, “Sorry.  My bad.”  I half smiled.  Considering my stupidity for riding too fast for conditions, I waved him off saying, “It’s all good,” and turned back up the hill for my 5^th hill repeat.

The Exploding Gear Bag of Race Day

A stinking frog pond of Lycra, denim and North Face lily pads filled my Toyota 4-Runner from dash to tailgate. On top lay a film of tools, water bottles and helmets. Yeah, we had 5 people in the truck, but I said pack light. They abided. Each person only had a single backpack or bag. I was the only one with a cooler bag. On the way down, there was plenty of room so we packed in spare wheels, a bike stand, a pump and even two camp chairs. It was organized and tidy, everything had its place. Aside from the bikes on the roof, you would never guess that five people were traveling in the same car. Someone even commented how roomy it was in the back.

Now, the gear was two feet deep in my truck. About 45 minutes before my race, I stopped back at the truck to grab a water bottle and I had to reach through the window or risk a waterfall of stinky chamois cascading out the door. Nate apologized that his helmet had rolled off the passenger seat mountain and into the valley under the steering wheel. Like a trailside cairn, a pair of shoes and a tub of chamois butter sat on top of my small cooler bag. A multi tool in three pieces now sat atop Mt. Nate. The back seat looked in as much disarray as the clearance T-shirt bin at Wal-Mart, if Wal-Mart carried North Face and Verge gear.

Harry, a teammate, calls it the exploding gear bag. This post was his idea. I’ve seen his truck midway through a race day and you would’ve thought he crammed 4 guys in his old pick up, but Harry usually travels solo. He too will swear, but in an Appalachian drawl, that he reckons he only packed one bag, a spare set of wheels, a small cooler, a trainer and a thermos of red beans and rice. Somehow the bed of his truck and inside of his cab looked like he got divorced the morning of the race.

It doesn’t seem to matter how organized the people in the car are at home or in their career. Harry’s an electrician by trade. I’ve seen his work van and the organization of tools in the back would make Bob Villa jealous. Of the people in my car, Amanda’s a journalist, Jake’s an engineer, Brian’s a pilot, Nate’s a salesperson and I’m a creative radio production dork. The only common thread is that we’re all cyclists and we all seem to handle race prep the same methodological way. You arrive. You sign in. You scout the course. You eat a bit. You tweak the bike. You pin on you number. You warm up. You down a Gu. You race. The seemly disorganized pile of gear is simply a byproduct of racing.

I guess racing is a sport of needs. There’s not a whole lot of giving. Bike needs lube. I need to register. I got to take a crap before I put on the skinsuit. Aside, from the occasional help given to a teammate to pin on a number or quickly change a warm-up flat, if it doesn’t directly have an impact on the outcome of the race, it can wait. And so, from the tool box, the wheel bag, the backpack, and the cooler…the debris from the exploding gear bag flows through the car.

It's All Fobbed Up

Quite the opposite of the eureka moment of the Reese’s Peanut Butter cup discovery, my fob got in my Gu, or Gu got in my Fob, one of the two. It still works. Well…sort of. However, now when I use the fob to open the car door, I have to point it and press the button slow and deliberate like it’s a weapon on the old Star Trek series. “Spock! Use your fob!” “Patience Captain. It appears Uhuru dropped it in the Gu puddle back on Planet Stickimus.” The real issue is that you really can't clean Gu out of a fob. Sugary Gu does dissolve nicely in water. Electronics also dissolve nicely in water. If there’s any good news about my sticky fob, I’m sure if I ever were in a situation like Man Vs Wild’s Bear Grylls, I could find a way to extract the sugary content of the circuit board for “needed sustenance” to survive a week in Siberia while I try to find my way back to my car in China.

This of course leads me to how to keep the Gu Fob McDLT-ish ingredients from coming into contact with each other. I used to love McDonalds McDLT, the hot burger and cheese on one side of the container, the crisp lettuce and tomato on the other. Take a moment right now for the McDLT. Hopefully my solution will be as brilliant. Hopefully one day McDonalds will bring back the McDLT.

Guless Fob Solution #1: The Offspring

You gotta keep ‘em separated. Keep your Gu and food in the jersey pocket closest to your strong hand. I’m left handed. Gu goes in left hand pocket, key fob and cell phone in right, and tube & tools in the middle. If you have a Camelback, Gu goes in the strap pocket, your key fob goes inside. Or, put the Gu’s under the elastic of your shortlegs and the fob someplace else that’s not sticky, wet or hairy.

Guless Fob Solution #2: Move To The Boonies

Move to where you can ride your bike right out the door. That way you’ll never need to take your fob. You should probably also move to where you can leave your house doors unlocked, because some alarm systems and new door locks are now coming with guess what….fobs.

Guless Fob Solution #3: Forget The Fob

In most cases, it’s the key that starts the car, so there’s no need to bring the fob. Of course this brings up a whole new set if issues. If the car key flies out of your pocket when you spectacularly crash down an embankment and somehow you manage to get your carcass back to your car, you won’t be able to start the car to drive yourself to the hospital.

Guless Fob Solution #4: Don’t B Stoopid.

The whole reason Gu got in my fob is that when I ride, I keep my Gu’s under the elastic of my shorts legs. When I got back to my car and took off my jersey, I needed a place to temporarily stash my fob as I put the bike up on the roof rack. In my caloric deficit haze I stuck the fob under the elastic of my shorts legs and completely forgot that an expired Gu was under there. Maybe I should’ve had more to eat than Gu.