The Point of Friction

Owning a bike takes love, work, sacrifice, patience, and patience. It's full of ups and downs. Bikes aren't perfect and neither are you. They can be infuriating and pleasing, unsightly and beautiful, enslaving and emancipating all within minutes of each other.

The story of my bike is a good one. Her name is Margo. I was introduced to her by my roommate this summer. He had been building his own bike for some time before and I wasn't really interested. I rode my gross, heavy, tank-like Schwinn Ranger mountain bike to and from school for most of the year and I didn't care that much. Then I started looking on craigslist for single speed road bikes. I found one for really cheap that I could fix up and sell, so I did. I got all new parts for it and fixed it up really nicely and sold it. I was hooked. And then I found Margo. She started out as just a frame and some cranks, but bit by bit I built her up from parts I found on craigslist. I got her a nice wheelset, new handlebars, a comfortable seat, magnificent brakes (you'll see why this is ironic later), and all the extra little bits necessary to make a bike rideable. I made a lot of mistakes at first, but I loved working on Margo and the more time I spent with her, the more I knew she was the bike for me. She wasn't the prettiest bike to begin with: her cranks were a bit scratched, her frame was gangly and a little too big, her front fork was at a weird angle so that the pedals hit the front wheel when I was turning, her bottom bracket was a little rusty and used proprietary parts. But I didn't care. I was going to make her fly. I would do whatever it took. I still remember the first day I went on a ride with her, I had finished installing the brakes and putting the handlebars on. I put them on completely wrong. They looked ridiculous and my friends thought I was stupid and ignorant, but I loved them and kept them that way out of spite for a while. It wasn't until months later that I realized they actually were ridiculous and wrong. I fixed them and they were instantly better.

When I went off to school in the fall, I switched her from a single speed to a fixed gear. It was simultaneously the best and worst decision I ever made. My cycling friends thought I was stupid and hated Margo, but I didn't care. I had such a connection with Margo that riding any other bike simply felt awkward and undignified and pointless. We rode to school every day and I made sure she had a strong lock to keep her safe while I was in class. I put cards in her spokes and she wore them with pride. We went on short sprints through downtown Newberg, racing cars down hills and bobbing and weaving through the suburbs in the sunshine. She and I pulled my friends down streetlamp-lit roads on their longboards at night. It was a fantastic way to travel. A friend and I took her out on the back country roads at sunset and we cruised along long straight roads that bordered pastures and fields, just soaking it all in.

Then I took the brakes off.

It was freeing. Margo and I were so close and so good at communicating that I simply found I didn't need them. It was a beautiful feeling. Just me and Margo, no barriers between my feet and the drivetrain. She translated every move I made perfectly into the pavement. I knew exactly what to do in every instance. When I was riding, Margo and I were one. I hadn't used my brakes for months and the high-end Shimano 105s were simply extra weight to us. So off they came. I hadn't needed to use them except for once, and even then they didn't help me at all. I crashed into the curb anyway. We were both fine so I didn't think twice about it.

Then came that fateful ride.

We went out to the back country roads again with the same friend, but this time we were hungry for hills. It sounded challenging and exhilarating and I knew that Margo and I could conquer anything geography could throw at us, brakes or no brakes, gears or no gears, coasting or no coasting. Oh boy was I wrong. And it cost Margo everything. We climbed and climbed and climbed, I was thrilled with how well we were doing going up all of these winding hills. Elevation couldn't touch us! We didn't need gears! Who cares if my legs were on fire and I was short of breath? WE WERE CLIMBING HILLS ON A FIXED GEAR. And then I gave out. I simply couldn't pedal any more. I was tired and ready to blast back downhill. So we turned around. It was incredible. We were absolutely flying down the mountainside, going 30, 40, maybe even 50 miles per hour at one point. It was like nothing I had ever experienced. Raw untamed speed, all caused by me and Margo and gravity. Then my friend passed us. I thought to myself, "So what if she has gears and brakes? WE CAN GO FASTER! Come on Margo, let's show them what we can do."

And then came the corner.

I saw it coming. I knew it couldn't end well, but it was too late. My feet were still in the pedal cages, I wasn't wearing a helmet, I didn't have brakes, I was still going upwards of 35 or 40 mph. I started to resist pedaling to slow down, Margo started to wobble. We had never done anything like this before. I could see and hear my friend using the brakes on her bike. As I started into the corner, still wobbling and going too fast, "Come on Margo, we'll just take it wide because I don't want to strike your pedals and launch us both into the air. We'll stop after this and regroup before we hit another corner, okay?" I leaned into the corner, pedals and legs still spinning too fast. We missed the apex, swinging a bit wide, but we made it around. At this point, we were on the knife edge of the border between the right side of the asphalt and the bumpy, dirty, grassy shoulder of the road. I had a choice, and to this day I regret the split-second choice I made in that instant. In that crystal clear frozen moment in time it was like I was on a tightrope and I could either keep my balance or take a rest and step off for just a second. I chose the latter. I chose to veer off ever so slightly onto the shoulder to finish the wide sweeping turn we made. Margo followed my lead, faithful and trusting as she was. I had never led her wrong before. Well maybe once, but there was nothing I could have done then. We went off onto the shoulder and her front wheel hit a bump or pothole or something the incredible forces in action wrenched her handlebars ninety degrees to the right of where they should have been and I completely lost control. I grunted, bracing for the crash I knew was inevitable. I closed my eyes as I pitched off of Margo to my right and it was over. Impact. Something kicked in right at that second. I knew where my body was headed. I knew what kind of surface I was landing on. I knew how my body would react to different types of landings. I knew what could happen if I messed this up too. My right shoulder took the brunt of the impact and I made a wheel shape with my arms and my back and rolled as much as I could. I landed, rolled once and stopped.

I opened my eyes. I was lying in the ditch. My right shoe had come off and was lying uphill about 10 feet away. I felt alright. Nothing was broken. Nothing even hurt yet. I got up and retrieved my shoe and then went to check on Margo. She looked okay from a distance, and then the stark, horrible reality washed over me as I saw her front wheel...

Oh...

God.

What have I done?

There she was, lying on the shoulder, stem and handlebars wrenched from their normal position and front wheel bent and mangled into the shape of a potato chip. Margo, my faithful friend and companion through all those months, through all those rides, through all the ridicule from friends and mistakes made by me. She had always been there, never asking anything of me and always willing to take me wherever I wanted to go. And now as she lay there in a pile of wreckage, I knew it was over. I knew she was too broken to go on. I had asked too much of her and she had answered in the best way she could. I had failed her and I knew it. And the worst part about it was that I had come out of the wreck essentially unscathed. My shoulder hurt for a week or two afterwards, but other than that and some scratches, I was completely fine.

I wasn't really thinking as I picked her up and put her on my shoulder. There was no emotion as I lifted the wreckage off the ground and started walking down the hill. My friend realized that I was not behind her and had turned back to see what had happened. She came back and called a friend to come pick us up. I tried halfheartedly to fix Margo's front wheel while we waited, but it was no use. The damage was done. She was unrideable. As we loaded our bikes into the car and drove back home, I was still processing what had happened. When we arrived at the garage, I took Margo out and leaned her against the wall like I always had when we came back from wherever we were. But this time I knew I wouldn't be coming to get her again any time soon. I didn't really know what to do after that. I had to ride my scooter to school, which was fine, but it wasn't Margo. I would see her in the garage, leaning broken against the wall and would think, "I don't have the time or money to fix that wheel right now," and go on with my life. I had abandoned her and my responsibility to her. For months.

Then Christmas break rolled around, and I had decided to make things right. I would get Margo a new wheelset and fix her up so we could ride together again. I owed her at least that much. I put her in the car as I drove home (minus the front wheel) and did some shopping when I got home and found the perfect set of wheels for her. Beautiful white deep-V's with skinny white tires. I bought them and put them on, working through all the kinks and fixing the handlebars and making sure everything was in good working order. It was like old times again. Then I took her out for a nice evening ride. We rode all around through Milwaukie under the streetlights and trees. I was more careful this time. I slowed way down, took the corners with perfect control, and made sure we could handle going downhill as well as uphill. We even went fast, but not too fast. I did not want a repeat of our last ride. It was beautiful. Margo was beautiful. She still had the scars from her crash: a slightly tweaked fork, a little hesitation in the chainline, a little bit jittery at times. I loved her despite the faults that I had caused her. And these things reminded me what we had been through, reminded me what I had done, reminded me what I was never to do again, reminded me never to ask of her more than she could offer, reminded me to lead the right way.

It's really a beautiful story.