Written by admin on July 2, 2019

De caerse y levantarse otra vez

Colombia

Today was going to be a milestone! My first dirt route, across the rugged mountains of the zona cafetera, from Jericó to Jardín. Finally, the roads I designed this bicycle for; the peacefulness and challenge of leaving the emissions of the highways behind for the crisp air of the lesser traveled dirt roads in the countryside.

And with the first dirt came the first bumps. And with the first bumps, my chain fell off, repeatedly.

I had noticed some unusual slack in the chain a couple days earlier, and retrieved the tool I use to check its wear, but a pin on the tool had snapped from being packed too tight. No matter, I thought, I’ve only put 1000 miles on this bike – the chain couldn’t be shot already.

It was shot. Pedalling uphill lent the chain enough tension to stay fixed, but as soon as the trail pitched downhill and I stopped pedalling, I heard the clink of the links parting ways with the teeth of the cog. I couldn’t hop off to reposition it every single time, so I developed a method of hanging the chain from my pedal so that it didn’t drag on the ground while I coasted downhill. But as soon as I got to a rise, I’d have to put it back on to pedal again.

I arrived in the little town of Buenos Aires, defeated and in need of an ice cream to calm my spirits. The terrain had been spectacular – lush mountain streams, little coffee fincas, trees dangling with exotic fruits – but it was tough to appreciate the scenery amidst the mechanical frustrations. To make matters worse, I had assumed that today would be a short day – only 28 miles – so I had casually milled around in Jericó all morning, not leaving until shortly after noon. But I was still looking okay on timing: all that remained was a long downhill to get to the town of Andes, and then a paved climb to Jardín, where I hoped the chain wouldn’t slip.

Until, “pppffffffffffffffttt!!” As I came around a bend in Buenos Aires I heard a sound that I thought was an errant speaker in the house I was passing, which had reggaeton bumping at a classic Colombian pitch – just the necessary volume to eliminate thoughts from the brain. But then, my bike wobbled, and I knew it wasn’t the speaker. My tire was rapidly losing air.

I jumped off and started shaking the wheel. My tubeless tires have a special sealant inside them, so that if a small puncture occurs, the sealant seeps in and solidifies to plug the breach. I shook, shook, and shook, but the sealant only sprayed out all over the ground. This must be a bad one.

I flipped the wheel around. Something sharp was protruding from the tire, as sealant continued to spurt into my face. I pinched the shard, but emerged with a bloody finger. I tried tweezers to no avail. Finally, I carefully dug my knife in to secure leverage and yanked out a three-inch-long rusty nail that had clearly been forged by hand. The last of the air and sealant in the tire graced my forehead. The reggaeton kept blaring. I had a painful flashback to the time when I called Liz to pick me up in Marin because I couldn’t fix a flat on my road bike. Liz probably isn’t going to pick me up this time, I thought.

I have a repair kit for punctures too large for the sealant to fix. But I’d never used it. I checked my phone – no service, so I couldn’t look up instructions online. Could I remember the tutelage I received four months ago from that guy at the bike shop? I’ll give it a shot, I thought, and if it doesn’t work, I can always put in a tube, but that requires a lengthy and messy process to break the glue that holds the tubeless tire to the rim. I’d really be pushing sunset if I had to do that.

The repair kit includes a needle and a tacky adhesive called a “bacon strip.” I knew I had to twist the bacon with the needle to plug the puncture. How exactly, I wasn’t sure. I fiddled around until it seemed like it was wedged in. The end of the bacon strip hung out the tire like a booger.

I pumped the tire full of air and kept my finger next to the plug to feel any leak. None! It worked! But the tire didn’t feel like it was holding the air. I listened carefully but could barely hear my thoughts over my neighbor’s music. Then I saw it. On the side of the tire, below the puncture I had repaired, the nail had gone all the way through the inside of the tire and penetrated the sidewall, from the inside out. This one should be small enough for the sealant, I thought. But as I shook the tire, I realized that I’d lost all the sealant to the first rupture.

At that moment, a horn blared over the din of the reggaeton. I looked up to see a giant, colorful box on wheels. It was a chiva bus, a typical form of rural transportation in the area, full of campesinos. The chiva seemed wider than the road itself, and my bike, my tools, and I were all in its way. I scuttered to pick up all of my belongings and climb up into the yard of the reggaeton house as curious eyes stared down at me. I supposed I could hop on the chiva if I couldn’t fix the plugs – it did look pretty fun.

After plugging the second hole using the same method as the first, I was finally able to pump the tire sufficiently. I raced through the mountains for the next couple hours, just in time to arrive in Jardín as the sun set. A bike shop, “Ciclismo de Diego,” was located conveniently across the street from my hotel. I asked Diego a question I’d been practicing the past couple hours: “¿Tiene una herramienta para medir el uso de mi cadena?” He grabbed the tool I had requested and confirmed my chain was kaput. It was late and the shop was closing, so Diego said he’d swap it out in the morning, around 10. Jardín was a pleasant enough town, so I didn’t mind taking a day off, but dismay sunk in that it would cost me a full day setback in my schedule.

As my mind wandered on my day off, I started to wonder: the last few days have been short, and I am feeling fresh…could I make up the lost day with a really big day of riding? I played around with my route maps and realized I could skip my next planned stop and ride straight to the city of Manizales, where I had already planned a two-day rest. It would be a stretch: crossing the mountain range, descending to the Cauca again, and ascending the flank of the next mountain range. 13,000 feet of vertical relief would be more climbing than I’d ever done on a bicycle in one day – not to mention, on a bicycle weighed down by 35 pounds of gear.

But why not test the limits of what’s possible? There were enough small towns and hospedajes on the way that I could bail if I didn’t make it to Manizales before sunset. And after all, tomorrow would be the summer solstice – a day when my friends in San Francisco traditionally do an epicly long ride to celebrate the longest day of the year.

And so, I found myself inching up the busy lomas of downtown Manizales as the sun disappeared the next day. My mind and body were aching, but I found a new confidence in my ability to bounce back from problems, and a belief that my only limitation is the length of daylight.

But I’m not so naive as to think that a flat tire will be the greatest challenge that I come across in the next ten months. So we shall see how this theory holds up as the journey goes on!

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