by Tim Richardson

Bikers are a most fortunate bunch. We are the beneficiaries of more than a century’s worth of research and development, crafty engineering, and manufacturing, which has culminated in a multitude of equipment flavors for our choosing.

On one extreme, we have the gutter-punk, anti-establishment kid opting for the most primitive single speed fixed gear bike usually cobbled from bike shop dumpster bits, whose ultimate goal is being able to say, “I spent less than you.”

On the other extreme, there are those laying out the plastic for cutting-edge, multi-pivot dual suspension critter fashioned from unobtanium, as well as a variety of plastics and resin.

The former revels in being the hard-ass, sure-I-like-getting-the-crap-jiggled-out-of-me while en-route to rupturing a kidney and peeing blood. The latter might feel more at home screaming down terrain that looks more suited for a super swamper Neck truck while hearing the cutting edge suspension mimic the memorable sounds of the red kick-ball being pummeled by the large quiet kid.

Whereever you fall into the continuum you will inevitably find yourself standing beside your metal and rubber Friend saying, “What’s wrong? How can I get you back into a functional form that will allow us to finish this ride smiling?”

I found myself asking that question last weekend in West-by-beautiful-Virginia. As I pedaled away from the Snowshoe parking lot on my Green Machine, I noticed the fork felt unusually soft, so I decide to put a bit more air in it. But my pump malfunctioned, and I was left listening to the ppppssssssssssttttt of the remaining air leaving my fork, rendering it totally useless.

The usual series of emotional reactions crept in: anger, resentment, denial, and finally, mean physical urges like kicking and screaming.

I asked my biking buddies for three minutes of alone time with Little Greeny. Once we were alone, I asked Greeny what I needed to do, and with speed and clarity, my trust green machine told me to just replace the one-dollar valve core and then we’d roll. Good idea, I thought. But as I opened my pack for the essentials, I remembered that I had unpacked all the contents of my Camelbak after the previous ride so that they might dry out. Of course I forgot to repack the valve core, and so my disappointed scrunched face returned. I looked to the bike for advice again. Greeny gave the Pai Mei hhmmpmhh as it stroked its mustache and turned away from me with utter disrespect.

As my three minutes drew to a close, I saw the little bottle of Dumonde chain lube in my pack. My brain scrambled to picture how valve cores work: it’s basically a simple plunger that opens and closes based on pressure, and seals itself with a tiny o-ring which is susceptible to drying out. I grabbed the oil and filled the valve core orifice to the rim, re-installed the pump and pumped to desired pressure, unscrewed with clenched teeth and...holy mother mary of satan, it worked. No air leak. I got to ride after all.

It was yet another example of a fear of complexity-when utter simplicity was staring me in the face. The battle between simple and complex can get so extreme that as they stretch into space eventually they bend back on themselves like light and become one.

Lesson learned: Listen to your equipment and don’t let ego drive your choices.

Timothy Sherman Richardson can be reached at tr@shenandoahbicycle.com.