Click-clack no more
The bike is getting bad. I feel like it’s going to blow up on me when I’m far, far from home. I’ve had the privilege of ripping a chain in half before, twice, and unless you have a complete tool set with you, there’s a very good chance you have a long walk ahead of you in your socks. You can’t walk in your cycling shoes because you slip on the bottoms.
It is not cool to be on a $3 million shoot and call people and say, “Oh yeah, I’m gonna be late. My bike just blew up and I’m pushing it up the hills and coasting down ‘em. I’ll be back in two days.” The thing about a commercial production is it’s a little bit like sitting in a taxi cab. The meter is always running, but it’s going at a rate of about $3000/hour. You keep people waiting for a minute, the bill comes to $50. Ten minutes is $500. It adds up.
Desperate, I try to figure out how to get my bike to a local shop. Do some research. Helen’s of Santa Monica has been around since 1936. It’s awesome. Wilbur there says he can set me up. The next day, we’re still working so I can’t pick up the bike myself. The production company says they’ll go get it for me. I call in the charge card, the nice production manager from the production company goes to get it.
If you work for a production company and they say to you, “Gee, the client would like you to go stand on the corner, can you do it?” The answer is, “Yes, no problem.”
The bike comes back from Helen’s better than the day I bought it. New brake cable. New cassette. New chain. New chain ring. It runs like a dream. All the wiggy clicking and clacking is gone. Best of all, if I don’t get smooshed on the PCH, I’ll get back in time for work so the evil production machine doesn’t have to hesitate for me and hand me a bill.
Much of bicycle riding is karma. There are some riders who emanate positive energy. You want to stick with those people. Guys like Bryan Sweeney from work. I only rode with him once, but I just wanted to laugh the whole time, and when I was with him, the miles went by quickly, and the whole trip was a pleasure. Other guys are sketchy.
They throw off dark energy and you want no part of them. They’re always about to crash, or sucking your wheel and your spirits, not doing their share of the work. You’d never know it, but it’s a lot easier to ride behind another rider than to ride alone. The professionals estimate you burn 33% less energy by riding behind another rider. So it’s good to be able to share the hard work of cutting a hole in the wind ahead of you.
On the weekend in Santa Monica I’m out for my four-hour ride when I hear the whir of a group of riders going by on my left. It’s a train of riders, maybe eight, and their leader is down on the aero bars dropping the hammer, pushing the pace. I leap onto the back of the group, and start riding. Morale soars. We pull over to have a pit stop. A few of the ladies visit the porta-john and we’re back on the road. The leader starts winding it up and I’m on his wheel.
Gary is cranking it out at 25 miles per hour plus. He has a drop dead sexy disc wheel that whirs when he gets out of the saddle. He’s dressed in all black and he’s got the Darth Vadar vibe going. He keeps turning around to see if his people are still with him. I reckon he has to be their shepherd. And these fine folks must be his flock. People who are out to kill don’t turn around, they just ride you off their wheel and keep going.
Next rest stop, I introduce myself to the group. Amazingly enough, Gary the leader is friends with Joe Tonon who is running the Tour de France Challenge. Another rider in the group, John, is friends with Kevin Mahaney, the guy who rode the Tour last year. Small world.
I settle in with the group and have a nice ride. 16 miles from the finish, we stop again. This stopping stuff is starting to get to me, as I’m usually just a ride until you can’t ride no more kind of guy. Gary explains that the last 16 miles we have to take it easy.
Up a big climb, the group starts to splinter and I just go. You can’t climb at someone else’s pace, it takes you apart. The rest of the group becomes a small spec over my shoulder and I’m feeling pretty good about myself until this giant 25-year-old dude from another planet rides up next to me. I match him stroke for stroke up the climb, then he drops it into a gear I don’t have and disappears over the horizon. Ah, youth.
Finishing the four and a half hour ride, I return to the hotel to take the bike apart and put it back into its box. This is a hassle, but it’s necessary. I won’t be taking the bike to Alaska with us, as the plane, a Gulfstream G-2E is small and I figure it won’t be very popular.
It is not cool to be on a $3 million shoot and call people and say, “Oh yeah, I’m gonna be late. My bike just blew up and I’m pushing it up the hills and coasting down ‘em. I’ll be back in two days.” The thing about a commercial production is it’s a little bit like sitting in a taxi cab. The meter is always running, but it’s going at a rate of about $3000/hour. You keep people waiting for a minute, the bill comes to $50. Ten minutes is $500. It adds up.
Desperate, I try to figure out how to get my bike to a local shop. Do some research. Helen’s of Santa Monica has been around since 1936. It’s awesome. Wilbur there says he can set me up. The next day, we’re still working so I can’t pick up the bike myself. The production company says they’ll go get it for me. I call in the charge card, the nice production manager from the production company goes to get it.
If you work for a production company and they say to you, “Gee, the client would like you to go stand on the corner, can you do it?” The answer is, “Yes, no problem.”
The bike comes back from Helen’s better than the day I bought it. New brake cable. New cassette. New chain. New chain ring. It runs like a dream. All the wiggy clicking and clacking is gone. Best of all, if I don’t get smooshed on the PCH, I’ll get back in time for work so the evil production machine doesn’t have to hesitate for me and hand me a bill.
Much of bicycle riding is karma. There are some riders who emanate positive energy. You want to stick with those people. Guys like Bryan Sweeney from work. I only rode with him once, but I just wanted to laugh the whole time, and when I was with him, the miles went by quickly, and the whole trip was a pleasure. Other guys are sketchy.
They throw off dark energy and you want no part of them. They’re always about to crash, or sucking your wheel and your spirits, not doing their share of the work. You’d never know it, but it’s a lot easier to ride behind another rider than to ride alone. The professionals estimate you burn 33% less energy by riding behind another rider. So it’s good to be able to share the hard work of cutting a hole in the wind ahead of you.
On the weekend in Santa Monica I’m out for my four-hour ride when I hear the whir of a group of riders going by on my left. It’s a train of riders, maybe eight, and their leader is down on the aero bars dropping the hammer, pushing the pace. I leap onto the back of the group, and start riding. Morale soars. We pull over to have a pit stop. A few of the ladies visit the porta-john and we’re back on the road. The leader starts winding it up and I’m on his wheel.
Gary is cranking it out at 25 miles per hour plus. He has a drop dead sexy disc wheel that whirs when he gets out of the saddle. He’s dressed in all black and he’s got the Darth Vadar vibe going. He keeps turning around to see if his people are still with him. I reckon he has to be their shepherd. And these fine folks must be his flock. People who are out to kill don’t turn around, they just ride you off their wheel and keep going.
Next rest stop, I introduce myself to the group. Amazingly enough, Gary the leader is friends with Joe Tonon who is running the Tour de France Challenge. Another rider in the group, John, is friends with Kevin Mahaney, the guy who rode the Tour last year. Small world.
I settle in with the group and have a nice ride. 16 miles from the finish, we stop again. This stopping stuff is starting to get to me, as I’m usually just a ride until you can’t ride no more kind of guy. Gary explains that the last 16 miles we have to take it easy.
Up a big climb, the group starts to splinter and I just go. You can’t climb at someone else’s pace, it takes you apart. The rest of the group becomes a small spec over my shoulder and I’m feeling pretty good about myself until this giant 25-year-old dude from another planet rides up next to me. I match him stroke for stroke up the climb, then he drops it into a gear I don’t have and disappears over the horizon. Ah, youth.
Finishing the four and a half hour ride, I return to the hotel to take the bike apart and put it back into its box. This is a hassle, but it’s necessary. I won’t be taking the bike to Alaska with us, as the plane, a Gulfstream G-2E is small and I figure it won’t be very popular.
posted by joe berkeley at 7:11 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home