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Grease Gremlin "More than any other time in history,
mankind faces a crossroads. One path leads to despair and utter
hopelessness. The other, to total extinction. Let us pray we
have the wisdom to choose correctly." Seven-thirty am and we were on the road. In a short distance, our wonderful wide shoulder disintegrated to a measly foot-and-a-half strip, littered with broken glass, potholes, and sharp rocks. Weaving a crooked path between the obstacles, Sharon's rear tire flatted ... twice ... air hissing from the puncture. But, each time, the self-healing tube spurted into action and cauterized the wound. She didn't even have to stop. "I must be living right!" I boasted to Sharon about not having one flat on our entire tire-eating morning. In Au Gres, the tire gods got their revenge. My rear tire blew with such a vengeance the explosion could be heard a block away. A three-inch section ripped away from the tire's wire bead. My poor defenseless tube was shredded to bits. (Lesson: Don't be too flippant with the tire gods.) "This one's going straight into the Dumpster," I announced, surveying the tube's mangled remains. What caused the blowout? I wondered. I checked the alignment of my brakes. I know you're not going to believe this, but they appeared perfectly fine, hitting the rim squarely. What was going on? In all our miles of touring, never before had I experienced such baffling tire troubles. Tire beyond repair, I had the challenge - in a settlement of 800 - of finding a new one. I left Sharon lounging on a patch of grass beside our bikes and struck out on my quest (taking only an apple and a piece of cheese with me). I entered a sporting goods store. No luck. Two variety stores produced the same lack of results. Will I have to bribe someone in the trailer park for their ten-speed's old tire? Dejected, but not totally without hope, I headed into a hardware store - and struck black gold! They had not one, but two tires in the size I was looking for. Attempting to appease the tire gods, I snapped up both, plus two new tubes, and a patch kit for good measure. Trifle not with tire-god karma. Trotting back to where I had last seen my wife, I stopped short. Those were our bikes all right, but squatting on the grass beside them was a barely recognizable grease gremlin. Sharon, left alone to amuse herself, couldn't resist. She had cleaned my ultra-mucky chain and extra-gucky derailleur. In the process, she had transferred the sludge and grease onto every square inch of exposed flesh ... from her forehead on down. "Oh, baby," I winced. "How the heck did you get it in your knee pits?" "Mosquitoes," she answered. While Sharon cleaned up, I created what I thought would make the ultimate flat-proof tire. I cut the bead off my old tire, and inserted the beadless marvel - along with my Mr Tuffy tire liner - inside my new tire. "Jeez," Sharon said, observing my handiwork. "I don't think that's a good idea." She wrinkled her nose. She figured there wouldn't be any room for air. "If you can get your tire onto your rim, that is." Hmmm. She was right. I couldn't get the darn tire on the rim. "Maybe if I had a smaller tube and a larger tire?" I hypothesized. Sharon shook her head. "Maybe a smaller head and a larger brain," she kidded. I abandoned my grand experiment, and we headed off in search of lunch. At Holland's IGA grocery store, along with peaches and bananas, we bought yogourt ice cream cones. "It's almost warm enough to enjoy them," Sharon said. Standing outside the exit, licking our treats, Mr Holland, the store's owner, strolled over. Soon, he was treating us to Slurpees and samples of a new Chiller drink they had just received that morning. We judged it two thumbs up. He liked us. Leading onward to the deli, he loaded us up with free pieces of spicy fried chicken. Au Gres was turning out to be not such a bad place after all. Struck by the spontaneous generosity of some folks, we pedalled out of Holland's IGA parking lot. "You're not going to believe this!" Sharon yelled. "I've got a flat!" I changed the tube for Sharon, and when I
did so, I noticed something interesting. Sharon's tire was a
size larger than mine. Sharon shook her head no. I nodded my
head yes, and, grinning, stuffed my beadless wonder inside her
tire. (It's similar to knowing the correct way to test a spark
plug. The wrong way, of course, is to hang onto the plug while
you crank the engine over. The right way: while you crank the
engine a friend holds the plug.) |
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