Heltor Chasca
Out-riding the Black Dog
I went out on a 66km club ride this morning on my Audax bike. My beloved Ti Spa Cycles Elan. Being a short, punchy ride I didn’t pack my usual Carradice saddle bag and the kitchen sink. Just a tool pouch under the saddle and a tiny pump that clips into a bracket on one of the bottle cages.
Not long into the ride a peculiar rattle started to develop around the head set. Cable? No? Crack in the handlebars? Nope? Mudguard? Nope. Tri bar pads? Nope.
WHAT? For god’s sake? I stopped, fettled, nothing. I left the tea stop banter early to fettle. Nothing. IRRITATING BASKET. Reveal yourself. For the next two hours it rattled and it rattled. I was almost certain that I was going to find out sooner or later when my bike disintegrated in a tangled heap. Me somewhere at the bottom. I was waiting for a lift to A&E. It was just time. Doom was upon me.
Not long into the ride a peculiar rattle started to develop around the head set. Cable? No? Crack in the handlebars? Nope? Mudguard? Nope. Tri bar pads? Nope.
WHAT? For god’s sake? I stopped, fettled, nothing. I left the tea stop banter early to fettle. Nothing. IRRITATING BASKET. Reveal yourself. For the next two hours it rattled and it rattled. I was almost certain that I was going to find out sooner or later when my bike disintegrated in a tangled heap. Me somewhere at the bottom. I was waiting for a lift to A&E. It was just time. Doom was upon me.
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