George Edward Woodberry
When I raced in my first triathlon in July 1994,
the only thing that really worried me was getting a flat tire. At the time, the
idea of having to sit at the side of the road trying to replace a blown
inner tube while everyone else was zooming past was somehow a Titanic-like prospect
to me. I was doing the triathlon on a borrowed road bike and I had also
borrowed a pump, which I clumsily duct-taped to the top tube; during my ride it shifted position and poked into my stomach each time I tried to bend over into
the drops.
It was one of those old-fashioned pumps, the
kind I used to have attached to my bike as a kid: a long silver tube with a
little hose that was stuffed into a hole in the handle and which you screwed onto the
valve to use. Of course in the race, the Presta valve on my road bike tires
would not have fit the Schrader valve on the little hose, so I had also borrowed
a brass adapter to make it all compatible. I was ready. As it happened,
somewhere along the bike ride, the little hose slid out of its hole in the
pump, fell to earth and, like Dorothy’s ruby slippers, was lost forever. But I
didn’t know that at the time so I finished my maiden 40k bike feeling safe,
protected, and chastely unpunctured.
My fear of flat tires that first day nearly twenty
years ago must have been born of prescience, as I have had more of them than any cyclist I know. I am actually one of those people you see during a
race at the side of the road - bike upside down with one wheel lying on the
ground and a discarded inner tube curled around his feet - and are glad you are
not him.
Most recently, the rear tire on my commuting bike
experienced a series of slow leaks. Each morning I would come out to find the
tire flat, with no apparent cause. I could find nothing whatsoever wrong with
the tire or the rim, and stupidly I kept replacing tubes at the rate of about one a week. For a while, I actually suspected that a neighbour was sneaking
into my garage each night and letting the air out. Yes, I did eventually go
out and buy a new tire, and yes it’s fixed. The functionality of my commuting bike
has recently become less relevant, as I will describe below.
At the Race Across the West in 2010 we were puzzled
about repeated flats in the desert until we noticed that there was a large
spike-like thorn from a cactus embedded in what had been advertised as an unbreachable tire. Luckily I had my crew to
change the tires for me; if I had had to do it myself at that point in the race
I probably would have just lain down and let the vultures have me. |
| My T1 prayer: just this once...please, no flats |
At Ironman Canada in 2011, I had two flats: one while
climbing Richter Pass and the other just before the out and back section at 100k. I was
lucky enough to have the second one right next to the terrific support van from
The Bike Barn. The observant tech volunteer noticed that my rim tape had
shifted, exposing my tube to the holes in the rim, which explained
the recurring blowouts. A new piece of tape, a replaced inner tube and I was on
my way. Like Chrissie Wellington blowing away her one CO2 cartridge without
getting any into the tire while leading the race in Kona, two flats in one Ironman
comes under my personal definition of Worst Case Race Scenario. Having
undergone it once, I like to think that if the Universe is inflating as it should,
I should be exempt in the future.
One good thing about every flat tire I have ever
had is that somehow I have gotten each one fixed and then carried on. I have learned to
say "OK, it’s happened; now what do we do?" Those who have never flatted have
not had this opportunity; they are still waiting and worrying about what they
will do when it eventually does happen. I have learned what life is like on the far
side of a flat and I feel somehow richer for the experience. And I’ve learned that
the only wrong thing you can do is to do nothing.
A flat tire during a bike ride is an event
that requires that you stop, assess the situation, consider the options, and choose
your next steps: you can sit at the roadside communing with the mosquitos and looking forlorn until someone comes
along to help; you can call your wife to come and pick you up; or you can fix
the problem and get on your way. A world of choices appears that wasn’t there
before.
A few weeks ago I was presented with another such challenge
when the financial industry job I had held for many years was erased from existence
by the company I worked for and I was suddenly unemployed. Not their fault any more than a flat tire is the
fault of the bike, but the feeling was somewhat the same: OK, it’s happened;
now what do we do? I have found myself presented with myriad choices
that weren’t there before. And like standing beside my disabled bicycle in the blazing
August sun halfway up Richter Pass, doing nothing is the only unacceptable option.
Many choices. All the better for getting on my way again.
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