To Bell or Not to Bell

To Bell or Not to Bell

I bought a bell, a simple brass chime, round and hi-pitched, with a small spring-rod to activate it with a flick of the finger, $12.00 from Rivendell, my resource for accessories that, along with the 650B bicycle itself, are signs of my transition from paceline to lifestyle biking. Other such accessories are my Wald basket, Nitto racks, MKS flat pedals, and, for the organic touch, twine handlebar-wrap.

Here’s my problem. On the one hand, these items make routine rides more practical and pleasurable. On the other hand, they don’t mesh with the conventions of modern carbon road bikes that, not counting the rare social event, dominate group rides around here. In not one of hundreds of rides these past five years have I seen a bell on a bike. Or a rack, fender, basket.

First for me came a Sackville trunk-bag, good for a cell phone, Powerbar, wallet, spare tire, mini-tool—stuff like that. Often this bag wasn’t big enough for my cargo. I couldn’t fit hardcover books, a watermelon, an electric drill, extra shoes. So I ordered a basket.

Retro? To some. I’d rather say baskets, truly timeless components, have been “forgotten about” by cyclists and/or “phased out” by the likes of Specialized and Trek, who’ve created a vast quasi-racer consumer-base. Profit made on selling logo-fetish and speed, not function, is the point. Such riding is exhilarating, no question about it: I’ve done my share. But most of my work-week I pedal to commute, pay bills, and haul groceries, not to knock out 150 miles training for the weekend peloton.

Thus the basket—easy on, easy off. Sometimes I’ll go weeks without it. But when I need it, yes!

The other day, for instance, I had to take some files from office to home and then back, with a stop at the campus library for some books on hold. So I removed the trunk-bag from the Nitto and zip-tied the basket in place. I loaded up and rolled off, did what I had to do without spewing Co2 into the October air, and rewarded myself with a ten-mile bonus detour.

The bell is handy too. I ding it to warn pedestrians of my approach or to say hi as I glide by. Often I ding it for myself, such a delightful sound it has—like a call to begin zazen—a cosmic note, the Buddha winking.

Unfortunately, these add-ons have subtracted from my group experience. It’s not just because my choices—lugged bike, 36-spoke wheels, street gear, and accessories—have slowed me down. I’ve always been slow enough, thank you, and, heck, I can name thirty local racers and non-racers who would pedal nearly, if not just, as fast on my Rivendell as on their Ridley or Kestrel.

So while in some ways the issue isn’t the bike, not exactly, in others it most certainly is. Add-ons do make it heavier, do affect its aerodynamics. And where top riders would mash right through any disadvantage, the average rider like me struggles to keep up because he has less strength in the first place. And isn’t it obvious that when sporting a bell, flat pedals, wide tires, and a basket, a bicycle doesn’t belong in the carbon pack? Since my bicycle doesn’t, then I don’t, and that bothers me because I love cycling long distances at a smart pace with friends, concluding the forty-five mile effort at Starbucks, where, sipping our beverages, we savor our post-ride recovery.

Insofar as I bike more than drive or walk, the question “To bell or not to bell,” albeit not a matter of life and death for me as it was for the Danish prince, is an existential one. My bike affects the quality of existence, which I define as the lived awareness that underlines the formation of identity. My bell is part of my bike, which is part of me. Simple things matter the most because in them we distill our deepest desires and needs. But fulfillment is empty without companionship. This cyclist’s soliloquy on this crux is still to be written.

Roadysseus

10.25.14