Removing a stuck seatpost

Warning: what follows is of no interest to anyone who isn’t a bike nerd!

A seatpost is not something you normally think of as needing maintenance, any more than you would consider ‘maintaining’ the seat tube it fits in, except of course for the occasional clean. And if only one person ever uses the bike there is no obvious reason to fiddle with it.

However, and this is especially the case where the seatpost is made of steel and the frame of aluminium, leaving its seatpost untouched for years can render a bike worthless to anyone else who doesn’t have the same inside-leg measurement as the previous rider.

The seatpost is in pretty close contact with the tube. What happens is that moisture invariably gets between them; oxidation takes place, and post and tube become bonded. In severe cases, there is no way, short of superhuman ingenuity and perseverance, of getting the post out.

A specimen horror story starts at the 14’16” mark.

The problem has been solved – except for terminal cases – by the ever-ingenious Phil Vandelay:

Unless you have access to Herr Vandelay’s wonderful machine, bike mechanics suggest periodic (say every 2-3 years) removal of the seatpost and lubricating it with a decent grease. This will save you a lot of trouble if ever you want to share your bike or sell it.

Destructive removal of a single-speed freewheel

The freewheel on my single-speed bike needed replacing. It closely resembles this one:

The two dimples are supposed to give a purchase-point for removing the outer casing, which has a reverse thread – it is screwed on very firmly indeed by the action of the chain when pedalling. Special tools are available for this but for the average DIY bike mechanic represent overkill, since this is a procedure one is only likely to need every few years, if that.

Various videos on YouTube show a punch being inserted into one of the dimples and then hammered. The dimples on my freewheel were too shallow for this: the punch kept slipping out. I was on the point of taking the whole wheel to a bike shop when I remembered that I own an angle grinder with a metal-cutting disc.

I removed the axle (which needed doing anyway, as I intended to service the hub) and, wearing an old jacket I don’t care about, laid the wheel on my workbench and braced it against the wall with my body, in such a position that the dimples were horizontally aligned. The brace is easier if you leave the (inflated) tyre on. Next, with the disc perpendicular to the wall, I cut a radial groove in the casing, just wide and deep enough to take the blade of an old and sturdy screwdriver. This groove served exactly the same purpose as the dimples in the videos: some energetic whacks with a 16 ounce hammer turned the casing clockwise until it could be unscrewed by hand.

Then I removed the cog and whatnot, leaving just the body of the freewheel still attached. This unscrews anti-clockwise in the usual fashion. I used my bench vice to grip it and tried turning the wheel, but the vice does not have serrated jaws as it is designed for woodworking and the freewheel body slipped. Instead I used a pipe wrench: this also needed quite a bit of force, but soon enough the freewheel body came loose and could be unscrewed the rest of the way by hand.

I am putting this out there because nowhere else have I seen the use of an angle grinder recommended. Of course, this will be no good if you just want to clean and lubricate your freewheel, but they are cheap enough to buy if you find non-destructive removal impossible.

Simplicity

I have been a cyclist since the age of four (and before that a tricyclist) and several of the machines I have ridden were equipped with internally geared hubs. Some others had derailleurs, while a number had no gears at all, but a simple freewheel.

Of the internally geared hubs, the Sturmey-Archer three-speed proved the most reliable. A Sturmey-Archer four-speed failed on me, likewise a Shimano 8-speed installed on a Kalkhoff Agattu electric bike, of which more anon.

The very principle of a derailleur is a bodge, since the mechanism forces the chain from sprocket to sprocket. Best efficiency in the drivetrain is achieved when the chain-wheel (the big cog connected to the pedals) is perfectly aligned with the rear sprocket. This is seldom achievable with a derailleur. Sideways distortion also increases the wear on chain and sprockets alike. What’s more, derailleurs can be fiddly and tedious to adjust.

Of course, gears are useful and in hilly districts may be necessary. Luckily I no longer live in a hilly district.

This time last year I owned three bicycles: a Giant CRS hybrid with a 24-speed derailleur gearset, the Kalkhoff, and a Norco Heart (pictured), which has a flip-flop rear hub – on one side is a freewheel and on the other a fixed sprocket, so that depending which way round the wheel is fitted you can be riding a fixed-wheel bike (‘fixie’) or a regular single-speed.

The Giant had an aluminium frame and hence an aluminium derailleur-hanger, the thing from which, as the name suggests, a rear derailleur hangs. Coming up one of the few gradients hereabouts, the gears began to make an unwonted clicking. ‘Oh great,’ I thought, ‘more maintenance when I get home.’

A few yards on, the hanger broke off. The springs in the derailleur caused the whole assembly to collide with the spokes of the rear wheel, which instantly buckled and fouled the aluminium rear-carrier and the mudguard stay, both of which buckled too and got dragged into the melange of metal. The right-hand chainstay had also been knackered, I observed, meaning the frame itself. In half a second my pricey hybrid had lost perhaps 90% of its value. Or even 100%, since I really had no need of whatever components could be salvaged from it.

As for the Kalkhoff, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I bought it on the strength of glowing reviews and to begin with was quite pleased with it, despite the inordinate weight. The motor made up for that, and conveyed me, with pedal assistance, at a stately 15 mph wherever I wished to go. Soon, however, a fault developed with the Shimano hub such that I lost the use of 7th gear. Then the other gears started slipping. Then something obnoxious started happening in the impenetrable depths of the motorised drive: whenever I wished abruptly to stop pedalling, the cranks kept moving forward and I had to learn to ease off rather than stop. Next, alarmingly, twelve miles from home, the drive failed to engage at all, with or without battery power. I backpedalled and changed gears, up and down, and the drive engaged again; but not long after that this fault became permanent and the Kalkhoff became another heap of scrap rather like the Giant.

Secretly I was not sorry. I have fond memories of a Raleigh roadster I bought second-hand in 1978 and fitted with a single-speed freewheel. On that simple, worry-free, steel-framed machine I covered over 14,000 miles. The Norco is its replacement.

I love this bike. It is light, as steel bicycles go, and with its 75-inch ratio is rideable up all but the steepest local gradients; I don’t mind sometimes having to stand to pedal. I use the freewheel because a fixie is hard on the knees, and besides I like to coast downhill. The machine is all black, so that when I hide it somewhere among vegetation and go off for a country walk it is there to greet me on my return. It cost an eighth of the price of the Kalkhoff and has no battery, so is recharged automatically by my breakfast. In the time I have been using this bike exclusively, I have grown fitter and find little difference now in effort between the Norco and the Kalkhoff. Best of all, there is almost nothing to go wrong, and I have the tools and knowledge to service absolutely everything on it myself.

The moral of this odd little tale, which you do not need me to belabour, is that what is simple is often good, and when we become ambitious we sometimes let ourselves in for far more trouble and expense than our ambition is worth.

A bridge in Amsterdam

  

I really like this video. For one thing, it is a celebration of that most ingenious, elegant and liberating machine, the bicycle (in Amsterdam the cyclist is king). We see mainly the so-called Dutch bikes, heavy and untemperamental, variously accessorized and personalized; sometimes a mysterious clutch of identical bikes appears, ridden of course by beings who are not at all identical. The scene is hypnotic though full of interest and little surprises, full also of fleeting speculation about the lives and relationships of the people – pedestrians as well as riders – passing in and out of view.

They interact with calm and courtesy, making allowance for one another, observing only the rule that one should keep generally to the right. Everything else is improvised. Except for the roadway and the structure of the bridge, we see nothing of the state, no nannying, no hectoring. There is not one helmet. Luggage – even a Van-Goghesque chair – is carried as the rider alone thinks fit. A girl examines her phone as she coasts down the incline, one eye out for danger. No one is hurt or even inconvenienced.

When motorized vehicles – especially four-wheeled ones – appear, they seem monstrously intrusive. Though the cyclists and pedestrians have equal status, we only become aware of that when a car disturbs the flow. The bicycles themselves are equal. Their owners do not seek to impress other cyclists thereby. Not a shred of Lycra can be seen.

The film has another effect on me. I begin to understand the viewpoint of street furniture, assuming lamp-posts, bollards, litter-bins and the like are capable of vision. It might not be so bad, being a bench, provided you're sited somewhere nice.

The opinions above are coloured by the fact that I like very much the Dutch. Moreover, I am a lifelong cyclist and envy the understanding shown by drivers in the Netherlands and indeed Germany, where the cyclist is also king.

The video-maker's original blog post is here; the comments are worth reading. And by the way, if you want to see what's on the other side of the bridge, Google Maps is your friend.

Civic pride

I don't think much of politicians, but I'd probably vote for this guy. The Ig Nobel judges did!

What’s Your Excuse?

My bonedome

This is a seemingly straightforward article about the benefits of wearing a helmet when cycling. The author adduces various examples of cyclists having their heads bashed in and lectures us on the irresponsibility of going helmetless. The article is worth a few minutes of your time, but the comments are worth more. As you’ll see, nothing in this life is straightforward.

After the introduction of a helmet law in Australia, apparently, cycle use declined, as did injuries to cyclists; but the proportion of head-injuries rose. Maybe that was because a newly helmeted cyclist feels himself less vulnerable and more prepared to take risks.

A number of commentators remark on the fact that the occupants of cars should wear helmets, since they are by no means immune to head injuries. Two or three simply raise a middle finger at the author. One says, “... an overweight woman riding in an SUV leaned out her window to yell at me, ‘Wear a helmet!’ I thought about yelling back, ‘Ride a bike!’”

This last contains the nucleus of the argument. First, the woman’s eating habits have put her health at risk and placed a possible future burden on the state. Secondly, her choice of personal transportation is spewing pollutants into the atmosphere. If she swapped her SUV for a bike we might all be better off.

But why should she?

The reason that this argument, and others like it, rages is simple. Once a government provides healthcare, it has purchased, with your money, the right to lecture you on how to minimize risks to your health. By extension, other taxpayers (such as the woman in the SUV, or the author of the article) have also purchased the right to nanny you. The harangues delivered are partial, contentious and poorly researched. Smoking and drinking are obvious targets, whereas other risky behaviours, such as the the reckless replication of genetic defects, are currently ignored.

Now that smokers have been demonized, the next target will probably be fatties, even though evidence is emerging that much obesity is the result of addiction mediated by self-generated drugs such as dopamine and adrenaline. After that, your guess is as good as mine.

There are some things that only governments can do, but there are many other things that governments also do and that they should not.

The typical career politician today has never had a job in the real economy; has gone straight from law-school or university into some position as policy wonk or PR stooge. Such a creature, once elected, can then be given control of the ministry governing healthcare. All a politician in office cares about is promotion; or retaining that office. The health of the citizen is necessarily a secondary concern. I speak from personal experience of a lifetime’s exposure to Britain’s National Health Service.

In Britain, where healthcare is sponsored by the state, the individual’s responsibility for himself is lessened. If we had to pay directly for healthcare we might think twice about indulging in certain behaviours.

Anyhow, I shall continue to wear my cycle helmet, not because anyone tells me to, but because I have followed the arguments pro and con, and have decided that, for me, pro wins out. But (as one of the commentators points out) a “bicycle mirror is far more beneficial than a helmet.” Amen to that! I have a mirror on each of my two bikes, and have lost count of the times they have saved my bacon.

That’s my choice. Yours may differ, and amen to that too.

Hat-tip: Longform.org

An Evening Spin

One evening last September, my bike ride was oddly transformed. I cycle for pleasure as well as exercise, normally covering about fifteen or twenty miles. The most I can do before getting knackered is about twenty-three. My ride is solitary: I use it for day-dreaming. If I ride in company that's impossible, so I don't at all mind cycling on my own.

Except for the occasional White Van Man and the execrable state of the tarmac, the lanes round here are ideal. Narrow and lined by hedgerows, farmland, copses, woods, small settlements, they are in many places quite steep, which provides a handy bit of interval-training as well as some exhilarating descents. I have worked out a series of routes which require me at worst to cross a busy road.

One of my favourites takes me to the village of A. I was four miles out when I came upon another cyclist, a man in his thirties, standing astride his machine and puzzling over a map. The scale was inadequate and showed only the largest lanes. He was looking for B, which hardly even rates the name "hamlet". I told him it was near A, which itself was not marked, said that that was my destination, and did he want me to show him the way?

Except when cars prevented it, for the next four miles we rode abreast. Cyclists belong to a sort of fraternity, helping one another out with punctures and the like: before long we were chatting away. He turned out to be an interesting guy, a professional diver hired by archaeologists working on wrecks and inundated cities. His hobby is to take his car, and his bike on a rack, to some unfamiliar part of the English countryside, then pedal around absorbing its character. He is fascinated by our complex geology and our even more complex land-use. Human influences, going back even beyond the Neolithic, blend with the natural to produce a unique sense of place which varies almost by the half-mile. A bike is the next-best way to sample it; I suppose he hasn't the time to go on foot.

We came to the turnoff for B, where he was parked, and amiably diverged, no doubt for ever.

In my whole life I had never before met a stranger in this particular way.

The sun was setting by the time I got back to the village of C, two miles from home. Preceding me I saw another cyclist. I caught up, said a passing "Good evening!" and was still overtaking when he asked whether I knew of anywhere local to eat. I slowed down and told him he was heading in the right direction, for D, and suggested that he should at all costs avoid the Red Lion and use the other pub instead.

His bicycle was a silver-grey Raleigh, vintage 1996 or so, with a Sturmey-Archer three-speed hub: the sort of boneshaker I might nip down to the shops on, but wouldn't want to ride all day. He himself was also silver-grey, a lean sixty-something in glasses, and looked like a professional type -- an architect or engineer, perhaps. At first I thought his accent was Dutch, but he said he was Danish. He was staying at the bed-and-breakfast in C. I know the owner and have seen the accommodation, and surmised that he could have done a lot worse.

He was clearly well educated and spoke perfect English. "I am very hungry," he said, "for I have cycled today from Gravesend." Seventy miles, maybe more. "I have just had a shower and now I wish for something to eat and perhaps a beer."

"Indeed. Um ... what brings you to C?"

"I am touring. It is how I like to spend my holiday. Tomorrow I am going on to Reading." Forty miles. At least. I thought of the way there -- the dual carriageways, the towns, the thundering lorries -- and wondered whether this conversation was really happening. I dared not ask him the next incongruous point on his tour: Birmingham?

He had no lights on his bike, no panniers, just a parcel-rack. He was wearing a polo shirt and slacks, loafers, no socks. I mentioned the fact that it would soon be dark; it did not concern him.

By this time we had reached the turnoff for my own village, and once again I diverged, permanently, from a newfound acquaintance on a bicycle. He went sailing on towards his supper: and I never heard any local talk of a Danish tourist being squashed.

I have no reason to suppose he was lying. I accepted the bizarre events of the evening as yet another serving of the strangeness of this world. Really, truly, one has not the faintest idea what is out there.

But, of course, to find it you have to get on your bike.