Yank my Crank

The BBQ Pit
1

So, it’s Wed morning and since I don’t need to be at work until that afternoon I decide I’ll bike over to the pottery studio for registration at 9:00 AM. When registration starts there is a flurry of activity, with people calling and sending emails, the best way to ensure you get the class you want is to show up in person at 9:00.

So, on the bike, head out into Cambridge then cut over to Davis Sq. On the way I notice my crank is making a funny squeek. I’ll figure it out when I get there, but it’s 8:45 and I should hurry up. I take a silly wrong turn onto a oneway street, but no problem, take a left, there we go. On track now.

But wait, what’s this?! My left peddle crank is now wobbling. This is not right, this isn’t even left, this is bad. I stop to examine the problem, yes, the crank is wobbling. Hitting it with my shoe and the palm of my hand doesn’t help the problem. I push it back as tight as I can and hop back on the bike. Now I’m getting hot and sweaty, and it’s nearly 8:50.

On Broadway I make it over the train tracks and start heading up the hill when the thrice-cursed crank falls off into traffic. This doesn’t bode well. It continues to bode poorly for several minutes as I retrieve said Recalcitrant Crank and Zippy the Wonder Bolt and make a half-assed effort to reattatch it. A skant 50’ up the road it falls off again, making the statement to me and all the observant motorists on Broadway that my morning is officially begining to suck. It is now 8:55.

I gather the offending hunks of now useless metal and stash them in the handlebar bag and off I go, pushing my below the bottom bracket amputee up Broadway with one hand, avoiding the bemused pedestrians and dog walkers, trying to dial the number for the studio on my cell phone with the other hand. Busy signal, as expected. It’s now 9:00, I’m officially late.

At the top of the hill I hop on the bike and head off, not stopping to consider that I’ve got no place to put my left foot, which is now acting all confused and aggitated, trying to signal a left hand (foot?) turn or kick passing cars in the fender. I manoever through the various stop lights, breaking only a few of the lesser traffic laws and only losing some of my precious momentum. I get to the intersection with the McGrath Highway and pause with the light, trying not to look too foolish but not really caring at this point. I can see the studio, the light changes, I’m off.

A short run, crossing the road in a practically legal manner, avoiding the crowd in front of the Taco Bell (it’s early in the morning, what are they eating?) and arrive at the front door, stashing the bike and staggering to the back of the 5 person line, dripping with sweat, out of breath, and looking like a bit of a goober. It’s 9:06.

No problem, I get the class I wanted (Wayne’s World) and they let us down to the studio a little early, they usually open up at 10:00. Cary lends me a pair of needle nose pliers which allows me to re-attach the crank (cursed be its name) but I know that won’t last too long. Instead I go throw some pots, trim some stuff that is probably only a little too soft, nearly killing one in the process and at around 12:00 head home.

There’s a bike shop in Ball Sq so that’s the way I head home. The jury-rigged fix works OK on the flats, but as I head back up Winter Hill the wobbles return. I walk up the rest of the way, then do the fun coast down, avoiding a homicidal taxi who apparently needed to change lanes at that particular spot for no obvious reason. Finally I make it to the Ball Sq rotary and amazingly there is no one there as I coast around. Finally, I’m there and can get a crank wrench to end my ordeal.

But noooooooO! Guess which day the store is closed? The only day in a week of otherwise fine 24-hour periods, they pick Wed to be closed!? The gods are against me, damn them! After a few choice swears in the few languages I know well enough to swear in I hand tighten the bolt (which I’ve now decided is the Devil in machine metal form) and head off, wobbling and swearing, a deranged Weeble with Tourette’s. Up one more hill, walking, then a final coast and I’m back on my home street.

I get home, shove the bike against its bookshelf home, change out of my now sweaty clothes and boot up the computer. My first message is one telling me that I didn’t get the job where I was one of two finalists. Grrr, arg. Shazbot.

2

Shit…I would suggest going to Johnny D’s, hoisting a few, listening to some blues, and…

3

I was too frustrated at the time. Maybe some Redbones and a beer would have worked.

Instead I’m driving to Foxboro tonight to see Springsteen (in the rain) with a friend. They released some tickets yesterday morning and she got us two tickets just to the side of the stage. Things are looking up.

Now if the car doesn’t break down on the way to the stadium…

4

I was expecting another Crank Yankers thread.

5

Hey, I know the place. Was that you? Boy did you look foolish!

Good luck with your job search!!!

6

:confused:

7

Wayne is the instructor, his class is often referred to as Wayne’s World.

And Springsteen was great, no rain and amazing tickets that were released just 48 hours before the show.

8

I see. Thank you!

9

OK, I was willing to let this rest. I was mad at the bike, but hey, shit happens. I had to walk part of the way home, gingerly peddling when applicable and coasting when possible, but I made it under my own power. Machines were unable to defeat me, we were at a uneasy truce.

But today, the fuckers decided to up the ante. I’m up north for the weekend, driving to the trailhead for a hike with a group of friends, when I hear a strange metalic sound coming from underneath the car. It’s the last pitch before the parking lot, and I can somehow get it into first gear but can’t manage to get it in second. I quickly pull in and take stock of the situation.

Number of gears the car was manufactured with: 5 plus reverse
Number of gears I can get the car into: 0

Calmly, I take a few cleansing breaths then try forcing the stick into reverse. Nothing. I try first again. Nothing. None of the other gears seem to want to come out and play. “Come out, come out!” I cry, my voice firm yet bordering on hysteria. The transmission responds with an equally resolute silence.

Again, I take stock. On the negative side: I am several miles from a paved road, my cell phone is not registering any reception, I’m roughly 100 miles from home, it’s Sunday and my garage isn’t open.

On the positive side: I am surrounded by a group of caring friends who are about the head up the mountain and wish me well, the annual PHC Joke show is on VPR, I have AAA Plus.

Eventually I get through to AAA and they inform me it’ll only be 40 minutes until a tow truck arrives, but they call back in 5 minutes saying they can’t find a truck willing to drive to Boston, it’ll be an hour and a half. So I sit in the car, watching happy hikers come down the mountain, climb in their fully functional SUVs and speed off, carefree and happy, like so many turkeys in early November.

My group arrives back down about the same time the tow truck arrives, asking why I didn’t just run up the mountain instead of waiting down here? Grrrrrrrrrrrrgh. But things are looking up, the driver finds reverse but not easily, and we get the Saturn up on the rig. He’s a nice guy and we head off, arriving at my garage (which are somehow open?!) after nearly 3 hours a driving in the rain and backed up traffic. There my car sits, alone and lamented, perhaps never to re-earn my trust.

So, there seems to be a problem with “linkage” in my life. The crank connects my feet to the drivetrain of my bike, the tranny linkage connects my hands to the drivetrain of my car. Clearly, my karma (car-ma?) is out of whack, sending me spiraling down in a technological miasma, pulling me down into the bowels of mechanical catastophy, screwing me any chance it gets.

Get out of here, Finchley!