Not, not the sort inducing squeals of delight at the prospect of treating oneself to end of season kit at a serious discount, I’m referring to those inducing heavy hearts and fevered pannier/wedge pack rummaging for tyre levers, spare tubes and/or patch kit. Sources suggest we’ve had a months’ rain in a matter of days, slightly ironic given the hosepipe ban currently enforced here in the UK. A quick wander around the web brought me to the central Asian republic of Uzbekistan, it wasn’t long into a late afternoon meander before my mind adventured to faraway lands, their people, the culture, architecture all captured via compact system camera and successive memory cards. Swooping into a left-hand bend coincided with torrential cloudburst as water cascaded from the saturated fields, washing silt, shards of glass and other debris across the single moderately surfaced carriageway.
A gritty sound suggested some had begun clogging the Univega’s portly expedition rubber but before I could draw to a halt and purge its water channelling grooves, sharps ripped through the Kevlar casings and burrowed through thorn resistant tubes with a sickening hiss. Holed up in an empty field, I began rummaging in panniers for the first aid kit-spare tube, patch kit, tyre levers, pump etc. Cursing myself for leaving the Co2 inflator indoors, mercifully 550 strokes from the PDW frame fit brought us 80psi and back on the road. However jubilation proved short-lived with a further two glass torpedoes infiltrating the tyre’s armoured casing. Moral sinking quicker than said carcass, I was yards from Uncle Benny’s so wheeled us to the shelter of his veranda.
In stark contrast to our relatively private personas, we have an unspoken, open house philosophy towards each other, having grown up in the same street. It wasn’t long before coffee, cake, sympathy and a very welcome track pump was placed beside me. Intermittent chat and banter suggested the stem on his road bike left him stretched that twenty millimetres too far.
By my reckoning a 90 should restore a sense of equilibrium. Tubes patched and tyre emergency booted, I swung a leg over the Univega’s top tube and beat a hasty retreat before Mother Nature could unleash another round of thunder, lighting and monsoon rain reminiscent of those opening scenes in An American Werewolf in London. Fifteen minutes later we’d made it home and had begun swapping tyres, consigning the rear Schwalbe to my cannibalise pile, swapping the front to the rear and refitting a 1.75 section Michelin to the front. Convinced I’d solved the problem, I popped out the next afternoon for a quick fifteen miles…
