Meet Pee Wee

September 12 2009
Blogger
I rode PeeWee last night. I have to point out that there was a time, a period of my life I refer to as ‘a body in search of a personality’, that I named all my bikes. My Kona single speed, for example, was Sofia, an acronym whose first two letters were Single and Orange, the rest being too banal to report. Admittedly, that bike needed a better identifier than its model name, which was a Hawaiian word of at least twenty letters that covered the entire top tube. When I had to speak with the distributor about a warranty issue, I just described the bike as ‘the single with the stupid name,’ and he knew which one I meant.

Anyway, PeeWee is the only bicycle who still has a name, or needs one. He’s an Indian knockoff of a Raleigh Tourist, a rod-braked behemoth with twin top-tubes and 28x11/2 wheels. He’s got a full chain case, a mousetrap luggage rack, and a hairpin saddle that looks like a Prince Albert’s truss. Sold under the name RetroBike, he was actually manufactured by Avon bicycles in Hyderabad, and embodies a wistful nostalgia for the empire, and the sun setting upon it.
I call him PeeWee because of a passing resemblance to the balloon-tired tanker that PeeWee Herman rode in Big Adventure, and Patel because it’s the only Indian surname I know. His head and seat angles recline to a hammock-like 65 degrees, and the narrow bars simultaneously put you in a position that gives nothing to pull against for climbing, and no leverage for steering. The rod brakes are imperfectly copied from their Raleigh originals I suspect, and even if they aren’t, well, there’s a good reason why nobody except Avon and Flying Pigeon uses rod brakes anymore.

Oddly enough, though, the whole amalgam seems to work. The bars shouldn’t be able to control the huge wheel flop of that Easy Rider head angle, but the gyroscopic effect from the giant wheels, more appropriate for a Conestoga wagon than a bicycle, comes on with any perceptible motion. The result is that he rides easily at walking pace, hell, at window shopping pace. Trackstands aren’t necessary when you can cut your speed to half a mile per hour, and creep along, a two-wheeled black snail, while waiting for the traffic light.

Even more surprising is the brakes. With an action best described as ‘placebo effect,’ the pull-rods and pivots manage to create just enough shoe pressure on the rims to make a pulsing vibration, accompanied by the sound of a freight train uncoupling, The levers bottom against the bars regardless of adjustment, and the pad bolts strip out with a stern look, much less over tightening. In spite of all this, I’ve never felt myself endangered by a lack of stopping ability. In part, it’s the same manufacturing tolerances that make them ineffective when applied, also keep the brakes from releasing fully either. Partly it’s the little bottle generator that drives off the rear tire sidewall., and seems to engage spontaneously. And partly it’s those big wheels, that just let you drive right through the pothole or off that curb instead of stopping. But yesterday, I rode in rush hour traffic, from the house on Carter Road to Emory hospital, with a basket full of Little Debbies and cookies, then rode back in full dark, down Clifton Road and Dekalb Avenue, on a Friday night, and never felt myself to be in danger. Exhausted, yes. Knees and hips blown, yes. But entirely confident in road holding, in spite of the clatters and clanks PeeWee emits at speed.
Every time a real Raleigh Tourist comes up one EBay, I put in a hopeful bid. I run a search for ‘rod brake’ every week and bid on all the men’s Brit bikes that show up. (I won’t stoop to a Flying Pigeon, though because it’s likely no improvement over what I’ve got.) But in the foreseeable future, PeeWee will be my errand bike and townie, rattling and juddering through Decatur. At least until I finish my Avon butcher’s bike.

You've got to start somewhere

You've got to start somewhere, or more accurately, I've got to start somewhere. In the same way that you get fit enough to ride long miles by riding long miles, you turn writing from a blood-sweating chore into a routine occurance by stretching the writing muscles, opening up the metaphor glands, and flushing the lactic acid out of the logic system. So I'm writing for an hour every day. Most of it won't be literary gems. In fact, to say that any of them will be gems is a statement of sheerest optimism.

The Venn diagram that describes my life consists of circles whose only point of commonality is, in fact, myself. Disparate as they are, I'm guessing that nobody who is interested in one will want to know about the others. Thus is born Riding Rabbit, the blog. And as Friends of the Rabbit, you won't be subjected to unwanted information about my largely fallow sex life (unless a yeast infection keeps me from riding), my weird and annoying social circle (unless they are riding with me or preventing me from doing so), or issues of home renovation (excepting the new bicycle room I need to put onto the Shabby Shack). These all have seperate blogs, all on different hosting sites, and under different user names. Thus I can have the sort of wide-open frankness that airs out your soul, without running into the Facebook phenomenon that results in everyone knowing all your business.