Tales of a cyclist: Part 5 The eternal infernal squeak

The winter had been a long hard slog. The incessant poor weather had taken its toll on both myself and my poor bicycle, as a result it was starting to feel tired and slow. The components had been ground away by the salt and grime and were on the cusp of failure. It was high time that I breathed some new life into my machine and gave it the tender loving care that it deserved.

So I went ahead and bought it a whole new drive-train: chain, cranks, derailleurs, rings, pedals and cassette. It was a difficult pill to swallow especially for me, my wife calls me a miser but I prefer the word frugal. To be perfectly honest if I buy something I expect it to last a lifetime, is that too much to ask? I still have pants from 2004, admittedly they are now crotch-less but they are pants nonetheless.

When the parts arrived I unpacked them and obsessively lined them up on the table, ready for them to be accepted into their host. Removing the old components, replacing them like for like, I felt like a surgeon operating on his patient. For once, the whole process went swimmingly and two hours later I had finished. My drive-train looked pristine, sparkling from the spotlights in my kitchen. I gave the pedals a quick spin and traversed up and down through the gears, everything was sweet as a nut. Ready to ride!

The next morning I noticed something, something that fills my heart with dread and makes my eye twitch unintentionally. There was a squeak coming from my bike! It was faint, almost inaudible, no louder than a mouse's, yet consistent like a metronome. It couldn't be the new drive-train could it? Or perhaps the maintenance had just revealed something that was preexisting. Whatever the cause, now that it had been heard, it couldn't be unheard. I cycled the rest of the way to work with my head in my knees trying to locate the source.

The squeak played on my mind for much of the day, where could it be coming from? Riding home was much the same, my head moving from side to side trying to single out the one component that was causing it, the motorists must have thought me insane.

It went on like this for weeks, still unable to identify the origin. The sound had started to bury its way into my soul. It was everywhere, ceaselessly tormenting me, from dawn til dusk, driving me crazy.

Until one day I snapped and dissembled the entire bike. Every component, every nut, every bolt, every ball bearing now strewn across the kitchen covered in grease.

I was hoping for this.

I got this.

My wife was far form impressed, I reassured her that the mess would be gone by the morning and got back to work. It was met with a prickly response, "It'd better be!".

All night I spent meticulously cleaning each individual piece. I felt like Pvt. Leonard 'Gomer Pyle' Lawrence field stripping his weapon, "It's been swabbed.... and wiped. Everything is clean. Beautiful. So that it slides perfectly. Nice. Everything cleaned. Oiled. So that your action is beautiful. Smooth, Charlene." After 5 hours, countless swear words and grease everywhere, the moment of truth...

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ARGHHHHHHH IT STILL FUCKING SQUEAKED!

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I picked up the bike and launched it, it went sailing through the air before crashing back down to earth. I fell to my knees, my head now in my hands, I started to sob. "Nothing ever goes right for me!"

Some time later, after my temper tantrum was over I went to fetch my bike. Turns out my best John McEnroe impression had snapped my rear derailleur clean off. I was now a broken man, the squeak had won, I had to accept it as part of my life.

Part 6 The Flintstone Race