Lesson learned

Riding the MAX last week with my bike in the rack.

I was shamed last week. And I'm thankful for it.

I've been riding my bike as my main form of transportation since this spring. I overcame my "Can I do this?" apprehension, my uncertainty about flat tires (sort of) and built up my riding desire all summer long so that I could push through the long slog that I know will be bike commuting through a Northwest winter.

But I had not learned proper care and maintenance of my bike. So after riding through two days of the first big storm of the season -- which caused flash flooding in parts of the Northwest but just dumped a couple of inches around here -- my very nice bike was very much hurting. It was squeaking. The gears were shifting hard. The chain sounded BAD. The pinnacle of my bike's pain was last Thursday night, when I had to stop atop the Interstate Bridge, spanning the mighty Columbia River, in a driving rain, in pitch black conditions, to take off my rain-soaked glasses and blindly make way down the span. The bike and I were worn out.

So Friday morning I rode in -- squeakily -- and quickly made my way to the bike shop. To be shamed, politely, as it turned out. But shamed, nonetheless.

I'm no indie Portland hipster/bike messenger who rides a fixie and has a bike chain tattoo around my forearm, but I'm proud of my riding habit. I'm healthier than I've ever been. I'm consuming less fuel than ever. I'm saving money. And I'm making the planet a little bit cleaner for my son.

I didn't know if I'd be able to stick to this, but I have and it's been nothing but satisfying.

But I can't ride my bike into the ground. I have to take care of it. And I was nervous about what that involved. It's only a bike, but I'm not the most mechanically minded guy and as such I figured I'd do more harm than good when I started fiddling with things.

Then I walked into the bike shop and explained myself.

"This is my first winter riding through," I said, "and I need to know how to take care of my bike."

The mechanic -- a guy who'd helped me before when I got a new, better set of Kevlar-lined tires -- was gentle but firm as I told him about this squeak that had somehow developed after two days of monsoon riding.

"Well," he said, "how should I say this? Let's just say there are two types of people -- those who take care of their bikes and those who, um, don't. Those who lube their chains once a year and those who don't."

And so began my lesson on maintaining my ride. I got a tutorial on the various concoctions available for keeping my chain in shape and how to apply them. I learned to gauge how much brake pad I have left. And at some point in the conversation, back amid the bike stands and tools and greasy rags, I heard the line that makes perfect sense but for some reason I had never before chose to hear: The closer you'll get to your bike the better you'll understand it.

Friday night I came home and (after Amy reminded me to slow down and enjoy some time with the family) brought my bike down to the laundry room in our basement and cleaned my bike from wheel to wheel, from saddle to pedal. It was therapeutic. It was a little like I was back working my way through college, detailing cars on what's ridiculously known as the Magnificent Mile of Cars in Norman, restoring the beauty in something. And it felt really good for a change -- at a time when my job regularly involves mentally exhausting 12- to 13-hour days -- to rely on my hands to physically improve something.

Better still, the bike didn't make a single squeak when I hopped on it Saturday. In fact, it rode like new.