Get busy child
Oct. 20th, 2006 22:20![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
torquillAnother recap...
I think I can assume that the 11:04 am train is going to be late. I'll still check the website before I go down to the station, but it's been late just about every time I take it.
I grabbed lunch hastily at the taqueria on G street, and unexpectedly ran into two guys I know from the co-ops (Davey, from Pierce, and Jay, from Ag Effort). We had lunch together, then we all ran off. I was a little late for Prop lab, but no biggie.
Prop lab was a huge scramble with everybody at the same table doing cuttings, but I was out before 3. Great, time to do a small adjustment on my bike at the Bike Church (it had picked up a clickety sound) and make it over to the Garden Party at the co-ops, as I'd promised Jay I would.
Insert life here. The clickety sound wasn't in evidence when Jason, the minister, rode it... but he did note my pedal creak, said it was a little loose, and suggested I tighten it up. Then he thought to check the bearings, and sure enough, they were kind of dry. So he taught me how to take the lower axle apart and grease the bearings.
I feel compelled to add here that I gunked up an old t-shirt from the rag box with the sheer amount of grit and sand in that axle. I have a strong suspicion that my bike visited Burning Man at least once -- this seemed to fit the description of playa dust, and like that dust, it got into every crack imaginable. I polished up the bearings and nuts, packed grease into the bearing rings, assembled it all again, and rode off happy.
Until it said tickety-tickety at me a few feet down the road. Back again to show off the sound.
Jason said hm, and posited that there was a misalignment involving the derailer, or maybe a bent tooth on the back gears. It was definitely jerky when it moved, so he suggested I take the back wheel off so that we could just replace the back gear assembly. Good enough, said I, and did all the necessary stuff.
I got the wheel off, put it on the ground, idly spun the axle, and started laughing incredulously. Jason asked what was up, and I showed him the really bad wobble I got. "Bent axle," he said. "I misdiagnosed that." It doesn't happen often, though, and I suspect this was a legacy of the same accident that laid down road rash all across the side of the bike before I bought it. I mentioned that as he found me a new wheel, since changing out the axle is a really large hassle.
He left me to put my liner, tube, and tire on the new wheel, let me use the pumps there (all of which had malfunctioning valves to one extent or another) enough to get the bike to the air compressor at the dorms, and told me I owe the Church $5 for the new wheel. I'll drop that off next Friday. The Bike Church rocks.
In any case, my fifteen-minute adjustment took two hours, and I arrived at the co-ops around five. No big deal, the Garden Party runs until dark... so I threw in with Toby and Jenna, and we renovated a sweet-potato bed that needed some TLC. It ended up looking fabulous and ready for planting by dusk.
In the middle of gardening, however, there was the sound of approaching drums, and the UC Davis marching band came into view on the road at the edge of the gardens. They were all in street-clothes, it looked like, carrying instruments as they marched to cadence -- and criminy, there's a lot of them. Like, really a lot. About three marching bands' worth. I didn't think anything of what was probably just a practice march, until the sousaphones came into view (they have seven brass sousaphone players! Seven!) in their own little line... all wearing bathrobes. I shook my head and went back to weeding.
I had missed my train by the time we wrapped up, and I spent about forty minutes hanging around the Ag Effort kitchen and chatting. Then I took my greased, unbent bike off to the station, and crossed paths with the marching band about three blocks from the train station. Mystified, I rode through the folding tables and balloons in the station plaza to park my bike, then asked someone in pajama bottoms what the heck this was. She replied cheerfully, "It's Pajamarino! ...it's a very old tradition."
Right. College towns. I'd forgotten.
And so ends our story for the day. I'll be in weekend mode until Tuesday.
I think I can assume that the 11:04 am train is going to be late. I'll still check the website before I go down to the station, but it's been late just about every time I take it.
I grabbed lunch hastily at the taqueria on G street, and unexpectedly ran into two guys I know from the co-ops (Davey, from Pierce, and Jay, from Ag Effort). We had lunch together, then we all ran off. I was a little late for Prop lab, but no biggie.
Prop lab was a huge scramble with everybody at the same table doing cuttings, but I was out before 3. Great, time to do a small adjustment on my bike at the Bike Church (it had picked up a clickety sound) and make it over to the Garden Party at the co-ops, as I'd promised Jay I would.
Insert life here. The clickety sound wasn't in evidence when Jason, the minister, rode it... but he did note my pedal creak, said it was a little loose, and suggested I tighten it up. Then he thought to check the bearings, and sure enough, they were kind of dry. So he taught me how to take the lower axle apart and grease the bearings.
I feel compelled to add here that I gunked up an old t-shirt from the rag box with the sheer amount of grit and sand in that axle. I have a strong suspicion that my bike visited Burning Man at least once -- this seemed to fit the description of playa dust, and like that dust, it got into every crack imaginable. I polished up the bearings and nuts, packed grease into the bearing rings, assembled it all again, and rode off happy.
Until it said tickety-tickety at me a few feet down the road. Back again to show off the sound.
Jason said hm, and posited that there was a misalignment involving the derailer, or maybe a bent tooth on the back gears. It was definitely jerky when it moved, so he suggested I take the back wheel off so that we could just replace the back gear assembly. Good enough, said I, and did all the necessary stuff.
I got the wheel off, put it on the ground, idly spun the axle, and started laughing incredulously. Jason asked what was up, and I showed him the really bad wobble I got. "Bent axle," he said. "I misdiagnosed that." It doesn't happen often, though, and I suspect this was a legacy of the same accident that laid down road rash all across the side of the bike before I bought it. I mentioned that as he found me a new wheel, since changing out the axle is a really large hassle.
He left me to put my liner, tube, and tire on the new wheel, let me use the pumps there (all of which had malfunctioning valves to one extent or another) enough to get the bike to the air compressor at the dorms, and told me I owe the Church $5 for the new wheel. I'll drop that off next Friday. The Bike Church rocks.
In any case, my fifteen-minute adjustment took two hours, and I arrived at the co-ops around five. No big deal, the Garden Party runs until dark... so I threw in with Toby and Jenna, and we renovated a sweet-potato bed that needed some TLC. It ended up looking fabulous and ready for planting by dusk.
In the middle of gardening, however, there was the sound of approaching drums, and the UC Davis marching band came into view on the road at the edge of the gardens. They were all in street-clothes, it looked like, carrying instruments as they marched to cadence -- and criminy, there's a lot of them. Like, really a lot. About three marching bands' worth. I didn't think anything of what was probably just a practice march, until the sousaphones came into view (they have seven brass sousaphone players! Seven!) in their own little line... all wearing bathrobes. I shook my head and went back to weeding.
I had missed my train by the time we wrapped up, and I spent about forty minutes hanging around the Ag Effort kitchen and chatting. Then I took my greased, unbent bike off to the station, and crossed paths with the marching band about three blocks from the train station. Mystified, I rode through the folding tables and balloons in the station plaza to park my bike, then asked someone in pajama bottoms what the heck this was. She replied cheerfully, "It's Pajamarino! ...it's a very old tradition."
Right. College towns. I'd forgotten.
And so ends our story for the day. I'll be in weekend mode until Tuesday.
