You know when you have done something wrong, you have that terrible feeling, that you are not sure your actions can really make up for your negligence. The last couple of days my back brakes on my trusted commuting bike have been making a strange clonking sound. I only just got around to investigating what the cause was. It's not good, the brake pads had worn down to the metal and I've been trying to brake by lathing my rear rim. If this means nothing to you, then you are probably in the majority camp that don't do cycle maintenance. You, like me, believe it's one thing getting your hands dirty, it's a whole different matter spending as much time trying to remove the grime from your paws as it's taken to perform the task.
Running late for work, I thought, as an act of restitution I would stop by the local bike shop to pick some new pads. Little did I know that the guys there were ready not only to sell me the aforementioned items, but also to be judge and jury. Not only did they tell me off for the state of my wheel rims, but then proceeded to give me stick about my tyre pressures, seat post and chain before sending me on my way.
I took the lecture in good spirit and was glad that they inflated my woefully saggy tyres to a pressure that means I can feel every pencil-thin crack in the road. There is the added speed, but seriously feels like a bad Thai massage when I had gone over the Paddington Station cobbles.
Lesson learnt, I must look after the trusted steed.
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