Sunday, April 10, 2016

So you want to build a bicycle...

...But you have no idea how? Good! Just do it. I did, and here's what happened. 

IN THE BEGINNING:

There was a 2013 Raleigh Eva 29 with a 17” frame. It was too big for me, but coming off a 2000 Specialized Rockhopper with 24” wheels, everything felt too big—what did I know? 

It didn't look like this for long.

As the answer to that question went from “nothing” to “something”, the Eva was incrementally updated: it got metal pedals, a nice WTB seat off eBay after the old one fell apart, serious tires, and a cast-off stubby stem and wider bars from a friend. Two years after its purchase, it was getting airborne on more outings than not, so Pinkbike Buy/Sell provided a Reba Dual-Air fork and DT Swiss wheelset off a 2011 Specialized Stumpjumper. The fork had a 20mm through-axle, meaningful rebound adjustment, and an extra 30mm of travel: about a month later I bought hydraulic brakes out of fear for my life.

Me and the Eva doing what we did worst. Cable brakes still going strong, but don't ya like my new bars?

That was pretty much the kiss of death for the Eva. All its components were nicer than the frame and even the frame was nicer than its lousy 3x9 drivetrain. Sacrificing my tax returns, cashing in my negligible paychecks and herding birthday contributions from my relatives toward the cause, I ordered a 2014 Canfield Yelli Screamy frame and began accumulating, from various sources, the (staggering amount of) components that make up a 1x10 extended range drivetrain.

The Eva and the Yelli, about to get intimate.

You might wonder why I decided to build up a bike from parts instead of buying a used one, which would certainly have been more cost-effective: I put about $1500 into the build and got a 1000-dollar bike out the other end. Well, it was 1500 bucks that I got to lay down over the course of a year, which is key for a college student with no ability to save money, and I got to spend it on the exact setup I wanted. Plus—and this was the real impetus—it was bound to be a learning experience.

If working on a bicycle is at all like working on a dirt bike, “learning experience” would directly translate to a miserable week in the shop—frustrating, time-consuming, ego-crushing, and with a hefty financial penalty looming for any serious failure. But once you’ve learned, that experience starts paying for itself in baseline functionality, time and money saved not waiting around for someone else to make your repairs, and yeah, some kind of deeper appreciation for the machine. I assembled my collection of boxes on the work bench and took a deep breath. Here comes the hurricane.

THE STRUGGLE:

After liberally coating the frame in helicopter tape, I started from the inside and worked my way out. The first task was installing a press-fit Cane Creek headset. Lacking more sophisticated machinery, I gave it hell with a hammer and a piece of a 2x4. Don’t laugh—it worked for the upper race. The lower race, which is bigger, was determined to go in crooked. I saw metal shavings, gave up, and brought it to the shop. They charged me 10 bucks and soothed my ego a little by fanboying about the frame. “You could FREERIDE that thing,” one guy said. Visions of 720 backflips danced in my head, followed shortly by moderated visions of at least being able to manual. This was on Thursday. By next week, I thought, I’d have a bike again.

Tool time! Wait... Croquet time?

Friday after school, I set about installing the bottom bracket. Having scored some Race Face Turbine cranks on eBay, I was unpleasantly surprised to learn that they required a $50 Race Face bottom bracket, which looks eerily like a $12 one from Shimano with the same nominal dimensions. I bought the Race Face one because I’m a sucker, then naturally I had to buy a special Race Face tool put it in. The drive-side bearing cup is reverse-threaded (this is how all bad wrenching stories start) so it doesn’t loosen as you pedal. I pulled out the torque wrench, set it to 40nm per the instructions, and started hauling on this thing, lefty-tighty: I give it everything I’ve got until the silly wrench slips off the tiny notches in the BB cup and dings up my frame. Well, I guess 40nm is beyond my strength, I think. So I flip the bike over, switch the torque wrench to righty-tighty, start threading in the non-drive-side cup, and PING. If THAT’s 40nm, I must have put 80nm on the other side. Bile rising, I laboriously unscrew the reverse-threaded side, fearing the worst, but the delicate aluminum threads are miraculously intact. 

Bling effin' bling!
Once my heart rate settled down a bit, it was time to deal with the cranks. They’re the Cinch kind with the direct-mount chainring—I opted for a blingy gold Blackspire with 28 teeth. Yet another special tool was required to install the chainring, so I had ordered the cheapest one I could find off eBay. It didn’t fit, which was unsurprising because this thing seriously looked like it was sand-cast and it was supposed to have 1mm-wide square-cut splines. 5 minutes with the grinder bit on the Dremel set it right, since whatever it was cast out of wasn’t very hard, and on went the chainring.

The rest of the crankset install went equally haltingly. At the first attempt, the cranks barely turned (cue more terror that I had damaged the BB bearings by over-tightening the drive-side cup). The internet advised me to remove the plastic tube connecting the BB cups: this made things better, but not perfect. Several panicked investigations later, I discovered that I’d forgotten to install one of the drive-side spacers, probably because it had fallen onto the floor and rolled under the work bench. That was enough for Friday night—I went upstairs and had a much-needed beer.

On Saturday I put the wheels on, just to stabilize the frame on my makeshift work stand (AKA a tie-down hanging from a roof beam). The front wheel, fork, and bars migrated over seamlessly from the Eva, but the rear wheel from the Stumpjumper, thus far unused due to its 10-speed hub, needed a cassette put on. I’d procured a lightly-used Shimano 11-36 unit off eBay and added to it a 42-tooth FireEye expander cog. With the wheels on, I took the opportunity to velocipede around the basement like a loon before hanging the bike from the ceiling again.

Levitation, such an aggravation...
The brake install was next. This was an uneventful on the front—the Yelli’s head tube was slightly longer than the Eva’s, but the brake line length was still within the realm of reason. Not so much at the back—the Eva’s rear brake line had been routed under the bottom bracket, while the Yelli’s was zip-tied along the top tube and the seat stay. This left me with about a foot of extra line, which will remain awkwardly looped in front of the handlebar until my latest Jenson order comes in. Centering the rear caliper around the rotor, I somehow managed to stick a finger through my whirring spokes, splitting my fingernail midway up the nail bed. That benched me for the night. Complaining to one of my riding buddies, I learned this was an occupational hazard—he’d once lost the tip of his thumb to the brake rotor while performing the same task.

YOU BASTARD!
On Sunday morning, it was drivetrain time. The derailleur bolted on anticlimactically and shortening the chain with my multitool required less herculean hand strength than I had feared.  Next, I needed to assemble the shift cable--but one cutting implement after another failed to do more than dent the cable housing. In desperation, I resorted to the Dremel again. It didn’t produce a very neat cut, but with a little cleanup, I was able to jam the end cap on. The rest of the installation was a snap. Now for the tricky part—tuning the derailleur.

To my utter shock, the bike downshifted from its littlest cog on the first try. I felt like Dr. Frankenstein watching his monster come to life in the lab. I adjusted the mech to a reasonable level of satisfaction (this took a while), then hauled the beast up the stairs, put it in the car and changed into very warm riding clothes.

THE MOMENT OF TRUTH:

I bring the Yelli to the only place where I don’t think I’ll be tarred and feathered for riding it in mud season, which is a multi-use trail leading up to the cell tower on Irish Hill. Pedaling up the rocky, water-barred and occasionally soggy approach, it feels stiffer than the Eva, lighter, and noticeably easier to wheelie thanks to its shorter chainstays. But, since its cockpit is more compact, I have no problem shifting my weight forward and keeping the front planted when the going gets steep. The derailleur runs through its lower gears, including the 42t expander cog, with little hesitation. When I come to the steep, ledgy bit where I always had to get off the Eva and push, I still have to get off the Yelli and push—but I don’t feel like its geometry or gearing are any worse for the climbs than the Eva’s were, and a sneaking suspicion tells me that both are going to be a lot better on the downhill.

Running out of light, I turn around as soon as I have some appreciable steeps to descend. I drop the seat: even running a longish seat post, it falls all the way to the seat post clamp. Then I climb aboard and let go of the brakes.

A lot of hooting for glee happens right off the bat. Bombing down the ledgy part of the trail, I am able to lift the front wheel and pop the bike over anything that might feel rough under the tires, even if there’s not much of a kicker to help me do so. Its head tube angle is a degree slacker than the Eva's, but for some reason, Yelli feels more nimble: maybe the wheelbase is a little shorter? Further on, even the most awkwardly-shaped water bars don’t seem as likely to chuck me over the handlebars as they used to: when I hit one just right, the bike hangs balanced in the air like a tiny stunt plane, and when I hit one just wrong, its runty rear triangle and slacker head angle make surviving the landing easy. I can hit these things a LOT faster, I think, and upshift.

CRUNCH. Standing on the pedals in my smallest cog, something is NOT happy. I give the pedals another mash—crunch again. The chain seems to be skipping or slipping under load in this one gear. Admitting defeat, I downshift and pump my way back to the car.

Looks good! Sounds bad.

The Great Drivetrain Debug of 2016 takes two more days. I try flipping my chainring around to straighten out the chain line to the smallest cog: nope, chain still skips. I take a link out of the chain, which seems to clean up the shifting in the higher gears, but the skipping is still there. Finally, I flip the bike upside down and readjust the derailleur with an ear to the cassette, listening for what modifications make the chain grind the least. Nothing I do seems to make any difference. Reading the writing on the wall, I pop the wheel off and swap out the littlest cog for an old one I have lying around. This done, I climb on and mash the pedals: dead silence. I make it back to Irish Hill later in the week and put my solution to the test in the mud: the bike shifts and pedals perfectly.

A couple minor tasks remain—shortening that brake line, finding some bars that don’t clash with the rest of the build, that sort of thing. But by far the most daunting task left on my Yelli Screamy to-do list is waiting until mud season ends before I take it for a rip on a proper trail.


They don't look that different standing still, but oh what a difference a degree here,
a centimeter there makes on the trail.

RESOURCES





Good idea or GREAT idea?



Monday, January 25, 2016

Season's Recap

When you're going through an enduro, keep going. 

I did it, folks--I survived the NETRA enduro season! I even won the women's class (by virtue of being the only person in it, 90% of the time). It was, however, a pretty painful experience and I wouldn't recommend it to anyone whose basic bike handling skills (log crossings, wheelies, 180 turn-arounds, hill climbing, rock gardens, etc.) aren't rock solid. I don't know what I expected, being a new rider signing up for 80+ mile races in the hardest single track New England has to offer, but I got more than I bargained for and won't be doing that again until I magically grow 10 inches and gain 40 pounds of muscle mass--or, you know, actually learn to ride my damn bike.


The calm before the storm. I'm the short one.

New Ride...

Anyway, the less said about all that, the better. Now for some good news: I got a new bike! After an all-night wrenching session and an early-morning drive to Canada, my boyfriend and I traded my 2011 KTM 250 XC toward a gently used 2012 KTM 200 XC-W. The new bike is some 10lbs lighter, has an inch lower seat height, and is hopefully less inclined to launch me into the stratosphere with any minor misjudgment in throttle application.


A new era has dawned!

New Race!

Upon this noble steed, I plan to contest the J Day Sprint Enduro Series, whose last round I visited in 2015. The format consists of a few different "special tests" which each rider must complete a certain number of times within a set time period. This one had a woods loop (wide-open, hills, ruts), a field track (there was a tabletop jump in there, too), and an extreme section (logs, rocks, concrete tubes, tight trees, etc). The time limit to complete each test three times was generous, making for a fun, relaxed atmosphere, but the format also provides enough seat time and variety to feel like it was worth the entry fee and three-hour commute. I think it will be a good opportunity for me to hone some of the skills needed for traditional enduros in a lower-consequence environment (getting stuck in a field 100 yards from the truck is one thing, getting stuck in the deep woods half-way across Connecticut is another). I also hope to get to a couple NETRA hare scrambles and one or two of the less technically demanding enduros.


At the J Day River Rush Sprint Enduro. I finished unspectacularly--but I finished!

Look Ma, no Motor!

I spent most of 2015 complaining about enduros and riding a bicycle. After the incredibly demoralizing struggle of starting a new endurance sport and kind of sucking at it, I found going back to my roots really refreshing.


Fly, Barbie, FLY!

I spent most of my childhood free time plonking around in the woods on a bicycle. Most people seem to get more cautious as they get older, but so far I've been progressing in the opposite direction-- probably thanks to the dirt bike, which has got me accustomed to higher speeds and higher...heights. When I got air on my 2000 Specialized Rockhopper in middle school, it was almost always an accident.


SO HAPPY! Rad bike photos by my amateur action sports photographer friend Dave Kinney. 

There is such a thing as enduro racing in MTB, too: it is also an all-day event with many different sections, but has a significant advantage to beginners in that, if you get to something unrideable, you can just pick the bike up and walk over it. The entire internet says it requires a 5000+ dollar full suspension bike with enduro-specific frame geometry, shifters, spoke nipples, seat rails, body fat calipers, espresso grinder, etc., but I plan on entering at least one on Barbie, my 600-dollar 29er hardtail, just to prove them wrong. Wish me luck.





Saturday, March 14, 2015

Steahly Off Road Flywheel (Just Like Mom Used to Make!)

Well, this is shaping up to be the lousiest winter ever as far as seat time is concerned - big fat nothing since the snow has fallen, studded tires aren't even on. Terrible though this is, I'm getting a lot of wrenching done. The odyssey of my top end rebuild is destined for Trail Rider Magazine, but let me show you my new flywheel weight.

See that? God's own camera just took 200 hours off my bike!

It is from Steahly Off Road, it weighs five ounces, and it came with two pages of instructions... with small font and few pictures. Also included in the package, ominously, were a tiny pot of epoxy, a syringe, and rubber gloves. You'll also need a flywheel puller, a center punch, a torque wrench, maybe a strap wrench, and an oven. Yep. An oven.

The first task, removing and cleaning the old flywheel, was difficult for two reasons: one, I have a Rekluse; two, the old one was dirty. The Rekluse made life difficult because the bike is essentially in neutral all the time--you can put it in sixth and step on the rear brake, but if you crank on the flywheel nut, the engine turns right over. I had to utilize teamwork and a strap wrench to hold the flywheel still and loosen the nut, and the same was true of putting it back on.


With the flywheel off, a significant amount of de-rusting had to be done: the stator side of this bike has a vent that apparently lets in water--well, and the gasket looked pretty bad. The flywheel surface needs to be squeaky clean where the weight will attach so the epoxy will bond correctly. To this end, the instructions recommend cleaning it with ethanol or acetone and only touching it with gloves.

Next, one places the weight over the flywheel and strikes the flywheel surface with a center punch through holes in the sides of the weight. Now it's epoxy time. Wearing those gloves, you mix up the epoxy and, using the syringe, inject it into the holes on the sides of the weight. It is viscous stuff and you really have to crank on the plunger - I eventually gave up and made my boyfriend do it, as apparently I have wimpy hands. You keep injecting epoxy until it starts oozing out all the holes and makes a mess.

Like our countertops? No? Ugh. You peasant.

Clean up the overflow, install the provided clamp, and let it sit at room temp for 24 hours (this meant taking it out of our near freezing basement), then bake it in the oven for 2 hours at 250 degrees. Once it cools, pop it in the bike and away you go.

"Don't overcook those, they get really chewy." - My aunt

The whole process went more smoothly than I expected it would - especially more smoothly than I expected it would after I saw the epoxy and the part about the oven. I haven't tested it out yet riding, and I probably won't until the snow/dirty slush currently blanketing New England melts. Fortunately, I have a couple more repairs and modifications to do to keep me entertained -- including plugging up that vent in the stator cover and running oil in there, as my go-to maintenance web guru Jeff Slavens of Slavens Racing suggests here. More on that later.

Monday, February 16, 2015

MORTAL TERROR!

This nonsense originally appeared in the December/January issue of Trail Rider Magazine - but they didn't have space for my illustration, which was the best part, so I'm gonna post it again here.


Well, since my bike is pretty much benched until I can scrape up some decent winter tires and a top end kit, I’m going to tell you a story about the most terrified I’ve ever been on a dirt bike.

The scene is Fast Freddy’s Wednesday night motocross ride, and I pretty much have no business being there other than getting in the way of the fast people and ruining the berms for everyone by riding over them and then crashing on the other side. There are three jumps at Fast Freddy’s track, and at least in this direction, I am hitting none of them. The two tabletops are too big for me to bother trying, and the third jump, though technically feasible, is a psychological no-go. It’s a funny notch cut out of the side of a huge hill that constitutes an unremarkable step-up in one direction and a completely horrifying step-down in the other. The downhill approach is blind—you can’t see the lip of the jump until you’re either going over it or casing it, and casing it would mean somersaulting down an incredibly steep, maybe three-story slope, straight through a sharp right turn and into the bushes, closely pursued by your bike. Needless to say, I was jamming on the brakes and rolling through this veritable pongee pit all evening, until some dude decided it would be funny to convince me to do otherwise.

“You’re taking the step-down, aren’t you?” this character asks when I roll into the pits. His name is Doyle, and he’s grinning in that good-natured but definitely loony way that, now that I think of it, is typical of anyone who’s survived to middle age while still thinking extreme sports are fun. I shake my head no. “What? You’ve GOT to take the step-down!” Doyle says. “You’ll be fine. You could ROLL off it and clear it, no problem.” “Oh, alright,” I finally say. “You go first.”

My new coach leads on. After waiting for me to catch up, he coasts over the gap at what does seem to be a pretty manageable pace... Shaking my head, I hit the brakes and roll it, as usual. Taking another lap of the track, I come back up the hill to see Doyle pulled off to the side near the step-down, enthusiastically waving me on. I try to muster up some courage, but as I approach the edge of the hill—

“NOPE,” I shout.

It’s a leap of faith kind of situation: you have to be going fast enough to clear the jump before you even see it, so really you just have to gas it into the void and hope for the best. I needed to start hoping earlier.

I crawl over the jump, then lay on the gas. Next time around, I’ll just do it, I think. Other people have cased jumps, crashed and broken a bunch of bones. It’s not the end of the world. I crest the hill in third, hold the throttle on evenly, take a deep breath—and let out a scream of pure, shameless terror as the bike floats weightlessly into the unknown. The tires touch down so smoothly on the descent that I don’t even feel the landing. It’s almost anticlimactic.

Heart racing, I blast through the rest of the track and come up to the jump again. Just as I’m about to hit it, I second-guess myself: am I really going fast enough? I hit the gas—way too much of the gas—and the bike launches, front wheel high, clear over the step-down. The bushes on the far side of the turn draw closer as the bike continues to rotate toward the vertical—BRAKES, I think to myself, BRAKES! I pull in the clutch and put my foot down. My locked rear tire hits dirt half-way to the base of the hill, bottoming out my shock, then my forks, and making my navigation of the immediately following turn even less graceful than usual. I pull over to the car at the soonest possible opportunity, dry-mouthed and very, very thankful when word goes around that it’s time to ride the track in the other direction.

After that, I’ve been more willing to venture into the air on my machine, though admittedly that was the last event of the season at Fast Freddy’s track and I haven’t encountered any obstacle as senselessly terrifying since. Note, I never said anything about my most terrifying moment OFF of, or barely attached to, my bike: that’s a story for another day.

Monday, December 29, 2014

And that was 2014, folks!

Another semester down and I'm still alive! First, vitally important information from this fall:

1. I tested a 2015 KTM Freeride 250R.

Photo credit: Kevin Novello, Trail Rider Magazine

It was the best thing that ever happened to me, short of meeting Lovey or being born to sane and loving parents. Read about it on the Trail Rider website, and while you're there, check out my review of the 2015 Husqvarna TE125!

2. I raced an enduro. I won my class and only finished half the checks, which should give you an indicator of the trail conditions...which also left a few, er, "indications" in my bike. Again, full report on the Trail Rider site.

Photo credit: Ted and Cindy Rummel

See how happy I look? Yeah. That's because there's a hole in my clutch cover and I'm tireder than I've ever been in my life. 

Back to the present: specifically, the gross, snowless winter. My bike is in the shop--and by that I mean we rolled it down a flight of stairs into the basement.


She's due for a top end rebuild, a radiator de-taco, and of course a couple hundred screws in each tire. The piston got here a couple days ago:


Beauty, eh? Details of the hopefully smooth, swift install will be provided in an upcoming issue of Trail Rider. Maybe by the time it's in, we'll even have some snow...