The Best of Trouble

Comstock Texas in the Distance

Motel6 in Del Rio

A strong wind from the norhtwest
 at Del Rio

By this morning, I had ridden the train to Del Rio, Texas, had spent two days there waiting for Monday when the UPS office opened so I could retrieved the shipped bicycle, assemble it, and begin the adventure.  I have spent months planning the character of this trip, its form and flavor.  Now, finally, with the bicycle loaded, the reality came to life on a road heading west.  It felt good to be almost on the open desert, my journey underway, panniers loaded with everything I’d need for the six weeks ahead. 

I had tested all the gears, tested the brakes, checked the load and the tires.  All was ready in the morning light.  I shifted down a gear for a little hill on the outskirts of Del Rio, and heard an awful sound.  The bike lurched, and the rear tire stopped turning,  I skidded uncontrollably to a stop, but did not crash.  Leaning the bike onto its side, I saw a contorted jumble of parts on its right rear side where the derailer should be.  On looking closely, it could not be worse.  The bracket, which holds the derailer in place, had broken and had plunged the whole mechanism that shifts the gears into the spokes.  Friends, this is like having your transmission explode on the Pasadena Freeway. 

I can fix many things that go wrong with a bicycle, and I have an assortment of spare parts.  But this a trip stopper!  Mangled drailer part were tangled with broken spokes, which only a bicycle repairman having the right parts could fix.

Bicycle Shop in Del Rio

The man Who Save Me

I was only a mile from the motel, and knew there was a bike shop about three miles behind me  in Del Rio.  So I removed some of the broken parts, to allow the rear wheel to turn. Riding was impossible.  Then I walked the bike to the bike shop.  The man took one look and said he’d seen it all before; parts just break sometimes  The problem might be finding the right replacements.  He rummaged about and came up with a new derailer that would work, but not with my shifter—that’s the little lever on the handlebar that I press to change gears.  He rummaged some more and found a used derailer that would work.  Then with more sorting through old and new parts, he came up with a bracket to replace the one that had broken and had caused everything else to break.  “I can do it,” he said, “and you are lucky that I have time to do it.”  He worked on my bicycle for three hours, replacing spokes, truing the wheel, adjusting the derailer.

Perhaps you don’t realize how fortuitous all this was—how improbable.  The next bike shop is in Alpine, 220 miles from Del Rio.  I only had to walk three miles!  The shop was open, with a man who knows how, and who had the parts, and the time, and talked congenially while I waited, and who sang along with the country music on his CD.  And he charged me only ninety dollars, parts and labor.  It was the best of trouble.

Comstock, Texas

Comstock, Texas

I was late leaving Del Rio, and arrived late in Comstock.  The only motel took me in, and the only restaurant/bar was still open.  Texans sat at the bar and smoked while I ate chicken fried steak.

What a beginning!