Why I Learned to Hate Spokes

I’d just worn out a tyre – and I mean really worn it out. It was balder than Yule Brynner after a close shave. It was one of those Bridgestone tyres of the era that came with the bike, which were hard as nails and lasted for ages but weren’t great for actually sticking to the road. As I recall Bridgestone makes good tyres today, by the way. Anyway I digress, and to get back to the point I’d had it replaced with an Oxford tyre which had massively thick treads and was square like a car tyre; but that wasn't a concern.  Yellow Peril handled like a boat anyway and I thought it’d last. In the event it didn’t and here’s why.

I was travelling back to dad’s from Exeter going along the A303 at about 60 mph when the rear tyre blew out, and I mean it really blew out! One second it was functioning as normal and then it just wasn’t there at all.  

The bike jack-knifed like those guys you see doing speedway circuits and I was in a lot of trouble. There was a car right behind me and if I’d gone down it would’ve run over me with the obvious results. Yet another brown trouser and indeed near-death moment courtesy of Yellow Peril to add to the ever-growing list. Thanks.

Anyway, I fought the bike onto the side of the road and brought it safely to a halt. That was not a bad piece of biking as I remember it and I’m quite proud of it. 

However, the car was off over the horizon with never a backwards glance. Thanks a bunch! Though with the complete lack of ironic waving or general mickey taking I am pretty sure they got away with it since my bike's superpower wouldn't have kicked in.

I took stock. I was in the middle of nowhere with no means of communication. There were no mobile phones back then. I needed to get to a phone and do whatever I had to do to get rescued. With no AA or RAC membership that meant a call to dad on a workday. Thankfully I remembered his number! I just hoped he wouldn’t be too mad.

Dad being mad, always such an angry man

I think it says something about the bike that I didn’t even think much of what I had to do and just got on with it. I pushed the bike about 5 miles to the nearest garage (I didn’t want to leave it on the side of the road) made the call and took the wheel off the bike while I waited. Yep, I had enough tools with me for that to be quite routine.

Dad came straight out to my rescue, for which I was and am forever grateful, and we got the wheel to the nearest bike dealer, which was in Amesbury, and they put a new and far more expensive tyre on. When they took the old tyre off (which I’d ruined by the way) they discovered that the people who’d done the previous tyre had neglected to put rim tape on the damned wheel! The only surprise was that it had taken that long to cause a puncture. 

I put the massively inconvenient timing down to the diabolic influence of Yellow Peril, and this is the root of why I hate spoked wheels. (Above and beyond the obvious inconvenience of cleaning and adjusting the damned things). 

Tyre weld was added to the tool kit. Sigh. (I did need it later on in a much more mundane way, for those who might have a vague interest).