From the Archives - Bits & Bobs Volume XXVI

Introduction

This is the twenty-sixth installment in the “From the Archives – Bits & Bobs” series. Volume I of the series is here, Volume II is here, Volume III is here, Volume IV is here, Volume V is here, Volume VI is here, Volume VII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume IX is here, Volume X is here, Volume XI is here, Volume XII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume XIV is here, Volume XV is here, Volume XVI is here, Volume XVII is here, Volume XVIII is here, Volume XIX is here, Volume XX is here, Volume XXI is here, Volume XXII is here, Volume XXIII is here, Volume XXIV is here, and Volume XXV is here. Thematically these are all over the map. Geographically they are also all over the map, come to think of it. Well, within California to be precise.

What are albertnet Bits & Bobs posts? They’re more or less random compilations of short form prose I wrote in my youth, typically letters or emails but sometimes essays or graffiti. I post them to albertnet on the off chance that one of them will garner widespread adoration and propel me to worldwide fame, or at least notoriety. Read them in order, out of order, out of ardor, or outdoors in the arbor. Pay attention to the dates because some of these are rather old, some are just old fashioned, and others are merely passé.

October 17, 1989

I wonder how many unwanted pregnancies are caused by college kids using Trojan Magnums when they ought to be using the standard size. You know, guys aspiring for largeness, refusing to accept that their schlongs are merely average. In our school paper, an outfit called ZPG advertises wholesale condoms by mail. They offer a variety pack … I wonder what that is? Different colors? Textures? I can't understand this wholesaler advocating a variety of sizes, unless students are supposed to share, or just collect them like stamps. My roommate T— says his favorite condom is the Trojan Rough Rider. My neighbor, an exchange student from Korea, says he’s fond of leather ones. That's right, leather. If Vittoria made a CX Seta condom, I think that would be the ultimate, though I don’t have any use for such a thing, at least at the moment (sigh).

September 20, 1993

On Saturday I overhauled my Guerciotti over at the Square Wheel where I used to work back in college. (The owner is cool enough to let me use a bench there.) The bottom bracket spindle was pitted, along with the bearing races in one of the cups. The shop got swamped and I went out to the floor to help out, and actually sold a bike. Not such a big deal, of course, but it becomes more impressive when you consider I sold nothing more than a hypothetical bike. The shop didn’t have the right size GT Outback, aka Outhouse (or Compost, another fond nickname for this low-end model). Their stock is really low because business is bad and they’ve run out of credit with all their suppliers. I could’ve sold this kid and his proud parents an 18” bike, but you know how it is: he’s clearly growing like a weed and would outgrow the thing before its 300-mile tune-up. His dad, who had appropriated himself to be the boy’s official spokesman, said, “Well, he’ll be growing at least another four inches,” looking hopefully at the lad, who stared at the point two inches above his dad’s head that he would reach, if he truly did grow four inches. Hope springs eternal I guess…

Having come clean about the kid needing a different size, I faced the prospect that they’d just leave, and buy a bike from a shop that actually had one for sale, vs. ordering one that the kid wouldn’t even get to test ride. So I played up the shop’s free service plan, and how valuable that is. To emphasize the importance of proper servicing, I showed them the pitted BB cup I just pulled off my own bike. If they can’t see or touch the bike I’m trying to sell them, at least they can see this random thingie, right? Besides (I told myself) there’s nothing more impressive than the grease and grime of a real mechanic who knows what he’s talking about and handles real bicycles every day. I didn’t mention that I’m not actually even an employee of the shop. I hope when they come to pick up the bike they won’t ask for me. (“Dana who?”)

November 1, 1993

I went to a wedding where alcohol seemed to be the main theme. The venue was a winery, and each guest was required to have a glass of wine in hand during the ceremony. The bride and groom kind of slurred their way through the vows, very sentimentally, which I found kind of sweet. The drinking only accelerated at the reception, beginning with open bar before the food was even served. By the time the dancing and games had started, everyone was good and heated. One of the games was the throwing of the bouquet, and as usual, the tallest maiden won. Do you imagine that tall women in general have better chances of marrying, just like the taller presidential candidate usually wins? Anyway, following that was the male version, the tossing of the garter. I find this game especially absurd, but it was a hard-fought battle nonetheless, since drunk men tend to play full-contact, whatever the game. The garter (which was little more than a silky, frilly band) bobbed up in the air, was snatched from hand to hand, and eventually ended up on the floor where it was batted about like hockey puck. I was fighting hard, and eventually—likely due to reflexes less dulled than those of my competitors—I came up with the garter. Everybody cheered as I did a touchdown dance, and then the horrifying realization hit me: they’d all taken a dive! It’s only women who earnestly seek the prize of the soonest betrothal; men delay this as long as they can. Sure, it was a good fight, but was only fought in order to appease the woman: “Sorry, honey, I tried, but....” Had I realized this, I too would have intentionally lost. But I, of course, am a born competitor.

January 6, 1994

The Oregon trip went fine. The Landlord’s new computer, an Apple, is fun to play with. This new CD-ROM technology is pretty amazing. I went through this Great Works of Literature on Disc CD, and it’s got a huge number of stories, poems, etc. on there, and shows various pictures, all from the original works, but only in black and white. This doesn’t bother me, since the originals were in black and white, after all; the Landlo’, on the other hand, was fuming mad about something, as usual. I think it’s that I was spending too long reading individual works and not letting him show me enough different features of his Mac. And he seems to have basically given up on those discs that don’t have full-color motion graphics and probably wishes he hadn’t let me stumble upon Great Works of Literature. My best find was “The Raven” by Edgar Allen Poe, and—I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit—I’d never really sat down and read it closely before. The CD-ROM featured a few sound samples, where you can hear stanzas read by a professional, which was fun. For some reason, I still somehow expected the recordings to be in that cheesy computer-synthesized voice, but no, they were a human voice, in digital stereo. I ended up spending over an hour reading and rereading the poem, before realizing I had lost interest in the technological wonders of the CD-ROM technology itself. I mean, I was reading a printout, for crying out loud. I highly recommend the poem. I guess CD-ROM ain’t bad either.

We also visited Grandpa, Aunt J—, Uncle W—, and [cousin] J— on the way to a New Year’s party in SoCal. I’d sent them a holiday card with a photo, taken at a recent company party. This photo apparently caused a bit of a scandal. Aunt J— gave me an ominous warning over the phone prior to our visit: “Daner, I just have to warn you: your grandfather, well . . . he’s just not the man you used to know. He’s just turned 97, and he’s, well, old-fashioned. W— and I have been harassing him all morning, but he just won’t stop grumbling about the length of your hair. Anyway, he has no tact, so I just don’t want you to be offended if he says something. We’ve tried to get him ready for you, but you know how he is. Anyway, I think your hair is gorgeous, just don’t let him offend you.” I told her I’m totally used to being hassled for my long hair, but I doubt I successfully conveyed to her the extent of my immunity to criticism. All the same, I put it back in a ponytail for the visit, just to make it a bit more tidy.

Well, at first Grandpa didn’t realize it was a ponytail, and thought I’d actually cut my hair. He said, “Aaaah, now that’s how I remember—” and at this point the game was up: he realized I hadn’t cut it. “What’s this!” he said, yanking as hard as he could on the ponytail. Ow! That was about all he said for a while. Dinner was fun: Uncle W— dragged out his legendary electric carving knife and was sawing away at the ham when I made a comment to E— that nobody was supposed to hear. I imagined I was speaking pretty quietly, but that thing makes quite a racket when you’re sitting right next to the man wielding it. I said, “The electric model is a big improvement over the earlier, more cumbersome gasoline-powered one.” J—, clear at the other end of the table, laughed and said, “Yeah, you don’t need to run an exhaust pipe out the window anymore!” I hope I didn’t offend Uncle W—. He does seem rather proud of that thing. I was pleased that E— had the opportunity to witness it in action.

April 20, 1995

Mr. Albert has received your gift of the Tom’s of Maine Natural Shaving Cream product with moisturizing glycerin. He asked me to give you his most sincere thanks, and is very enthusiastic about trying out this product.

He was, however, slightly perplexed by the statement made by Tom & Kate Chappell on the packaging; they state that they “use no animal ingredients,” and that “nature does offer wonderful and simple solutions.” Mr. Albert cannot think of anything more natural than animals, and asked me to remind you that the Genesis chapter of the Old Testament very clearly stipulates that Man has been given, by the hand of God, dominion over all the beasts of the field and has at his disposal “every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.”  He asked me to inform you that most toothpaste uses sponge spicules for an abrasive, and why not?

One last note: Mr. Albert expressed some concern that the coconut oil used in the Tom’s of Maine shaving cream product may be very high in saturated fats. He requests that you investigate the availability of a “Lite” version of this product. Beef tallow, he suggests, would be significantly better than coconut oil in this regard.

May 4, 1996

I’m bummed because I’m all set to “roll over” my Avocet 40 bike computer (i.e. exceed the mileage that it can display, so it shows all zeroes) but I’ve come to realize that this newer model has a far-left-hand “1” digit so it won’t roll over after 9,999 miles like the old Avocet 20s and 30s. Here I was, thinking I was just miles away from that, well, milestone, but I’m only halfway there. I’ll have to log another 10,000 to roll it over, and I can’t imagine the batteries will last that long.

May 25, 2013

My opinion of the wild turkeys in our hinterlands turned around 360 degrees today. I had considered them a nuisance until early this morning when, riding up South Park, I saw a mother turkey with her little turkey chick riding on her back. It was the cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen.

But then, heading down Claremont, with the whole road to myself, I opened ‘er up a bit, enjoying the smooth, fast descent (but being ever-vigilant of course). And then suddenly there were four giant tom turkeys ahead, each with the whole peacock-like plumage disk puffed way the hell out, spaced evenly across the road like some kind of patrol, all facing me, bringing to mind a shooting gallery. If I had the Star Trek universal translator I’m sure their gobble-gobble-gobble would have been translated as, “You wanna piece of me!?” I pounded the brakes with a quickness. This was an eight-finger, full-force, Bluesmobile-style-both-feet-smashed-into-the-brake-pedal kind of braking, where I was waaaaay, waaaay back on the saddle so I wouldn’t skid or face-plant. Sure, I stopped with plenty of time to spare, but imagine if this were a month or two ago before I’d trimmed down the ol’  aero-belly, or if the road had been a bit wet! So now my opinion of turkeys has come full circle and I consider them a nuisance again.

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Presta Valve Locknuts, aka Valve Rings

Introduction

As you’ll surely agree, this post is long overdue. It stems from my post “10 Fascinating Facts About Inner Tubes” that I wrote over 13 years ago. Fact #4, “Valves can fuel sibling rivalry,” described the war I fought with my brother Geoff over Presta valve locknuts, aka valve rings:

We had an ongoing disagreement about the usefulness of valve rings. I argued that they helped you keep the valve straight, helped you get the pump chuck on there, and enabled you to ride a flat without the tube bunching up around the valve. He argued that … wait a second, this is my blog, I’m not going to bother giving his silly arguments! He can comment on this post if he wants his position articulated.

Geoff was forever stealing the rings from my bike’s valves to deprive me of them. I had to keep spare valve rings on me in case I discovered his treachery too late, like during a ride. In retaliation I was forever putting rings on his bike’s valves. There was a lot of cussing.

(There’s more to that story, which you can find here.)

In response to that post, M—, a guy on my road cycling club, who raced with Greg LeMond back in the day and who has always been our club’s Obi Wan Kenobi, replied, “Valve rings, as you call them, were always the sign of novice nerd-dom, like crank bolt dust caps. Your brother was right.” This really stung, since a) it came from our guru, and b) I never used crank bolt dust caps, because I knew better, but somehow I didn’t know better about these locknuts. (For more on crank bolts, click here.) From that day forward I mended my ways and stopped using valve locknuts. (I did keep one in my toolkit for roadside repairs.)

End of story, right? Well, not so fast. In cycling circles, widespread debate about Presta valve locknuts still bubbles up from time to time and has done so for decades. It’s the perfect hot button issue to tackle on albertnet because it gets people bickering good-naturedly without ruining friendships or landing me on either side of the currently raging culture war. So I decided to poll the members of my bike club on the topic, along with a couple other cycling pals and my brother, and describe in these pages the current Presta valve locknut zeitgeist.

The bike team weighs in

Curiously, more East Bay Velo Club members came out against valve locknuts than in favor, though I suspect more of my teammates use them than not, as I shall get into. I know with certainty that one of the “con” votes was from a guy I ride with all the time who does use them, as he told me himself … but that’s not what he put in writing.

Trigger warning: this is not a short post. If you have attention span issues, I recommend you either a) visit this page instead, b) request a vlog version of this post, or c) print it out and store it on your toilet tank to work through over time.

Okay, here’s what my bike club had to say:

1. I’m a nay on the ring. Need to reduce weight as much as possible. Plus, it just slows you down when having to change tubes—yes, I have still not gone tubeless. And last, if you have them on they loosen up and rattle...

2. Tubeless all day. Pro. [This is a tacit “for” vote … more on this later.]

3. I save them all for making bike bling bracelets, necklaces, etc. Still they continue to pile up. Need any? [He included these photos:]

4. Con. They work their way lose and rattle and it’s annoying.

5. Perhaps  we can add the little cap to the fray. That said, I once had to change a tube with a short stem in a deeper wheel, and it was impossible to insert the pump [chuck] as there was very little length left outside. I have since bought a screw on type, but still put in the nut unless it is a Michelin tube or TPU… [Not clear what “a screw on type” means here but I suspect either a screw-on pump chuck—more on this later—or a valve extender, which is a whole other topic. More to come on TPUs.]

6. I am very much on the pro side of piston rings, which sound like they should be mentioned in the same breath as valve rings, but which of course are entirely unrelated.

7. [From M—] Growing up riding on sew-ups (“tubulars” to youngsters) I never saw a stem nut. I don’t use them on clinchers either but could see how they’d be helpful for some people. The combination of unnecessarily long valve stems and ham-handed pump technique puts a lot of leverage on the stems, which I’ve seen damaged. This probably applies to pumps that attach directly to the stem vs. ones with a short, flexible hose. Both valve caps and stem nuts are largely useless. However, as collectors’ items, the former are vastly superior. [He included this photo of his prized valve cap collection.]

8. Since I’ve been a tubeless guy for 12 or more years, I can’t really see life without valve rings. That said, I recall also liking [pre-tubeless] to have them on tubes cause they frankly made it easier to get the pump chuck seated on to the valve before pumping the tire. So, for those guys who are against valve rings, tell them to SUCK IT!

9. I was talking about your forthcoming post on valve stem nuts on my ride today and someone pointed out that some of these modern TPU tubes don’t even have threads on the stem. No Nuts! 

My responses

There is so much to explain and respond to here, I feel like a kid in a candy shop, or more accurately an ectomorph with a pet tapeworm at an all-u-can-eat buffet.

First off, the locknuts do make it easier to get an old-school pump chuck on there because the valve doesn’t get shoved down into the tube. Is it the case that a valve that’s pulled out too much can interfere with seating the tire and cause it to blow off the rim? Yeah, that can happen. But it’s also the case that cramming a chuck on lockring-less valve can damage the tube, because the valve can get torqued around and, worse case, the tube rips at the valve. So there’s no free lunch, really, with traditional pump chucks.

That’s where M—’s input comes in, about the modern mini-pumps with the short, flexible hose. Not only do these not torque the valve around, but because the chuck isn’t shoved on there but instead just screws on (using the same valve threads that the locknut uses), there’s no need for the locknut. But the screw-on chucks have a downside, which is that they tend to unscrew an under-tightened valve core, so when you finish unscrewing the chuck and pull it off, the core comes with it and—WHOOSH!—all the air escapes. And unless you have a valve core tool in your kit, you’re pretty much screwed. I see this several times per season when coaching high schoolers. It also happened to me recently on El Toyonal, a road that is closed to cars. I’d have been stranded except I was able to screw the core in far enough with my fingers to make it (sort of) work. I couldn’t believe I managed that. It felt like an 80-yard Hail Mary pass (and as you can imagine I am useless at football).

Any argument about saving weight is a joke (perhaps literally). This is a case, I think, of the person supplying a merely ostensible reason because he doesn’t actually know why he does what he does. (Or she.) I don’t own a scale sensitive enough to weigh a valve locknut. I suppose I could gather up all the ones I own (probably at least twenty, spread out over several boxes, toolboxes, the little nipple holder on my truing stand, and elsewhere) and take the average, but I can’t be bothered. This tiny locknut couldn’t even weigh a gram. If you want to save that much weight, just blow your nose before you ride, or alter your diet. Or better yet, to M—’s point about unnecessarily long valve stems, get the ones that are only just long enough for your aero rims … I see a lot of “stem inflation” (pun intended, sorry) and I don’t like it. The valves look like they’re aroused.

Let’s proceed, then, to the most common criticism of valve locknuts: they come loose and rattle. This is sort of a legitimate complaint. Why only sort of? Because not only is it not always true, many cyclists will tell you that the opposite is true: that part of the purpose of the lockring is to prevent the valve itself from rattling. So which is it? I think this has everything to do with your specific setup. I used valve locknuts on the cheapy Araya rims that came with my Miyata 310; on the Super Champion Gentleman rims I had on my Mercian; on the Wolber 58s I use for my commuting bike; on the Mavic MA-40s I trained on for many years; on the 16-spoke Shimano aero wheels that I had briefly before they disintegrated; and on both pairs of my Mavic Ksyriums. In zero of these cases did the locknut rattle. And I didn’t tighten these locknuts with pliers like an idiot (though a friend of mine did this in junior high and thus couldn’t fix a flat out on the road once and had to call his mommy). Are my fingers possibly stronger than those of the people whose valve locknuts rattle? Possibly, due to all the years I worked in bike shops. (As we always liked to tell people, “Bicycle mechanic bleed on the inside.”)

So if you, gentle reader, were to install valve locknuts, would they rattle? I’m gonna say probably not. As I look back on all the hundreds, perhaps thousands of cyclists I’ve ridden with, I honestly cannot remember a single instance of valve lockrings rattling. This isn’t because I have a faulty memory; after all, I remember the kid in junior high I just mentioned who’d over-tightened his lockrings, and that was over forty years ago. Meanwhile, I distinctly remember the converse: a valve rattling, which bothered several of us on a ride 16 years ago. It couldn’t possibly have been a locknut because the valve was on a sew-up (tubular) tire. I have photographic proof. Look:

This was during the 2009 Sierra Century (details here). Mark got so frustrated with the rattling he stopped at a rest stop and accepted assistance from the staffer you see above, who was beyond stoked at being able to help, even if that only meant holding Mark’s bike. I’m pretty sure she’d fallen in love.

Okay, you’ve probably stumbled onto the theory that I’m just deaf and/or willing to ignore an annoying noise. I will concede that the latter may be true. I know I mentioned mere moments ago being bothered by Mark’s rattling valve, but to be more specific, it was his complaining of the rattling that actually bothered me. My own bikes have made various noises over the years and yes, I’ve managed to tune them out. Humans are harder to ignore. I was once accosted repeatedly during a ride by my pal T—, who complained incessantly about my pump rattling until I finally did something about it. And I’ve had people complain about my wheels making some kind of noise that I always took as a cry for help (the noise of the wheel, not my friends) but that I figured would take care of itself when the wheel inevitably died. My friend C— often apologizes for the noises his bike makes, and almost invariably I don’t even know what he’s talking about.

(There was one notable exception. One day back in 2007, his bike was making an awful creaking noise that seemed to get progressively worse, and he apologized repeatedly. I have to confess, I  really was getting annoyed, I mean the noise was that bad. Finally I turned off to head up Lomas Cantadas, just to get away from the din, but to my horror the noise persisted. It wasn’t C—’s bike after all, it was mine … my fricking frame was broken! The seat tube had cracked down near the front derailleur, and right about at the turnoff to South Park Drive it sheared completely in two. By the time I got home the noise had grown to the sound of Satan eating a steel garbage can.)

If you’re using a Presta tube in a rim drilled for Schrader, you need more than a locknut—you need a rim grommet, which looks like this:

I’ve used those and they absolutely require a locknut because more often than not, they pucker out like a hemorrhoid which is really gross to look at but is well hidden by the locknut.

Now, if you’ve been paying attention, first off congratulations, and second, you’re probably wondering about my assertion that more of my teammates use valve locknuts than not, despite what a majority of them have indicated in my email survey. This is because I’d guess over half of my teammates are now running tubeless, which setup practically requires lockrings. (It’s not 100%—as I’ll get to—but they certainly help.) So shouldn’t the modern debate be about whether to run tubeless tires or not? Isn’t that where the rubber meets the road? (Sorry, couldn’t resist.) But the tubeless-or-not debate is actually pointless, for the simple reason that this matter is entirely cut-and-dried. There is an obvious right answer, and I have it, and I shall give it to you.

But first, I have just one other tidbit from the reader comments to address, which is piston rings. I found that aside so comical, I read it out loud to my wife. She is a curious sort (and a recovering journalist) and asked, “What are piston rings?” So I started to mansplain them to her, and about a minute in I paused and asked, “Are you actually interested in this?” She replied, “No, I’ve stopped listening. I was only wondering if they were part of a bicycle.” I assured her they weren’t but that they were absolutely integral to the function of a car engine. She asked, “Do all males know what piston rings do?” I said yes, of course. “Why?” she asked. I asserted that all males find such matters intrinsically fascinating. (If you are a male reader and disagree, please set me straight via a comment below.)

So, there is a lively debate, online and IRL, about tubeless vs. tubes, and many of my pals have weighed in during our rides over the last five or more years. Until recently I was a bystander in this because my wheels, though insanely cool, couldn’t accommodate tubeless tires anyway. Well, I finally came into some tubeless-ready wheels, contemplated the matter for about thirty seconds, decided to ignore all the horror stories about how hard road tubeless tires are to mount, pulled the tubes out, stuck the valves in, dumped some goo in the tires, reseated and inflated them, and ditched those inner tubes forever (unless I have a rude awakening ahead of me in which case I’ll blog all about that when the time comes).

Here is the point: if you’ve made it this far into this post, it’s almost a given you’ve spent thousands of dollars on a bicycle. So you want that bicycle to ride as beautifully as possible, right? Tubeless gets you there. Nothing else matters. So don’t give me any song and dance about maintenance, punctures, mess, ease of installation, whatever. What is your bike for: to ride, or to fix?

Here’s an analogy: suppose you’re a happily married man, with all the children you want (even if—or perhaps especially if—that number is zero), and you’ve just gotten a vasectomy. You’ve had the follow-up semen sample tested, it came back negative, and the doctor has just left you a voicemail saying, “You can have all the unprotected sex you want.” Now, would you continue using condoms? “Well, I’m used to them, and it’s less messy,” no sane husband would ever say. So it is with tubeless: you’ve gotten rid of a pesky bit of rubber that no longer has any place in your life. The road feel is better with tubeless, cornering is better, and rolling resistance is lower. (And to the weight weenies calling for skipping locknuts on your inner tube valves to save weight, get real: I knocked a quarter pound off the weight of my bike by ditching the tubes. I only put an ounce of sealant in each tire; when it dries up I’ll add more, no biggie.)

So what about TPUs? In case you haven’t heard of them (I myself hadn’t until recently), these are tubes made of thermoplastic polyurethane instead of rubber or latex. This brings the weight down by about 20-30 grams vs. traditional tubes, while also offering lower rolling resistance. They’re also easier to mount. All this being said, they’re $20-30 each, and the special patch kit required is $8 or $10—both way pricier than standard, and needless to say pricier than that ounce of sealant. And yet, at the end of the day, the TPU setup is still heavier than tubeless and still doesn’t ride as well. To continue my vasectomy metaphor, they’re like fancy lambskin condoms … better, sure, but more expensive, and still unnecessary. And why don’t TPU tubes accommodate locknuts? Because, as you saw above, the valves aren’t ribbed (i.e., threaded) for anyone’s pleasure!

If you persist in arguing for inner tubes based on less hassle, etc. you need to accept that the tubeless technology is not the problem: you are. If you are serious about riding an excellent bicycle jolly well, mounting tubeless tires is just something you need to get good at, like typing and being organized and knowing how to scramble an egg (or, for the vegans among you, properly prepare tofu). Setting up tubeless is not that hard. Suck it up. I even have step-by-step instructions for you, here.

Okay, fine, there’s one non-trivial argument against tubeless tires, particularly for road bikes, which is the idea—not without anecdotal evidence—that the tire can blow off the rim. So here’s what to do. First, choose the right tire for your rims: if you have hookless rims, you need hookless-type tires. Consult the manufacturer’s compatibility charts to be sure you have the right combo. Then, read the recommended PSI for the tires you’re using, and for the rims you’re using. Go with whatever is lower. Still nervous? Use a fatter tire and go down another 10 PSI or so. Thousands of professional riders use this technology … it’s mature, it’s commonplace, and it’s arguably as safe as any other aspect of road cycling. All this being said, note that I’m just a blogger, not an industry expert, a certified accountant, an Internet influencer, or a medical doctor. Caveat emptor (translation: don’t sue me).

Now: can you run tubeless without valve locknuts? The conventional wisdom is that you cannot, because the locknut holds the valve firmly in place so it can make an airtight seal with the rim. In fact, ENVE claims that if you don’t use their special Pressure Relief Valve Stem Nut (PRVSN), your rim could actually explode. I doubt you need $5 PRSVNs, but I do recommend valve locknuts based on my own experience. (If you’re curious about what happens without them, see Appendix A. If you’re curious about other stuff, see Appendix B.)

This made me wonder: if tubeless basically requires locknuts, why didn’t my tubeless-ready valves come with them? Answer: they did, but the locknuts were just floating around loose in the box of accessories (reflectors, etc.) that my bike came with. Check it out: the locknuts are black to match my wheels. How cool is that?! I’d never seen (non-plastic) black valve locknuts in my life!

Synthesis

So what’s my ultimate verdict on valve locknuts? As follows:

• If you have a commuter bike with Presta valves, use the locknuts or not, at your whim
• If you have a backup “rain bike” that you mainly ride on the indoor trainer, you better be using noise-canceling headphones, in which case you can use locknuts or not, because who cares if they (or your valves) rattle?
• For your flagship road or mountain bike, run tubeless with locknuts, and if anybody makes fun of you, send them this blog post.

One more thing: do I ever hear valve locknuts rattling on wheels with tubeless tires? I’ll give you a hint: no. Still stumped? Here’s another hint: I don’t.

Appendix A

Tubeless-ready wheels came with my new bike, but the tires were mounted with tubes since it’s impossible to know how long a bike might sit around in a warehouse, its tires going flat (which could break the seal and cause sealant to ooze everywhere). So I dug through the bag of accessories (reflectors, a bell, owner’s manuals, etc.) and found the valves that came with the wheels. They didn’t have locknuts in the little bag, so I assumed locknuts weren’t necessary. (Obviously I could have installed some from my stash, but M—’s admonition about “novice nerd-dom” was still ringing in my ears, 13 years later.) Despite all the mythology I’d heard about setting up tubeless tires, I not only managed to get the tires to seal without lockrings, but did it with ease. My assumption, that the pressure inside the tire would hold the valves in place, seemed to pan out.

The problem is, not all seals are created equal, and tubeless-style valves (at least mine) do not have a round base. The rubber part that butts up against the rim is rectangular, as it’s designed to sit in the rim in a specific way, and if it gets twisted the seal is slightly compromised. I learned this on my fifth or sixth tubeless ride: before heading out, I topped up the air pressure, and when I removed the screw-on pump chuck from the valve, it put up a fight (as it often does) and must have twisted the valve. About 90 minutes into my ride the tire pressure had dropped to about 40 PSI, maybe less. I thought I could pump it up and get home, but as I mentioned before, halfway up El Toyonal the tire was again almost flat, and that’s when I had my mishap with the valve core.

So yeah, use locknuts with tubeless, to make sure the valve stays straight. The locknut also helps when you tighten down that valve core good and snug. (If you use a screw-on chuck and don’t have a valve core wrench, buy one immediately.)

Appendix B

I’m still working on Appendix B. Check back next week. For information about giraffes, click here.

UPDATE: I have now posted Appendix B here. Enjoy please enjoy.

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Carbon vs. Steel & the Bike Geek Divide

NOTE:  This post is rated R for mild strong language and mature themes.

Introduction

This post was inspired by the book It’s All About The Bike: The Pursuit of Happiness on Two Wheels by Robert Penn.  It’s a very good book (the New York Times applauds Penn’s “vast and endearingly shaggy bicycle boffinry,” and yes, “boffinry” is well worth looking up).  As I read this book, though, something dawned on me:  Penn resides on one side of a bicyclist divide, and I’ve gradually crossed over to the other. This post examines that divide.

The divide

On the one hand, you have dudes riding Brooks saddles with actual rivets; on the other, guys who use (and can sometimes even spell) Fi’zi:k.  The first group—let’s call them Crusty Old Veterans—favor handbuilt wheels laced 3-cross.  The other group—the Tech Weenies—don’t much care how their wheels came to be, so long as the front is laced radial and the rear has something similarly aerodynamic going on.  The COVies say things like “steel is real,” and the Tweenies prefer carbon fiber (even if they irreverently call it “plastic”).  One side is enraptured by hand-cut lugs; the other by bike weights in the low teens.

Perhaps you can tell from my unflattering descriptions (equal-opportunity bashing, if you will) that I don’t overmuch care for either group, or for anybody with overly strong opinions about seemingly trivial matters (notwithstanding my own fierce brand loyalties regarding ketchup, Band-Aids, and deodorant.)  The point is this:  your opinion about which bicycle cult(ure) to embrace is largely based on taste, but also—I’ve recently decided—on politics.  Not in the sense of red/blue, liberal/conservative, but about what you think a bike ought to be, and what a bike company ought to be doing.

The common ground

Since I’m about to label Robert Penn a COVie, and then advance the case for Tweenies, I better pause for a moment and praise his book some more.  Specific preferences aside, all bicyclists love to ride; they wish more people rode bikes (or at least wish fewer people drove cars); they believe bicyclists have a right to use the roads; and probably most feel somewhat claustrophobic when driving a car (especially in traffic).  Penn does a great job of celebrating the bicycle—a tribute society sorely needs, with so many Americans thinking of this noble machine as a child’s toy.  Penn’s book provides a fascinating history, describing a huge number of bicycle-related inventions that were later adapted for cars.  Bikes were a dominant industry at the turn of the 19th century; almost a third of all US patents went toward the bicycle and there was a whole separate building just to process the bike patents.  It strikes me that the bicycle, in its heyday, was like the mobility industry of today.

Penn’s dream bike

It’s All About the Bike interleaves historical ruminations with the blow-by-blow report of Penn’s global quest to build the perfect bicycle, part by part. He has the frame built in England, heads over to Portland for a headset, has the wheels laced in Marin County, and visits Italy to find a fork and some handlebars.  It’s kind of like Anthony Bourdain’s book A Cook’s Tour, except that Penn doesn’t eat everything along the way. 

What would you choose for a dream bike?  I can’t really answer this question.  I’ve learned not to get too attached to my bikes, because they keep breaking.  (Over the last decade I’ve broken six frames.)

That said, I can tell you one trait I’d definitely avoid in a new road bike:  a steel frame.  “Steel is real?”  Yeah, it’s real lame!  Look, I know all the great things about it:  you can cold-set it, it rides nicely, it has a long history, it’s durable, yeah, yeah, yeah.  All true.  But it also fricking rusts.  I hate that.  I’ve had to retire two steel road frames before they even had a chance to break, because they got so rusty I was afraid to go fast on them.  Once I had a steel fork snap on me, right at the steerer tube, due to unseen rust.  That was a painful crash. 

(Full disclosure:  four of the six frames I’ve broken recently were aluminum, but at least they were far, far lighter than the two steel ones that broke, one of which was the most expensive frame I’ve ever owned.  By the way, I’ve been using carbon forks for twelve years, and haven’t had a single failure.)

What’s that?  You’ve been on the same steel frame for decades without a spot of rust?  Well, you must have naked pictures of God or something.  Steel frames invariably have chrome in the fork and rear triangle, and nobody does good chrome.  (The chrome fork doesn’t have its origins in durability or aesthetics, but in cheapness.  Frame builders weren’t interested in building forks and bought them from some third party that did a good-enough job; chroming all of them was easier and cheaper than trying to match frame paint or arranging to have them painted at the same factory.)  And no, I haven’t stored my bikes in a shed or even the garage—they always live indoors, in my office or bedroom.

So, getting back to Penn, I found it curious that for his once-in-a-lifetime dream bike, he chose a steel frame.  His reasoning was even more surprising.  For one thing, he writes, “Steel is not prone to sudden failure.” (Yeah, right.  I refer you to the three counterexamples above.)  He trots out “steel is real.”  (Whatever, dude.)  He argues that the supposed comfort of carbon frames is a fallacy, maintaining that it’s the tires and such that make a bike comfortable, not the frame.  (This is so obviously, empirically untrue I’m not even going to bother debating the point, other than to mention that Penn did select a carbon fork for his dream bike.)

Moreover, Penn leaves out what I would consider the best reason for buying a steel frame:  the ability to specify custom geometry.  I’m not aware of a single manufacturer who will build a carbon frame to order, though a handful will do custom aluminum.  (No, I didn’t research this thoroughly … I’m too lazy, and I want   to leave the door open for people to set me straight.  Providing an opportunity for smug indignation is my little gift to the world.)

Custom geometry:  COVie or Tweenie?

Hey, here’s a puzzle:  is custom frame geometry the domain of COVies or Tweenies?  On the one hand, custom-built frames have been around for many, many decades; I spent many an afternoon drooling on The Custom Bicycle, published in 1979.  (That’s where I got the tidbit about chrome forks, if memory serves.)  Of course that book is now COVie territory since it predated the vast majority of non-steel bicycles.  On the other hand, a five-star reviewer of it says, “In spite of a number of efforts involving higher-order differential equations performed on a Cray computer nobody has been able to derive the equation for bicycle frame stability.”  What could be Tweenier than that?

Custom geometry may be the nexus between COVies and Tweenies because it’s a traditional trait of an old-school top-end bicycle, but also a highly technical matter compatible with a performance-at-all-costs ethos.  Part of my distaste for COVie bikes is that they’re heavier, less aerodynamic, and therefore slower than cutting-edge bikes (even if only marginally).  When I’m gloating over my new bike, I’m not thinking, “Oh, it’s so beautiful!” but rather, “Man, I’m going to hurt some people with this thing!”  (No, I don’t often have such delusions of grandeur, but if a guy in the throes of New Bike Syndrome can’t indulge some grandiose notions, when can he?)

Custom geometry, since it doesn’t add weight or wind drag, really is an unalloyed good thing.  (Sorry about the pun.  I couldn’t help myself.)  I had one racing bike, a Ten Speed Drive team-issue Guerciotti, steel, that just had the best geometry.  When it rusted, I bought another Guerciotti from a web merchant, and it had the worst geometry.  From the first pedal stroke I knew I hated it, and my opinion never improved.  (When it got too rusty to ride at high speeds, I turned it into a commuter bike, and it was great for that, until it broke.)

Having learned my lesson, I had my next frame custom made.  (It was aluminum.)  I based my design largely on that first Guerciotti, with a couple alterations, and produced something like this:

(I say “something like this” because the above is the second generation of my custom geometry; the first didn’t have the slightly sloping top tube.  The manufacturer refused to do a non-sloping top tube for my second frame, but I didn’t really care.  The essential geometry is the same, and the frames rode identically.)

So how did that custom geometry work out?  It was amazing!  As soon as I climbed on and started pedaling I had this exhilarating sensation of perfect rightness.  How to describe this feeling?  Well, hypothetically speaking, it’s like when you’re doing the bone dance and your condom breaks.  To be precise, it’s that brief moment when the bad part about the condom ceases to be a problem, but just before you realize why everything feels suddenly better—that is, before you realize what this means.  You know, the delighted “aaaaaaah” just before the terrified “AAAAAAAAAUGH!”

A friend of mine summarized this description as “fits like a condom.”  I can see his logic in extending the laudatory “fits like a glove” description, but in fact a custom frame fits like a lack of condom.  It’s the beautiful sense of freedom from that which constricts and pinches.

Is custom geometry worth it?

So, should we accept the limitations of steel if it means getting to have custom geometry?  This depends a lot on the rider.  Those with strange proportions (e.g., really long legs and an incredibly short torso) have more to gain from custom geometry.  For most riders, adjusting the saddle and getting the right stem will do the job, though it’s worth pointing out that on my second Guerciotti I was able to get my body oriented how I like, but the stem was too long, which made the steering weird, and the head tube angle was too shallow, which made it handle like a touring bike, and the seat tube angle was too steep, which meant I couldn’t get the saddle back far enough without resorting to a setback seatpost (which I couldn’t bring myself to buy).

The big challenge with custom geometry is knowing what you want.  Robert Penn worked closely with a frame builder to optimize the position on his bike and so forth, which is ideal.  Most people would probably just guess, based on bikes they had that felt particularly good. 

A couple years ago, my fourth custom-made frame broke, and the manufacturer no longer offered frames with custom geometry.  Their stock geometry sucks balls so I never even considered it (even though all four frames were warrantied, which by the way is a benefit of going with a huge company, in stark contrast to many small-shop frame builders who will take forever to fix or replace your frame, unless they’re too arrogant to even admit it was defective).  So I switched to a stock frame from another manufacturer (a giant outfit based in Taiwan).  Was this a problem? 

Actually, no.  Here was a case of the free market actually solving a problem:  because there are so many companies making bikes, chances are somebody just so happens to offer your desired geometry (at least, if your physique isn’t too weird).  It’s easy to shop for frames online when geometry is your main selection criterion, because manufacturer websites almost always provide geometry diagrams.  (This is how I selected the frame for my backup bike, which has almost my ideal geometry other than the seat tube and head tube being too long, which spoils the aesthetics.)  Once you know what geometry you want, you’ll probably be able to find it—and in carbon, no less!

The politics of bicycles

No, my little “free market” comment above isn’t where politics come in.  (I think it takes a pretty fringe mentality, in this country, to oppose capitalism.  I for one do not.)

What I’m talking about is a somewhat political undertone I noticed in Penn’s book.  This was something like nostalgia, for a time when things were made by hand, by people in first-world countries who made a good wage with solid benefits.  Workmanship seems to be a core value for Penn.  For example, he bought his dream hubs from Royce, a company in England that makes only super high-end stuff, including these bling-y gold things that you’d expect a rapper to have if a rapper had a bike. 

Penn went to Portland for his headset, and goes on at length about how cool Chris King is.  It’s a small company with good benefits and happy, educated employees who bike to work and are fed a free lunch.  Sure, their headsets are really expensive, but hey, they’ll last forever, and isn’t it better to bring your business to a responsible company?

Well, it’s great that Chris King uses soy oil in its machining, and turns metal shavings into little pucks that are easier to recycle.  Perhaps they deserve my business for that reason alone.  And yet—who cares about headsets?  I never wear them out.  I have three steel frames in my garage (two broken, all rusted) with perfectly good teenage headsets I might yet harvest one day if I come across an old frame I want to use.  I refuse to blow $150 on a headset, because it won’t make me go faster.  And the soy oil is a drop in the bucket compared to basic choices I make, like how often my vacations should include air travel.  (Penn surely did more environmental damage flying around the world buying bike parts than he’d ever save by preferring eco-friendly manufacturers—but I’ll cut him some slack because a) he was writing a book, and b) he’s a cyclist.)

Now, getting back to those Royce hubs:  what’s up with all this amazing craftsmanship and beautiful finish when the product is technologically obsolete?  Their fancy gold hubs cost almost $1500 a pair; even their apparently budget-minded Venus rear hub costs $480, and yet you don’t even get straight-pull spokes!  Look, I’m sure these are great hubs, but in my experience, straight-pull spokes break less frequently, and tend to make a lighter wheel.  I’m not going to get into a whole separate debate about this, but for $480, shouldn’t the design be different than what’s on my 1960 Triumph 3-speed?  For $480, I want wind tunnel testing, space-age materials, Bluetooth, and a fricking motor!  (And, to flip it around, would Penn settle for a cottered crank, if the materials and finish were good enough?)

To be clear, I have absolutely no problem with Penn, or anybody, buying a ridiculously expensive bicycle.  After all, my own bicycles (at least by my wife’s standards) are ridiculously expensive.  I just have a different opinion about what kind of companies we cyclists should reward with our business.  He seems to especially admire the “boutique” style companies, which make conspicuously high-end stuff for those who can afford it and want to show off.  He makes the classic COVie move (COVerture?) by springing for a $250 Brooks Team Pro saddle, which sports a 50-year-old design and little eyelets for a saddlebag.  (Is he unwilling to concede that any technological progress has been made in half a century?  At least Fi’zi:k saddles are vegan.)

Myself, I am more impressed by companies that invest so much in the design that relatively cheap stuff can still perform wonderfully.  Take, for example, the Shimano Sora derailleur:  for about $20, I’ll bet it shifts better than the Campy Super Record I had on my ’85 Mercian.  Maybe I overpay for my Dura-Ace, but at least I’m subsidizing the R&D that improves all kinds of basic, inexpensive bike parts.

Here’s another example:  a second wheel innovation Penn passed up, which is a laughably simple one, is the new generation of wider rims.  An American company, HED, experimented with this a few years back and discovered that wider rims give a much smoother ride, because of how they affect the profile of the tire.  With traditional rims, the cross-section of the tire looks something like a light bulb, tapering inward where the bead fits into the rim.  With a wider rim, the tire profile is improved:  the tire deflects less during cornering, and can be run at a lower pressure, and the ride is much more comfortable without any compromise in speed.  The beauty of this innovation is that the wider rim doesn’t make the wheel more expensive the way traditional advancements (e.g., carbon rims, titanium axles, etc.) always do.  So the benefit can “trickle down” to cheaper wheels.  (And if there is no actual benefit, and I’m just drinking my own bathwater, at least I didn’t pay big bucks for the placebo effect.)

To my mind, Penn’s dream bike is more like a bespoke suit, hand-tailored from whole cloth:  certainly a nice thing, for those who can afford it, but not ultimately much better than “off the rack.”  Getting to talk face to face with the guy who laces your wheels is a nice personal touch, but not anything most of us need; I’d say it’s the rough equivalent of getting a shave from a barber (who theatrically hones his straight razor on a leather strop and soaps up your face with a beavertail shaving brush) instead of shaving your own face with a 25-cent Bic. 

I would love to see a bicycle industry that does a better job of making everyday, affordable bikes faster and lighter and more pleasurable to ride.  What’s ultimately the better service to society and the planet:  satisfying the aesthetic fetishes of the very wealthy, or bringing a reasonably high-quality experience to the cycling newcomer, so he might actually get out there and ride?