Much like any good ghost story - it all began on a dark and stormy night. And also like any good ghost story, everything began with a mystery creaking sound which I couldn't quite place. Unfortunately, nobody had told me that Hanna Barbera had bought the rights to this particular yarn.
Every cyclist eventually gets one, that ethereal indication that something's not quite right with the machine - ranging from just a quiet periodic clicking sound all the way to the full blown terminal crunch. Whatever it is, that's the cue to begin the finding-out-what's-making-that-infernal-noise dance. The main problems you have are: that it could be literally any component on the bicycle, and that it only occurs when you're moving.
So using attention that should be better employed watching the oncoming landscape and traffic, you bob and weave your head - trying to match up your particular noise with a particular part of the bike. If you have people riding along with you; you could ask them if they notice anything wrong. Sometimes this works. Sometimes someone will recognise the noise (usually because it's been scarred upon their mind as the death rattle of a particular component that's about to give way and introduce you to the earth in a particularly sudden way), or it's something really obvious - such as always happening at the bottom of your left pedal stroke (at which point you'll feel like a right numpty for not figuring that out yourself). But more often than not your friends will have less of a clue than you (what with them not riding your bike), and so will list off every possible malady from misshapen headset bearings right down to missing chain faceplates. This invariably induces velohypochondria (which is a word I just made up, and am really quite proud of): causing you to ride cautiously for the rest of the day. Inducing velohypochondria (see, I used it again) in others can be quite a powerful weapon in reaching the cafe stop first.
In my particular case, I was fairly confident I knew what my mystery creak (which had developed into a full blown mechanical screech by the time I'd got round to dealing with it) was - it was clearly my bottom bracket. Further evidence for my case came when I gave the pedals an experimental wiggle (the industry standard test), and found they moved side to side in a way well outside of their design remit. So you can imagine my surprise when I got a call from the bike shop saying that the problem wasn't my bottom bracket at all - but that the entire chainset needed replacing (chain, sprocket, chainring, the lot). That's normally a job I could do myself, but seeing as the bike was in the shop (and they had all the bits) I said they could do it.
On delivery of the bike, the woman said "not sure what's happened, the chain skips a bit - I'd be happy riding it, but I think your chain tensioner's knackered." Turned out she was right (annoyingly, I discovered this only after trying every other way to fix it I could think of - convinced that my chain tensioner couldn't possibly be at fault), but it also begged the question of what quality of bike that shop were pedalling (no pun intended, honest) given that they were happy with the performance, while the chain skipped like a particularly prawn flavoured tapioca snack.
Either way, I needed a new tensioner - and I opted for the Bachelor Single Gusset (I think that's what it's called, the packaging isn't very clear), which I'm now having trouble with too. Because it's bolt-on, it's only the strength of my own allen keys that keep the chain tight - so on today's long (and chuffing steep, thanks again ERC) ride, it kept coming loose (I wasn't allowed any say in the route, it was decided that you get as many votes on direction as you have gears).
So now I'm not completely sure what I'm going to do. I could shell out and purchase an all-singing all-dancing hipster bait of a chain tensioner, but I do feel that would be a little like cheating (as well as the rash that would bring my wallet out in). However, I have a small (but growing) pile of chain tensioners I've ridden to the end of their usefulness, and it would be a great shame to add to it after only three days. What I suspect will happen is that I'll stubbornly stick it out for a few weeks, until either I (or someone I ride with) gets thoroughly sick of the explosive bang of my chain slipping (often followed by a dull, wet, Mike sized thump, and some fairly inventive swearing) and I'll see sense and buy a new one. Until then, if you're riding in the Pentlands, and meet a man offering to buy his bike an ice cream if it only transports him over the next hill - do say hi!
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