Why Fixed?

"The bike cannot coast. The pedals never stop turning. Can't stop. Don't want to either." - Premium Rush (movie 2012)

"That's stupid. Coasting is the best part." - My brother, David.

Two disparate quotes, polar opposites. A starting place that indicates common ground will never be reached. That's fine. It isn't an important topic. Doesn't affect society, not worth arguing about. Not like climate change, gay marriage or Lady Gaga. It really only impacts the rider. It is about aesthetics, purity, preference. It is riding “fixed.”

Fixed gear bikes have gained in popularity over the past two decades. Their simplicity is undeniable. Fewer moving parts, less to break down, to maintain. Less to rust. Less to steal. The design is straightforward. The bike has no freewheel. A device invented more than a century ago; it allows the back wheel to spin without moving the pedals. On a fixed gear bike, a fixie, as the hipsters call it, the pedals, the chainring, are essentially chained to the back wheel. If the wheel is spinning, so are the pedals. If the pedals are spinning, so is the wheel. Frontwards or backwards. The pedals and the wheel move as a unit. Pedal hard, the bike goes fast. Stop the pedals, the bike stops. Not much is simpler than that.

I began riding fixed when my kids finished child care, started grade school. No more drop-offs and pickups on my work commute. It had been eight years since my last stint as a bike commuter. I was itching to resume riding to work. Hell or high-water. Hot enough to fry an egg. Rain, sleet, dead of night. Any other clichéd adverse riding description. Any weather, any time. As early as 4:00 AM, as late as midnight. I didn't want to ride my 'good' bike. I had to park outside. I would ruin it. Or it might get stolen. I had a decades-old Trek 1200 in my attic. Nice frame, light, aluminum. It was all I needed. I stripped off the gears, the derailleur. Ditched one of the two chainrings and all other extraneous parts. Cut my dropbars into bullhorns. 'Flop & Chops' they call them. Shortened the chain. The only money I spent was on a cheap back wheel with a fixed hub. And then I rode it for years. Back and forth to work, all over town. Pretty much rode it until it was worn out, too hard to maintain.

The bicycle isn't as old as many people think. Barely older than the automobile. I once read on a bike-shop website that "for centuries Americans have enjoyed riding bicycles..." Not correct. The first pedal-propelled bike wasn't invented until almost 1860, and the first chain-driven bikes became available in the mid-1880s. But five years later, bikes included pneumatic tires and the familiar diamond design. And there it was. Just 30 years after the first pedal-bike was created, the bicycle was perfected. Materials have changed. Lighter, more durable metals, more pliable rubber for the tires. Improved machine techniques make everything sleeker, stronger. But the basic design was set. And they nailed it from the start. My brand new Specialized Langster is conceptually identical to a bike I could have bought in the late 1890s.

With proper seat-height and alignment, a bicycle is the most efficient means of human transportation. Least calories expended per miles covered. And on this machine, the engine gets stronger the more it is used. I would argue that the bicycle is the most perfect machine ever invented. In the past 125 years, engineers and manufacturers have tried hard to improve on the design. Adjustments made to the geometry. Shocks, disk brakes, and gears, lots of gears. Some of the changes have merit, some are just stupid and don’t last. But in the end, the basic 1890s design will work adequately for many if not most riders.

Langster with custom Hot Wheels track fender

I have two bikes right now. The Specialized Langster I mentioned earlier and a 2012 Giant Seek. The Seek is marketed as an "urban-influenced sport bike." Sort of a cross between a mountain bike and a road bike. Geometry-wise, it looks and feels more like a mountain bike, but it is road bike through and through. Sort of a bad-ass hybrid. It has 24 gears. I'm not opposed to gears, or even a freewheel. Both are nice on a long hilly ride. But for popping around town, I find them extraneous and in the way. One more thing to worry about. Am I in the right gear? Much more satisfying to just dig in and ride the gear I have. Attack the hills, control the descents, stand dead-still on my pedals at traffic lights. Trackstanding. Like a unicycle, fixies are far easier to keep upright when stopped. Imperceptible rocking, forwards and back. An inch or less. Riding fixed is fun. Aesthetic. Artistic. Human and machine working as a unit. Zen.  No need to switch gears and ride the brakes around every corner.

And for me, that's really what it comes down to. Connecting with the bike. Riding fixed pays homage to the roots of cycling. Recognizing that the bicycle has been perfect for well over a century. I find happiness in fixed-gear riding. It leaves me feeling peaceful. In touch with a bygone era. In touch with my favorite machine. For years I have been striving for simplicity in my life. So when asked why I ride fixed, I forego this long explanation. I usually answer "Why not?"

Stuff

Toys, expensive toys. Seems to me that most men my age have a bunch of these. A set of golf clubs appropriate for an emerging pro. Latest phone, tablet, laptop. In-home theater. A comprehensive wood-shop. Carbon fiber bike (or two). Motorcycle, kayak, sports car, boat. Status symbols, reward for a successful career, for raising kids. Akin to ordering decent wine at dinner, at some point in adult life, most men make a switch. Change from Budweiser to craft beers. Quality over quantity. No more making do with what's OK. Wanting better if not the best. These are their hobbies. Do them right.

I might have missed this gene. I'm not very "stuff" oriented. Sure I've got a garage full of bikes and bike crap, but almost all of it is old, really old, and none of it is high-end. A couple of refurbished fixies – built from discarded frames and spare parts – one twenty-five years old, the other almost forty. A bike trailer made from an old running stroller and wood scraps out of my attic. A pair of old mountain bikes that I cannibalized for parts. Even my "good" bike, my performance bike, was well under $1,000. Other than bikes, I don't really own much. No cell phone, no tablet, I have a laptop, but it isn't fancy. No stereo. A low-end running watch. A bit of sport-specific exercise apparel, but most of it is ancient. Fifteen year old cycling shoes. Twenty year old running shorts, and so on. I exercise in old, cotton t-shirts. Other than drinking too much mediocre wine. I really don't spend money at all.

People get satisfaction from treating themselves. Validated by their stuff. Retail therapy. The term seems to be associated with women, shopping for purses or shoes. But men do it too. Expensive stuff, larger purchases. We need more therapy.

This is pervasive in America. But it doesn't work for me. Buying nice stuff makes me feel fraudulent. Showy. Spoiled. It stresses me out. I worry about the expense. How else I could have used that money? Will I make the right choice? What if I'm let down by my purchase? My hobbies are free. Reading (library books). Writing. Instructing spin classes (I actually get paid for that one). I can't really tell if this has been intentional, but the result is that the things I do, the the way I spend my time, it's all free. But last weekend I bought a new bike.

Background: My two home-made fixed-gear bikes frustrate me. The old one, a 1975 Sears Freespirit, looks awesome. I stripped it to the metal. A flashy paint job. Rebuilt wheels. All recycled parts. The only expense was paint and handlebar tape. But it rides like crap. The geometry is a mess. Weighs a ton. Creaky. My newer bike, a 1989 Trek 1200, rides beautifully. Fits me like a glove. But the frame style is inappropriate for a fixed-gear rig. I can't adjust the chain tension. After a few months, the chain will stretch a millimeter or two. Fly off when I'm spinning 90 RPM. Dangerous in traffic, a pain in the ass when I'm a few miles from home. I need a wrench to reset my wheel, and I never have one with me. Long walks with a bike on my shoulder.

So last weekend, I bought a bike. A Specialized Langster. Fixed-gear. Not a high-end bike, but a huge jump from the antiques I've been riding. It shipped form California, so I just got it yesterday. I'm hoping I fall in love with it. Right now, it seems a bit above me, like dating a model. I tell myself that I deserve a decent bike, something that works, doesn't breakdown in traffic. I ride to work all year. Snow, rain, heat. But I can't make myself believe it.

Because I don't need a car to get to work, Susan and I have just one. That and a 20 year old beater truck that we hardly drive. But getting this new bike leaves me feeling like I'm cheating. In my mind, the things I own are supposed to be second rate. Refurbished. Home-made. Used (like my truck). I'm not sure where this came from. I grew up in a frugal family, but when we got stuff, we got it new. Even cars. And I'm not that handy, not really that capable of making stuff myself, keeping it working No one expects this of me anyway. Susan is constantly telling me to buy new clothes, new shoes. But it just doesn't feel right. The stuff I have, it works. My shorts are old and stained, but they fit. My shoes are worn, but no holes. I can make do.Why buy something new?

And when it comes to luxury items – like a a new commuting bike when I already have two (that suck), the word "deserve" comes up a lot. Why do I deserve a new bike. I'm so unaccustomed to buying stuff that when I think about replacing anything old, I agonize over it. A new MP3 player - $12 from Walmart – replacing the one with the broken clip. Can't attach it to my clothing. But it still plays. I tuck it into my underwear when I run. A luxury purchase! I need to convince myself that I'm worthy. I need to explore all options on how to make the old one work. I can only move forward once I'm sure that I can't fix it. At one point, I was even researching a home-made tattoo. Alcohol and ash. Fortunately, my brother talked me out of it.

The Langster needs work before I can truly own it. It's over-geared. 48/17 for folks who talk like that. Too heavy for in-town riding, for the southern Pennsylvania hills. By the time I get a decent spin going, I'm at a traffic light. I've got legs, but not those legs. After I adjust the gearing, I'm positive that this will be my last major purchase for years to come. There is nothing else I want. Nothing that I wish I had. Like Sean Penn's "Jeff Spicoli"character in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, my needs are simple. Books to read, time to write, roads to ride, trails to run. What more do I need. It's the adult version of "a cool buzz and tasty waves."

But even Spicoli had a surf board. Hobbies take gear. And I need to respect the fact that performance often takes better gear. Things wear out, and most stuff we buy today cannot be fixed. Plastic MP3 players, Lycra exercise gear. When it cracks, when it tears, it is done. Duct tape has it's limitations. Sometimes I need to suck it up and buy something. And when I do, I need to allow myself to enjoy it.