Fixing a flat

Often the space to think well, to consider, to perceive, comes in the intervals between, the cracks in the pavement. Geared up this morning, squeezing in a post race ride back to Whitnall Park in Milwaukee, planning a new round of Tabata intervals, I was given some space; I had a flat tire.

Considering a craivason a gift might seem a stretch, but it is. The fast escape of air and the immediate loss of cushion, the 'thwack, thwack, thwack' of the valve slapping the pavement, pushes all plans to the side and I have to step off the bike and enter the ritual of changing my tubular tire.

Texture, I run my hand over the pebbly surface of the Continental, notice that there's life in the tread and make plans to patch it this evening. Nothing sharp, no nail, no glass. The wheel comes off, bike layed on the grass and the tool kit opened. I have a favorite yellow tire 'iron' (now plastic) that I use to separate the tire from the rim. About 10 spokes worth and I can gently pull the tire off the rim without tearing the base tape. Notice that the Conti glue seems to leave the base tape in place. Cars are passing, most likely on their way to church. The sun is out, but the air is very cool, maybe 50 degrees.

The ritual of the tire change is automatic and my mind relaxs into the new space in my schedule. Yesterday's race at Whitnall comes into focus, the last turn, the new teammates, the feeling of pushing against limits and the will of others.

And the flat is fixed. Tabata intervals here I come.