I skipped Sea Otter last weekend to ride bikes instead. I probably should have flown south to wander around in the dust, reunite with old friends, and schmooze with folks who might want to give me money to make things. Instead I drove north with a truck full of DH bikes, moved dirt, rode lines that scared me, slept in the dust, and did the opposite of schmoozing with some of my favorite people.
As I dropped into my last line of the trip, I remembered leaning on the truck, giving my bike a last once-over at the gas station. Thank all the bike gods that I noticed that one of my brake pads was sliding out of the caliper, dangerously close to falling out. I ran home, grabbed the retaining pin, and got back on the road. But for the whole steep, hectic eternity of that chute, all I could think about was the thin column of mineral oil filling my brake lines, translating my frantic finger pull into friction that barely, just barely kept me on the right side of safe. So here’s a comic about that.
My pads stayed in. I held onto the bike through the chunder, and blasted out to the gang, giggling a little, and mumbling incoherently under my breath about Pascal. Maybe next time I’ll find that ellusive flow state.