Patronizing bike friends

Being a bikewife isn’t just about you and your biker. Oh no. Being a bikewife means you also sign up to a whole bunch of bikefriends, bikeparties, and even bikefood. But for this post, let’s start with bikefriends.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I really do love to talk about bikes, so I’m not going to say biketalk is a problem, or that biker shouldn’t take me along to bikeparties or try to keep me away from bikefriends. I was a biker myself once  -  I time-trialed for a few years. Not blazing fast, but certainly respectably mid-division, even in good company. I have a few club trophies, and a few nice bits of clothes and gear I won fair and square. I’ve raced – and finished - cross and mountain too. I finished a 100 mile randonee in under 8 hours. I’m not a bike idiot. 

So, bikefriends, don’t talk to me like I’m one. Even if they don’t race – or even ride – the bikewife will learn about bikes. They have to – it’s necessary for the fiscal stability of your household.  Bikers sneak in stuff, lie about what it cost, and claim that they will sell old stuff or swap it over. They don’t. Bikewives know the difference in price between 105 and Dura Ace, and they know those wheels are new and that you haven’t borrowed them just for this one race. And as for that old chestnut, ‘don’t worry Honey, I’ll sell the old groupset/wheels/frame on eBay’ – why do you even bother? I know the old stuff will be cluttering up the garage for many seasons waiting to become that mystical ‘rain bike’, ‘pit bike’, or ‘just-in-case spares’. It certainly isn’t going to become cash any time soon.

So back to my point. Recently, I was invited to a party hosted by biker’s bikebuddy. That’s really okay; like I said, I like bikers, biketalk, and certainly enjoy the company of other bikewives. Bikers usually have nice homes and throw great parties with great food; and this party was no exception. The trouble only came when standing with my wine glass among my biker and some bikebuddies, the conversation inevitably turned to bikes, or bike parts, or something like that. I offered a few contributions to the conversation, and one of them looked at me and said:

‘Look at you, talking about bikes!’

Let’s get something straight. We bikewives know more than you think. When we nod reassuringly when you tell us about the ‘mechanical’ that meant you got dropped from the pack in the cat 4 newbie-fest, it’s not because we are sharing your ‘agony of defeat’ or the injustice of a mechanical akin to what spoiled David Millar’s Tour chances not that long ago. You hear us say, ‘Yes dear, of course your rear derailleur let you down, yes of course you should call the LBS and complain, of course, yes, look into buying a new one’. What we’re really saying, is ‘Yeah, what a shame, all the other boys were faster than you. Suck it up.’

If you are a bikewife who bikes, then the patronizing bikefriends really sting. I recall a mountain bike trip with a bunch of bikewives, all of whom were quite competent bikers with a more than rudimentary knowledge of bikes and biking, when one came out of a very tricky section of trail with a bent derailleur and a broken chain. We could straighten out the derailleur, but weren’t sure what to do about the chain, and we didn’t want to do any major damage to the drivetrain with a misguided trail repair. I called the local bike shop from my cell phone, and asked for the mechanic. I explained what had happened, that we had a chain tool, and asked, can we fix this enough so she can ride out?’

He said: ‘No, you can’t.’

Me: ‘But surely we can just take out the broken links and reconnect it; at least enough so she can single gear it out of here?’

'So what was thing called again?'

He: ‘That is possible.’

Me: ‘So what you’re saying is ‘one could fix this, but I can’t’?’

He: ‘Yeah, pretty much.’

Me: ‘Humor me, why don’t you, and let’s just see?’ (or rather, I said something like that – the important thing is he wisely decided to give me a little help).

We removed the bent and broken links. We reconnected the chain snugly enough over a ratio that she could manage to ride out. 

So there, Mr. Mechanic (or something along those lines)…