Ran When Parked

There was a good spell there when Craigslist was kind of awesome. Craigslist was where you went to search out the real screaming deals for whatever it was you were hoping to buy; eBay had already jumped the shark and Facebook marketplace wasn’t yet a gleam in Zuckerberg’s predatory eye. The good shit was on Craigslist. My particular kink was junky old motorcycles. I would spend hours every weekend scouring the ads, lusting after the rusting hulks of old Kawasaki Bighorns, trying to see through the haphazard rattlecan “restoration” of rotted to the core Honda CL350s, praying that the diode board hadn’t died on that surprisingly inexpensive old toaster tank BMW. There was a phrase that would appear repeatedly in these ads, almost like clockwork, a mantra for the doomed: “Ran when parked.”

Of course it did. Back before the fuel vaporized out of the tank and the rust started, before the jets clogged with varnish in their float bowls, before every single wired connection on the bike oxidized into a furry grey abomination, before the tires flattened then cracked, before grass started growing up through the spokes, before rodents started eating the saddle and absconding with the foam to make nests inside the airbox while electing to store acorns in the exhaust, before every single piece of plastic turned brittle and cracked. Maybe it ran when it was parked. Maybe it was already seized solid and that’s why it got parked, but now that it has been sitting outside for however many years with a spark plug missing from one of the cylinders it is absolutely, categorically, definitively seized solid and whether or not it was seized beforehand is irrelevant. Because even if that bike Ran When Parked, it sure as shit won’t run now.

Nevertheless, the legend persists, typed into ads asking obscene amounts of money for dead pieces of obsolescent fun. There’s the grifter’s optimism of the snake oil salesman in those words, a relatable way of saying Caveat Emptor to people who don’t read Latin. Ran When Parked. Yessir, this beauty is just a little bit of elbow grease and ingenuity away from rumbling back to life and setting you free, wind in your hair. It’s not exactly a lie, but it is most definitely a trap.

Why, on a website about mountain biking, am I talking about the phrasing of Craigslist ads for motorcycles? I’m getting there. Bear with me.

It is said that nature abhors a vacuum. In that same vein, machines abhor the stasis of inactivity. For machines, sitting still is death. Even though running a machine invites it to wear out, to need maintenance and the ritual of regular care, letting it sit is somehow more malignant. And this applies every bit as much to bicycles as it does to “Ran When Parked” motorcycles. I say this because I just put that axiom to the test.

I left Mexico with a couple happily functioning bikes in the back of my car, drove north, crossed the border, snuck three more rides in, and then got thrown straight into a vortex of packing and moving that ate the next few weeks of my life. I have not ridden a bike since five days before the Sea Otter. One of the happily functioning bikes got handed off to its next pilot, and it is still rolling along reliably being ridden a few times a week. The other bike sat in my car, possibly nurturing a growing sense of resentment. Two more bikes that had been relatively recently consigned to my storage unit and looked to be completely functional got slung onto a hitch rack and then another week went by as I crammed everything else I owned into a moving truck and bid it farewell until we meet again. Then I drove to Colorado. And then I blew a few more days getting unpacked, buying groceries and shower curtains and doing all that address change bullshit that just seems to devour time like candy.

Yesterday, finally, a chance to ride. Never mind that my gas pedal leg is possibly never going to actually straighten again. Never mind that the altitude has me wheezing and bloated and questioning every decision I have ever made about diet and exercise. Who cares if it’s trying to snow and all my cold weather gear is in the back of a truck somewhere other than here? It is time to ride, damnit.

Except the dropper post on the most recently ridden bike, the SB120, is stuck down. It was working fine three weeks ago, and the lever has been pushed once since then. Okay, no big deal. I’VE GOT TWO OTHER BIKES RIGHT HERE!

Fine, I’ve been riding that bike too much anyway, and I’m so stoked to get back on the Falconer. The brakes on the Falconer, which had been working perfectly for a few hot laps of the storage unit in California, apparently were not aware of this, because they are no longer working here in Colorado. The rear brake pulls straight to the bar. The front brake barely pulls at all, and pumps up immediately. And the bleed kit for these particular brakes is, ummm, in the same place as my winter riding gear. Pfffft, big deal. I AM RICH WITH BIKES!

The Starling might be a bit on the beefy side for a shake the legs out wake up ride, but it’s still a sweetheart. Or it was a sweetheart. Now the rear tire on the Starling is flat. It was not flat when I put it on the hitch rack. It was not flat when I took it off the hitch rack. But it is flat now. And when I tried to pump it up, the valve core was not having it. Okay, I am smarter than a valve core. Or I used to be. 10 minutes with a toothpick later and the valve core was still absolutely gunked up. Enact Plan B. Steal a valve core from the Yeti, thus rendering the Yeti even more munted than it already was, only to realize that the entire valve on the Starling is clogged. Hmmm. Now, if I had some spare valves (and this is something I recommend that EVERYONE carry one or two of because they weigh about nothing, take up no room, and ever since an errant rock kicked up and snapped a fancy aluminum stem clean off my back wheel a couple years ago I’ve realized that a spare valve can really come in handy), I could fix that in a jiffy, and Bob would absolutely be someone’s uncle. I thiiiiink my stash of spare valves is with the bleed kit for the Falconer’s brakes, which I am pretty sure is safely packed with all my winter riding gear.

So, steal the wheels completely off the Yeti, put the valve core back in, pump the tire back up, swap the brake rotors because the Starling has bigger rotors than the Yeti but this is still easier than trying to ghetto bleed the brakes on the Falconer and way easier than swapping out a dropper post that might not even be the same diameter. Realign the brake calipers because even though all this stuff is supposed to be about the same in terms of spacing, it never really is EXACTLY the same, pull on some shoes, notice that it is definitely snowing now, and romp out the door only to realize that the rear hub is making THAT noise again. The same noise I fixed in the parking lot of a hotel in Kingman Arizona a few months ago, back before banishing the Starling (temporarily, mind you. I even told it that. “I will be back for you soon”, I said in my most calming voice) to the storage unit for fewer weeks than I have fingers.

Zero for three. All I did was drive part of the way across the country, for crying out loud. But my bikes, they are trying to tell me something. They are reminding me that there will be a toll exacted for my inertia. My laziness (circumstantial, admittedly, but bikes are not given to nuance) will come at a price. My torpor will demand penance. And they are giving me a good old fashioned dose of Ran When Parked.

It’s snowing. The dusk is gathering fast. Perfect weather for a night indoors, righting my wrongs.