Getting Fixed

Don’t stop! Whatever you do, don’t stop pedaling. Wow, déjà vu. The last time I started a story with those two sentences I was riding a bike up the steepest hill in Portland, Oregon (see: “The Reasons We Ride the Ronde,” April 7, 2014). This time, I’m doing almost the exact opposite—instead of climbing up, I’m flying down. Though the hill I’m currently bombing is far from the steepest in the city, it is drastically more dangerous. If I were to stop pedaling right now, I would most likely be thrown over the handlebars of my bike, much in the same way cowboys are bucked off those massive bulls that they attempt to ride for eight seconds.  On the bright side, I wouldn’t have a giant animal bearing down on me immediately afterward, but on the not so bright side, instead of landing in dirt, I would most likely slide across rough pavement, leaving the road with a thin coating of my skin, and embedding my now-exposed flesh with a mixture of asphalt and whatever other debris happens to be on the ground. And that’s why I don’t stop pedaling.

            I’m riding in the fixed-gear category of the Mount Tabor Series, a six-week long road cycling event sponsored by River City Bicycles. Every Wednesday night, I and about ten other participants, test our skills around the 1.3 mile loop that circles the park’s upper reservoir. To a non-cyclist the course may seem relatively easy—one and a third miles around an artificial body of water. What’s the big deal? And if the course were flat, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but this course is anything but flat. In fact, of the 1.3 miles, I would estimate that less than 200 yards of it is on level ground (perhaps the “Mount” in Mount Tabor gave that away). For the remainder of the race you’re either going up, or you’re going down. And normally, the going down part would be a welcomed break—time to rest your legs—but when you’re on a bicycle with a fixed gear, the downhill suddenly becomes the hard part.

           

Unlike most modern bikes, a fixed-gear bicycle, or a “fixie,” as they’re also known, has its cog connected, or “fixed,” directly to the hub of the back wheel. Whenever the rear wheel is turning, the chain moves with it, therefore forcing the front chain ring, and the pedals to turn as well. In laymen’s terms: if the bike is moving, so are your legs. Primarily intended for track racing and trick riding (fixies allow riders to power their bike in reverse), the fixed-gear bicycle has gained somewhat of a cult status over the past few decades, becoming the two-wheeler of choice for many urban hipsters, bicycle messengers, and bike polo competitors (bike polo is almost exactly what it sounds like—polo on bicycles instead of horses).  While fixies might very well offer an advantage for track racers, trick riders, and polo players, it is hard to believe that messengers and hipsters ride them for any other reason than the “cool” factor, or because they simply find the experience fun. People will argue that fixed-gear bicycles are cheaper, lighter, and easier to work on, but then again, people will argue about most anything. The truth is that a single-speed bike with a freewheel (the opposite of a fixed-gear, in which the rear wheel moves independently from the pedal, as on most modern bikes) is relatively similar to a fixie in all those categories, along with being much safer.

            I’m not a bike messenger, or a trick rider, or a polo player. And though I may be a hipster (see: “An Accidental Hipster,” April 23, 2014), I certainly don’t ride a fixie because I think it’s “cool.” I ride a fixie because it’s free. I know that sounds like an oxymoron—riding something that’s fixed because it’s free—but hear me out. The Mount Tabor Series is one of the only bicycle races in Oregon that offers a fixed-gear category and if you sign up for any another category, you are eligible to compete in the fixed-gear race free of charge. The words “free” and “race” hardly ever go together, so, naturally, I jumped at the opportunity to get some extra “warm-up” laps in without having to pay for them. One would think that more people would find the offer enticing, though of the 200-plus competitors each week, only three of us choose to race in both the fixed-gear and our respective categories. This could be because it requires bringing two bicycles to the venue (I live close enough that I can make it home between my races to switch out bikes), but I believe the real reason is something else all together—it’s extremely hard; perhaps the most challenging race of the night. So difficult in fact, that the champion of the Pro Men’s category during the first three races of the series has failed to win the fixed-gear race two of those weeks, coming in a close second on both occasions.

            Personally, I'm not here to win the race, or even podium for that matter. I'm simply here to survive, and hopefully become a stronger rider in the process. The most interesting thing I find concerning the Mount Tabor fixed-gear race is that the uphill is the easy part. Well, maybe “easy” isn’t the best word for it, but it’s definitely “easier” as far as I’m concerned. Climbing the approximately 138 feet of elevation simply requires you to stand up out of your saddle and drive your legs into the ground like a pair of pistons, slow and steady, until you reach the apex of the hill. It’s the 138 feet of downhill that I find most testing. Normally, on a downhill ascent, you just let gravity take over and pedal if you please—a great opportunity to give your legs a rest. But when you’re riding a fixed-gear bicycle, the faster the bike gets going, the faster your legs are forced to spin, and if you’re not accustomed to your legs spinning at incredible speeds, the experience can seem very intimidating. And unless you like the burn that’s associated with pouring hydrogen peroxide over open wounds, that’s when you have to remind yourself: Don’t stop! Whatever you do, don’t stop pedaling.