The Big Fix
Last fall, I completed one of the bigger cycling endeavors I’ve undertaken. Starting on a chilly September morning on the alpine slopes of Molas Pass above Silverton, Colorado, I rode for seven consecutive days before arriving in the high desert around Moab, Utah, where temperatures around 100 degrees Fahrenheit made it feel much more like summer. A detailed, backcountry route comprised of an intriguing mixture of technical single track, primitive double track, and champagne gravel roads led a small group of us including Brian—one of my best and oldest friends—through a series of one-room, metal-clad bunkhouses on the San Juan Hut System.
For the first four days, we largely avoided mechanical issues. But our luck changed on the fifth day of riding. Descending a section of rough, two-track road just over the top of a remote, high desert plateau, I suddenly heard something rubbing my rear tire that also brought my bike to an abrupt stop. When I dismounted, I found my fully loaded rear rack laying on the ground at the back of my bike. It was still connected to the thru axle of my rear hub, so I rotated it back into position but immediately noted I had lost one side of a small, two-sided specialty bolt that held the rack to a clamp on the seat post. It was immediately clear that, without this connection, I was effectively stranded.
After walking up and down the road looking for the glint that would call attention to the errant bolt, it became clear I lost it some ways back. I fished for two spare bolts from a collection of items I brought for exactly this sort of problem, but neither was long enough to bridge the clamp. I needed a temporary fix to keep moving and get to the hut at the end of the day’s route where I would hopefully have more options. Zip ties to the rescue! I pulled an eighth-inch nylon strap from my kit, threaded it through the holes on each side of the clamp and cinched it tight in place of the bolt. It felt solid. Perhaps this light duty solution would work since the weight of the rack seemed evenly distributed without putting particular stress on the connection to the bike.
We started riding and, within 50 yards, the rack was once again on the ground. We doubled the strength of the connection by layering two ties together. Same result. We pivoted to the thickest tie in our repair kits combined with a Viole strap looped over my saddle to reduce pressure on the makeshift connection. This rigging lasted longer, but no more than a few miles. I had one last heavy duty tie. It was now obvious it too would fail, so I was already pondering different solutions as we started rolling again. Then I remembered I had a short, stout length of copper wire. When the last of our nylon friends snapped, I got out my pliers and the wire. I patiently twisted it as tight as I could until it created a burly connection. It was not sufficiently tight to avoid rattling, but the wire would get us to our destination for the day.
We kept moving under a now blazing midday sun and rolled into Bedrock, Colorado—the only town we would pass through on the entire trip. This coincidence felt encouraging. Perhaps there was a general store or someone that could help? I didn’t want to wait to get this problem resolved if I could fix it now. The town was quiet. Brian sat in the shade of the small, regional post office—also closed—while I rode around looking for someone, anyone. I saw no one. I returned to the post office. Over snacks, we decided to finish the day and hope we could craft a solution at the hut. The rack was rattling, but the most technical terrain was behind us.
We rolled out of town on the paved highway, but soon turned right onto a long stretch of gravel road just beyond the town limit. After a mile or so of riding, we saw a rancher standing on the back of his flatbed pickup just inside the fence of a pasture. He wore a crushed straw cowboy hat and faded jeans held high by worn suspenders. Brian and I waved to him. He waved back. A moment later I asked Brian, “Should we ask if he has a bolt?” He responded with an emphatic yes. “He’s the only person we’ve seen today.” I looped back and rode up to the barb wired fence. The rancher seemed to have disappeared, but as I looked closer I saw the crown of his hat above the rim of a large, deep hole. We learned later that he was repairing an important T-connector in the system that irrigates his field.
I said hi and, after some pleasantries, asked if he kept a collection of spare fasteners. He responded with a series of precise questions about the hardware I needed and then said that, yes, he could help. After visually inspecting the context for the replacement bolt on my bike, he walked back to the truck and began unstrapping the four-wheeler on the back of the flatbed. “I knew there was a reason I brought the Japanese horse out here today,” he said with a grin. After removing the load straps, he pushed two planks off the back of the truck so we could roll the four-wheeler to the pasture. He started the engine and slowly backed up to the edge of the flatbed. I was concerned. It seemed he was going to back it down the pair of planks. Instead, he put the four-wheeler in neutral, dismounted, and walked to the front of the machine. After a moment studying the situation, he pushed it backward with his cowboy boot. It rumbled down the planks and into the dirt of the pasture. The front wheels turned and it came to a stop with the engine still running. He climbed off the flatbed, remounted his “horse,” and headed down the fence line parallel to the road on which we had just approached. I could see a cluster of buildings in the distance at the far side of the large pasture. I gathered he was headed to his garage to look for the bolt I needed. It wasn’t close.
I sat down in the ditch along the road. There was no cover and no shade. I felt the minutes tick by and wondered if stopping again was worth it. It seemed a long shot that he would have what I needed. After 20 minutes, I heard the low hum of a motor near the cluster of buildings and saw the four-wheeler headed back towards the fence line. A plume of dust marked his progress and he soon rolled up to the edge of his hole. He sauntered over and opened his hand to reveal two bolts—one for the fix and one as a backup. They were the same length and looked to be the right diameter to fit through the bracket on my rack. Each had a Phillips head on one end and a pair of nuts on the other. In the absence of threadlock, or a Nylock nut, we could set the tightness of the fastener with one nut, thread the second flush against the first, and then simultaneously loosen-tighten the pair so the connection would stay firm even over rough terrain. When I saw his proposed solution, I was both impressed and encouraged—this was field engineering at its finest.
I untwisted the copper wire and slowly rotated it to remove it from the holes in the clamp. He reached through the fence with a ratcheting screwdriver in one hand and a ⅜’’ spanner in the other. The bolt passed through the holes in the clamp without issue and the length was just longer than we needed. This was going to work. He tightened the assembly and I was good to go. He explained it took some time because he had to remove this hardware from his 1960s-era Massey Fergusson tractor. I was sure this was the only Imperial hardware on my bike—it’s an industry where all measures are metric. I shook his hand and expressed my gratitude. I began telling him where we’re headed. He cut me off and said, “Oh. I know where you’re going.” It occurred to me that he likely saw riders passing his land on this same gravel road day after day headed for the same place we were.
I’m still not sure I fully conveyed how grateful I was for his help. While I set out with a carefully curated repair kit, tractor parts and ranch wisdom helped me make it to Moab. He stopped the work he was doing to assist me. He had just descended into that hole, which took hours to dig, and was probably beginning to get momentum after lunch. He had carefully loaded his truck that morning with everything needed to avoid multiple trips back to his garage. All that prep to make sure that irrigation issue got fixed. This was not work anyone was paying him to do. He had a vital problem he needed to resolve to keep his cattle hydrated and his alfalfa growing. And he paused this effort simply because we asked. It was one of the most human connections I’ve had with a stranger. He shared the bolts and nuts I needed, but also his ingenuity and his time. Given the ideological and geographical divide in our country, I’m almost certain we don’t share the same worldview: urban vs. rural, liberal vs. conservative, blue vs. red. There are many reasons he could have tersely responded, “Nope. Can’t help you,” and simply went about his day.
This brief connection was much more than transactional. His generosity reminded me that decency doesn't require agreement. It sounds so cliché, but basic humanity is a tall order these days. I’m working to pay it forward.