Now, after many years and uncounted busted knuckles, I know how to change a tire. But there was a day…
Flashback to 1972. The die was cast. Our decision was made. After several beers, Tom and I decided to actually change a tire by ourselves. We were helped by an unwillingness on the part of the local dealer to accept any work until the year 2000. Especially knobby tire changes.
Neither one of us had ever changed a tire before, let alone a knobby. But we had read the articles in the mags and it did look realistically possible. Girding our¬selves with a six-pack, we headed out for the grease pit affectionately nicknamed “garage” and set about the dreaded deed. The first part was easy and only took us a half hour. It consisted of getting the bike up on a wooden box without falling over. So far so good. Another hour later, we triumphantly had the entire wheel off and stood there grinning like idiots at our fantastic mechanical ability.
The grins disappeared when the bike, relieved of the balancing weight of the rear wheel, wobbled and fell over with a sickening thud. Oh well, at least now there was no danger of the bike falling on us while we were working on the tire changing. I neatly put some newspaper underneath the fallen bike to soak up the spreading oil puddle. Damn English bikes. Always leak at the wrong time.
Our attention turned to the tire—a well-worn Dunlop knobby of questionable integrity that had been purchased for three bucks some years ago. Strangely, this fine piece of rubber had gone flat. A careful search of the outside of the tread showed no nails, punctures or holes. We pumped the tire up and listened for hisses … nothing. Our curiosity grew and we got out the tire tools and started to dismantle. Sometime later, we had made absolutely zero progress.
“Perhaps if we let the air out,” Tom ventured, “it might make it easier to get a grip with the tire tools.”
It was worth a try. We inserted the valve core removing tool and started turning slowly. Air hissed and rushed out. One more turn and the valve core loosened and shot out like Henry the Human Cannonball. It must have soared a good 200 yards before coming to rest in the bottom of the neighbor’s swimming pool. There was a soft “plink” when it hit the water. Oh well, on to the rest of the job.
With the air out, it was much easier to get the tire tools under the bead (that’s tire talk for the inner edge) of the tire. The tools we were using were the normal garbage found in any English tool bag. Too short and too sharp, with black paint that rubbed off on your palms. We only had two of them—a screwdriver was the third tool. However, this was not one of those sharp edged screwdrivers—this one had the tip carefully rounded from years of ill use.
It was no big problem inserting the first tool and bending it back to the rim. The second tool was more difficult to insert, but eventually, with some force, it too went. Pulling back on the second tool was rough. The harder you pulled, the more the first tool tried to return to its original position. I braced both feet on the tire and put some meat behind the pulling.
Sliiiiiip! Argghhh! The first tool parted company from its place on the bead and my hand dug into the sprocket teeth. Fortunately, there was enough grease on the teeth to prevent serious bleeding. As I sat there nursing my wounds, the second tool suddenly slipped over-center and flipped up into the air. It scribed a beautiful curving arc, perhaps 20 feet at its height, then descended into the same neighbor’s pool—this time with a more resounding and deeper “plink.”
In sheer desperation, we looked up an article in one of the bike mags on changing tires, and reread it. Hmmm. Seems that if one took the time to break the tire loose from the rim on both sides before attempting to remove the tire, the job would be much simpler. I jumped up and down on the tire for a while, but the rubber refused to part from the rim. Old age had bonded the two surfaces together tightly. Tom climbed on my shoulders and I leaped from a chair onto the tire. Still no results.
Time to get serious. I backed the pickup into the garage slowly and carefully, lined up the offending tire, and rode gently over the rubber part. This time it parted. With a smile of satisfaction on my face, I pulled the truck back out into the street, running over an unopened quart of Castrol in the process. It made a funny popping sound as it blooted out its contents against the far wall of the garage. Not too much of it remained on the floor. We like to keep the garage floor tidy, you know.
Work went smoothly with the tire separated from the rim, and we had it off within the hour. Careful ex¬amination showed that a spoke had poked a hole into the inner tube, enabling the air to leak out. Hell, this wasn’t as hard to do as we had figured.
The tire itself seemed to be in good shape, other than a few cracks in the rubber and a cord or two peeking here and there. The tube wasn’t quite, as 14 patches and several layers of 3M were evident. The supreme sacrifice was made. A new used tube was purchased reluctantly.
Getting the tire back on the rim was more of a hassle than getting it off. We could get it damn near all the way on, except for the last little bit, and just couldn’t budge that part. The truck was brought into service once more, and that nasty problem was neatly taken care of with some additional adroit maneuvering.
Finally, the magic moment arrived. The old red bicycle pump was brought forth and we prepared to pump the tire up. Except for one teensy-weensy fact. No matter how hard we pumped, the tire wouldn’t inflate. We figured the dealer had seen two fish coming and sold us a faulty used tube. With righteous indignation boiling over, we put the entire wheel in the back of the pickup and headed for the shop, preparing clever insults in the back of our minds.
The dealer studied the wheel carefully for a moment, then turned and asked … “You mean to tell me you’ve been trying to pump air in that thing there all afternoon?”
We nodded smugly … “That’s right, buddy, and there’s no way you can get air in that thing.”
“Well now, fellas,” he went on, “the reason you can’t get any air in is because you’ve been trying to pump up the rim lock. The tube isn’t even inside the tire.”
A silence happened. A long one. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was 4:35.
Yes, indeed, we had well and truly blown a Saturday morning.
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