Posted before, but not for you SS guys...
Once upon a time, merry little me thought "You know what's cool? Single speed mountain bikes. How quaint!"
How those words haunt me to this very day.
While looking at a few used bikes a friend had, I saw it. A red turn of the millennium Hardrock. It was old, beat up, a size smaller than I needed, and the shifters, derailleurs, brake levers, and much more weren't working on it.
But there was something about it. I felt a fire burning in me. It was sparked from something this bike gave off. A sleeping beast, nay, Titan was in this bike. My friend was all too eager to see it leave his hands. I even saw him cross himself as it left his threshold. I didn't even know he was Catholic.
I swapped parts, turned it into a single speed, and that was that.
It had mostly original parts.
My first ride was interesting. You know how most of the time, you get on a bike and grab the handlebars?
Well the handlebars reached out and grabbed me.
I felt something gurgle up in my head. This little steel gem was alive with something. From deep inside the commie steel frame came a roaring sound, like listening to a jet engine trying to take off at the bottom of a well. Between my ears I heard this and immediately understood one thing: It's alive, hungry, and pissed.
When I first rode it to campus, I tried staying on the bike lane. Honest I did. But IT had other plans. Vile, sinister plans that involved staircases, drops, ramps, and anything else between me and class. I was lucky if It let me go to class, as sometimes it would make me circle around again. I heard a grinding in my head that could only be roughly translated as "MORE AIR LESS *****ING"
I was afraid of what would happen if this thing touched any real dirt. I began to look more closely at the frame. There were tally marks in the steel, from kills that I'd rather not know anything about. The steel seems to be made from old commie tank scrap metal. There was something sinister about this bike that was waiting to be released, but I didn't know how. And honestly I didn't want to see it be released, whatever it was.
But then there came the fateful day. A day that will live in infamy. I woke up one morning, did a little yoga, made myself a bowl of organic free-range oatmeal, and walked into my living room.
The scene before me was something out of a horror movie. But for bikes.
My Santa Cruz Superlight lay in pieces. The frame was stripped, the bolts strewn everywhere. There was bike grease on the floor, walls, hell not even the ceiling escaped the murderous lube-filled fiasco. A derailleur was stuck in a wall and a chain was hanging from the ceiling fan. I stood there trembling in my Park Tool Pajamas at what stood before me.
It was something out of a biker's nightmare. The Hardrock had consumed most of my Santa Cruz and was now staring at me. I heard it now clear, in a strong but quiet voice that I'm sure no one else heard but myself. It said... "I am hungry and you have legs."
Good thing Park Tool has a lifetime warranty, because I most definitely sent off for a new set of pajamas.
And thus, Frank was born. Armed with a 130mm fork, Mavic wheels, BB7 front disc, Deore rear V, 34-18 drive, and enough carnal hunger to put Beef out of business, this monster completely took over. 27.5 pounds of fury and rage that will leave you breathless and questioning what faith you had.
First it was simple single track. It was nice... at first. Twisting in and out of Texan trails was fun enough. But then it wanted more. And more. And so much more. Frank was hungry. Occasionally, when it let me off long enough to drink or relieve myself, I would turn back around and a bloody puffball that used to be what I can only assume was a rabbit would be under its blackened (now slightly reddened) wheels.
And I swear I once heard it burp.
But it couldn't keep this pace up for long. I thought I'd get a rest if something broke down. But if I didn't keep it maintained, I would start waking up next to the battered remains of some poor Carbon XC bike. You have no idea how disconcerting it is waking up next to what used to be a $6,000 bike that has been reduced to a pile of crumpled, cracked carbon, bleeding grease and lube and dirt like it was dragged behind... something... for miles...
Frank was hungry for a race. I came home one day from class to find a race sign-up confirmation Email. Seems like I was now racing in the Single Speed Camp Eagle Classic.
Tricksy bike....
I could only hope that Frank would be satisfied with racing. But He wasn't. Two riders DNF'd due to mechanical issues (Apparently their bikes spontaneously fell apart during the night, and the only evidence of tampering were a single set of tire tracks...) In a blaze of Red steel and big knobby tires it carried me through the rocks and crags of West Texas. I swear I closed my eyes on the downhill portions and would open them when it was all over. I'm so glad most chamois are black. A lot harder to spot a pee-stain in.
Frank was soon accompanying me every trip I took. This only happened because when I came back from a Triathlon it would be at the door, and I swear I didn't know a bike could glare at you until Frank came along.
Soon my triathlon bike had to make room on the rack. It did not object, but I swear it shrunk away in horror. Soon I had to carry the Tri bike, broken down, in the back of my truck.
Frank doesn't like company on the rack.
I once was cheering on friends at a triathlon and I left my bike in my tahoe.
Big. Mistake.
I heard a screech of rubber and a cursing triathlete. I look up to see Frank leaning against a tree, smoke rising from the 2.1 Nevegals. On the road, a Cannondale Slice was stuck. The rider was cursing and pushing hard, but the wheels simply would not turn. Then, out of the transition area, I saw a Cervello P4 and a Specialized Transition BOTH drop their water bladders and deflate their tires.
Frank growled, gave a Look a look that looked like it hurt. The bike snapped both carbon chainstays. I hear the rider and the bike are in counseling right now.
I thought it best to coax Frank away from the nice Triathlon bikes. They were just not used to seeing bikes like Him...
After the race, my friend was admiring the bike and asked if she could ride it. I was completely against it, but she is also stubborn. I tried to warn her, I swear I did. She mounted Frank and I swear I heard Him giggle... Which, oddly, is much creepier than hearing him roar.
A week later, my friend found out she was pregnant. Two weeks after that, she gave birth to what could only be described as a litter of mountain goats with riser bars where horns should be.
Frank isn't just a bike. He's a force of nature. Even now I hear Him calling out. Frank, the Frankenstein bike, is hungry. Now excuse me while I go lube his rear hub. I don't want to wake up with broken spokes poking me in the back.