Revolting Cogs

A circlejerk

I was in bed when Jeff texted me.

Not asleep. Yet. Just sitting up, sipping bourbon, and retyping stupid dumb sentences that I hate and are terrible in an effort to jump start something inside of me. (Anything) Because aside from passing out rereading the same three pages in a book I may never finish, that’s apparently what I do at night.

(Squinting with increasingly bad eyes at my phone to see who the fuck was texting me at this hour. Oh. Jeff. Hi Jeff)

“You should hire me to build you a single speed.”

(Drunk)

“Ha! Let’s do it!”

I never confirmed, but I would guess that he had just read (skimmed) my last Editor’s Choice Awards for Bikerumor, wherein I mentioned the possibility of a custom Wilde. Regardless, I was all in. Staff and customers at the shop like to tease me… because for someone who hates “gravel” I sure do have a lot of gravel bikes. It’s probably because I love “gravel.” (What? But you said…) It’s complicated. Gravel and I are like that torrid affair who try not to talk anymore, but still instagram stalk the fuck out of each other, and occasionally send drunk 2am texts.

(“hey”)

Actually, it’s pretty simple. I love long, quiet, low-traffic dirt roads. I hate the self-congratulatory shitshow that riding them seems to engender.

And it’s not that I’m an N+1 kind of guy either. Outside of my problematic hoarding of plastic trash for no reason other than to keep it out of the landfill, I’m always actively trying to purge the things I own. But there you have it; Four gravel bikes. In a sprawling suburban yawn of a city with no real gravel to be had.

More on that another time. (So much more.)

Things I knew I wanted:

-A racey bike. Something steel and durable, but fast and light. Something to take on my long trips, but also maybe race Unbound, again. Gravel Worlds. UnPAved. True Grit. Appalachian Journey. Verboten Schotter, or some other whoevenfuckingknows event again. I’ve enjoyed the shit out of my heavy bikes and decided not-race times of late. But… call it a mid-life crisis. IDFK.

-A longer top tube. It makes sense; Jeff’s bikes fit Jeff, whether that was with All City or now with Wilde. But at 6′ even, I land solidly in that nowhere of being slightly too big for his large (55) and too small for the xl (58). I needed a 56.5 top tube at least. Maybe 57 depending on the reach.

-Some sort of slider or rocker dropout so I could seamlessly transition between singlespeed and geared. Because dumb.

Outside of that? I let Jeff pick the lengths, widths, heights, and angles. I mean… it’s his bike brand. Show me what you got.

We went back and forth a little on the paint. Damn, does that boy love a fade. Me not so much. And he listened patiently while I made aureate pronouncements about being a 90’s MTB kid in love with Herboldian kaleidoscopes of zebra stripes and pink. In the end… we went with something clean and subtle that still popped. A metal flaked black with a specific shade of pink that he had recently come across. I gotta say, it’s pretty fucking perfect.

I’d hoped to have the frame in time for Rule of Three last May, but eh… not quite. And even when it arrived soon after, I still didn’t have some of the key pieces I wanted. So I let it simmer. It’s not like I had any pressing events on my calendar. And travel has been hard of late. Sometimes I would get close to a complete build and a customer would need a part I’d squirreled away. Or I’d overthink something. (Never) Or the Nausea would creep back in. And start the waiting game all over again.

But about a week ago, it finally came together.

Ummm…. It’s pretty great.

Because it was baby’s first custom gravel-bike, I gave myself some boujee leeway. I wanted to build it up “nice.” Can I afford nice things? Do I deserve nice things? God, no. Call it a midlife crisis. IDFK.

The Main Deets:

Industry Nine Ultralite 250 TRA Carbon Wheels. I resisted carbon wheels forever. 1) They are expensive. 2) Why would I be worthy of that? and 3) Even. More. Plastic. In. The. World. I don’t have any great logic as to why I’ve given myself a pass, save that I am a very big deal washed-up has-been C+(-) racer. The initial plan was to carry an XD freehub body and cassette for on the fly swaps, but currently I have an older set of Ultralite 250 CX Carbon wheels as my ready to roll geared set. Because apparently I’m a boujee bitch.

White Industries G30 Crank and BB. What? They’re just really nice. Light. Strong. Nice. And made in the USA. And also nice.

Sram Force AXS. Sigh… I had a feeling it would eventually come to this. But for one reason and one reason only: The ease and cleanliness of transitioning back and forth to singlespeed. (Don’t even get me started.) Remove the derailleur. Swap chains. Swap cassettes/cogs. (Or wheels) And it’s done. No fucking with cables or housing or wires and what to do with them when not in use. Let me be honest and clear… I hate Shimano Di2. I just don’t see the appeal. It seems like all of the hassle of routing cables, and fucking with batteries, but with no great benefit. Smoother shifting? Beepboopbeep? It’s kind of like E-bikes. I just. don’t. care. But SRAM AXS wireless?… So easy. No lie, the shifting is fucking weird. It is. Left hand to downshift. Right hand to upshift. Which can be awkward. But you know what else is awkward?

Fucking…. Me.

I decided to go with the mechanical-brake version of AXS, because when traveling, I can easily maintenance a cable replacement, but a fleld-bleed on hydraulics not so much.

HA! That actually sounded pretty good, but the reality is that at some point during Covid, I apparently ordered two sets of the non-hydro caliper-brake brifters for the shop? And well… that’s what I get and deserve (Dumbass). Although they actually feel really good. So, yeah. Currently I have them paired with some TRP Spyres, but might one day swap them out for secret Paulcomp Klampers I have stashed away. Or maybe I’ll legit go hydraulic. Who even knows? Who even cares?

I think there’s an Easton AX 90 handlebar on there now? Because I had one? But it’s highly possible that it’s a recalled Whisky. (Hmmm. I should probably check that out.) A Thomson stem and seatpost. Just because. Brooks C13 saddle. Because that’s my go to. And tires come and go, but currently I’m trying some of Ronnie and Patrick’s Rosé JFFs on one wheelset and REEN HERS Steilacooms on the other.

`Yes, I know I need to figure out this stack. Stop yelling at me.`

Last weekend, I took the bike down to Uwharrie and managed to find some roads I’d never ridden (which is hard, because I’ve ridden them extensively). And I have to say… goddamn. God. Damn. Maybe it’s just having a bike that really fits me. Maybe it’s the super great spec that I picked. (Me!) Maybe it was just the ride and that soul-glow that comes with finding new roads (which is my absolute favorite). Or maybe the frame really is that nice. But I had such a good ride. I wouldn’t call myself taciturn, but I’m certainly not effusive about things. (Unless I’m really drunk or stricken with l’amour fou.) I think I get it from my mother, but my normal rating for anything outside of “the fucking worst” is typically “fine,” regardless of how good it actually was. I enjoy the shit out of riding long miles on all my other bikes, and if you asked me how they rode, I’d tell you. “Fine.” Why? What do you want me to say? What are you asking? Why are you talking to me? Is that your breath? Are we done here?

But my Wilde? It rode “pretty fucking great.”

And that… is a “pretty fucking big deal.”

Thanks, Jefe.

Next up.

WattsFappening. (Probably. We’ll see.)

Hi, I’m Watts.

Once upon a time, I had this blog called Revolting Cogs. What originally started as an extension of the shop and a way to promote timely “hot topics” (You know, like 29ers and disc brakes) almost immediately devolved into… whatever it was. Drunk storytelling (often). Occasional race reports (sometimes). Oversharing (always). And just continued to devolve. But apparently, people read it? I’d be sitting at a bar in a random city in the midwest or northeast or southwest (and once even the middle-east) that I just happened to be passing through, and a stranger would tentatively approach me to say that they really enjoyed my blog.

That was nice. Always surreal… but nice.

Then I admit, I kind of lost it.

Not mentally, mind you. (But ok, sure…) But not in some dramatic “lost it” way. Sheesh. I mean, I didn’t flip the fuck out or anything (But ok, sure…). I just… stopped. At a time when I probably could have harnessed some of that energy and notoriety into something, instead I just sighed and closed my laptop. Writing was making me anxious. Not panic-attack anxious, mind you (But ok, sure…). Just… bored. Stressed. I felt empty. And the things I was saying felt not only increasingly bitter, but trite and repetitious. And to be yet another bitter, trite, and repetitious male voice in the world, moreover the world of cycling, felt… dumb. And I already felt dumb enough most days. No need to compound that.

But dumb or not, I missed it. Missed the catharsis. The exercise and practice of pairing words and playing with syntax, finding a way to express a feeling or idea in a way I couldn’t or wouldn’t say it otherwise. Even if I had to circle and repeat that idea a million times before I was “happy” with it.

From time to time, I’d try to put something back out there and rekindle some pep or verve or momentum. Perpetually editing an endless, irrelevant draft. Or I’d publish part-one of a three-parter that ended before part-two. It felt silly. Vain. Useless. Lot’s of “why am I doing this again?” Less a maudlin social media pronouncement ala “Hey everybody I’m taking a break from this platform for my mental health but I desperately need you all to know that and validate it and still please pay attention to me because what if I disappear and none of you even notice oh my god oh shit I’m nobody I’m nothing oh god” and more “Ugh. I don’t feel particularly smart or together these days and I’m not happy with these words right now, so what if I just… don’t?”

But the problem with “don’t” for too long is that it can be hard to eventually “do.” Hard to get back into anything even remotely resembling a groove. Writing, like drawing, or so many other outlets, is also an exercise, and when you stop doing it, you lose some of that adroitness and fluidity of expression (in whatever amounts you may possess). So it can be disheartening to start up and flounder. But then… if I can successfully re-train myself to drink water and take vitamins and brush and floss every night … I can do this. And just like brushing or flossing, you don’t have to make a big fucking deal about starting to do it. Sure, you can wait until Monday because only psychos start cultivating healthy routines on a Wednesday, but there’s no need for a “Hey everybody, I know I haven’t really been active in this bothering-to-take-care-of-my-fucking-teeth platform lately, but now I am and I really need you all to know because otherwise why am I doing it oh god oh shit I’m nobody oh god”

(Wait. Is that what I’m doing right now?)

Anyway, One of my absurd self-imposed stumbling blocks to getting back to writing was the very concept of a “blog.” A blog? Like… Flemish For Poseur? Like… Brickhouse Racing? Team JRA? Team Robot? Team Dicky? Somehow it felt more dated than a zine. Do people still make zines? Like… at Kinkos? Do people even still read? Would they read this? Should they read this? Aren’t I supposed to be Youtubing or something? But a blog? With a URL of “blogspot?” Isn’t that like having a Myspace page? Or an email address that ends in aol or hotmail? Is that even legal anymore?

_{btw, yes, people do make zines. And they occasionally just surprise me with a giant box full of them
(thanks, bud)}

So I latched onto this idea of having a website. Something more “professional.” The rough equivalent of me needing to clean my room or arrange these pens before sitting down to study. As if that would be the impetus I needed to get motivated and really ” do it.” Would it still just be a fucking blog? Of course. I don’t even know how to do anything else. But it would be very grown up. Because it’s a website. Not a blog.

So here it is.

Will I update it semi-regularly? Sigh, that’s the plan. Shit, I might even upload some videos or something. Put out a podcast with my goose-honk of a voice interviewing some no-longer-relevant icon from what is likely the-worst-ever-era-of-cycling. (Even though Stevil took the name REVOLTING for his podcast and I’m still peeved with him for it.) Does it pretty much look the same as my old blog, but arguably worse? Maybe. Look, I’m no hacker. Computers are hard.

Am I still empty inside? My left foot is tingling. Does that count as feeling?

Am I still bitter? Yes, but I’m also salty, so there’s nuance.

Am I still trite? I mean… “it is what it is.”

Let’s see what happens.

Revolting Cogs

you ate sand?

Author: Revolting Cogs

King of the Wilde Frontier

Forget Your Life.