A bike—especially one that’s hauling gear or pulling a trailer along a rough unpaved road—is a complex machine operating under extreme load in a hostile environment. If just one critical part fails, it means trouble. Luckily, most mechanical problems are easy to fix or cobble together, even in remote areas, and as long as you have the tools to cope. But who wants to begin (or end) a trip with an unscheduled stop for repairs? I’d rather fix what’s broke at home, instead of alongside a mosquito-infested dirt track on the other side of Aintry (remember Deliverance?). That’s why I do a pre-ride check before heading out for rough rides or long treks. The idea’s to stop trouble before it starts. So look your bike over to be sure everything is in working order before you head out. Here’s my list:

 
Tires  Look for cuts, bulges, or badly worn tread. Dig out any small pieces of embedded glass or bits of sharp metal. The orange peeler on a Swiss Army knife works well, as does the tip of a pocket knife blade. Be careful to avoid piercing the tire, though!

Check tire pressures. You’ll need a gauge that fits your valves. If you don’t have one, now’s the time to get it. The recommended inflation pressures are embossed on the sidewalls of most tires. They’re flexible guides. Lower pressures are best on soft stuff like mud and sand (or snow, come to that). Higher pressures are better for firm surfaces like pavement and hard-packed dirt. Gravel roads fall somewhere in the middle. Here’s the logic. Low pressure improves traction and softens the ride, but it also makes you work harder and leaves your wheel rims vulnerable to damage, as well as making flats more likely. High pressure makes pedaling easier and protects your rims, but it hurts traction in sloppy going and transmits every bump in the road right up your spine.

Since I typically don’t go on roads any worse than jeep trails and forest roads, I run around 70 psi on my Schwalbe Marathon 26″ x 1.50″ tires, which have a recommended range of 40-100 psi. Your needs may differ. It’s a good idea to experiment near home. And don’t forget to check your minipump or frame pump at home, while you’re at it. It’s a real pain to discover that your pump has lost its puff only after you get a flat. I know.

 
Chain  Spin the pedals slowly while you hold the rear wheel off the ground. (A workstand makes this easy.) If the chain is obviously rusty or clotted with gunge, if it squeaks, or if it kinks when going through the rear derailleur, it needs to be cleaned and lubed. A little surface rust on the outer plates is no big deal, but it’s best to err on the side of caution. Don’t lube a dirty chain. Clean it first. You can do the job while the chain’s still on the bike. Use WD-40®, an old toothbrush, and a rag, or spritz on detergent solution from a spray bottle. (If you opt for detergent, spray the chain with WD-40 when you’re done, to displace any water that’s found its way into the rollers.) Clean the rear cog, the two small wheels on the rear derailleur, and the chainrings, too.

Once the clean chain is dry, lube it. Choose an “all-weather” chain lube. Avoid dry lubes. They’re great on the road when it doesn’t rain, but not so good on wet forest trails. Chainsaw bar oil will work in a pinch, and it’s cheap, though cost really isn’t a problem. You won’t be using gallons of the stuff. In fact, since oil holds dirt, less is more. Put a small drop of lube on each roller, and wipe the chain down with an oily rag. That’s it.

If your chain starts squeaking when you’re on the trail, it probably means it’s dry. A small spray can of WD-40 will silence the squeak temporarily, as well as freeing up any stuck links. But don’t expect this quick fix to last long. The oil in WD-40 is very light. There’s no substitute for proper lubrication.

 
Drivetrain  Your cassette—it’s a freewheel on older or cheaper bikes—should run smoothly, as should the jockey and tension wheels on the rear derailleur. If not, try dripping in a little light oil. The stuff you used on your chain will do fine. If this doesn’t put things right, you’ll have to flush out any gunge and relube. It’s a big job. Don’t plan on doing it on the trail.

Check the bottom bracket, too. It should spin easily with no obvious shake. (What’s “shake”? Grab both crank arms and push-pull. Do you feel a little click with each tug? That’s shake.) If it binds or grinds, or if there’s noticeable shake, and if your bike has an “old-fashioned” cup-and-cone bottom bracket, try adjusting the play first. Then try relubing. WARNING! This is NOT a job you want to do on the road. If you have sealed bearings, you’re in luck. They shouldn’t require any attention until they fail. Then you’ll have to replace them.

 
Derailleurs  Work through the gears. Watch for overshoot. You don’t want to throw the chain into the spokes when you shift down into your lowest gear. The other side of the coin—hesitant shifting—is almost as annoying. Either way, lube and adjust as needed.

 
Brakes  These are important, especially in the mountains—or in heavy traffic anywhere. Spin the wheels and apply the brakes. Smooth stop? Good. Or do the brakes drag, bind, or slip? Not good. Inspect and adjust. Be sure your brake levers don’t bottom out against the bars, too. If you’ll be wearing heavy gloves, you’ll want at least one inch of clearance when the brakes are applied. Otherwise, three-quarters of an inch will do. But no less. Adjust as needed.

 
Wheels  While you’re spinning your wheels to check the brakes, look at the wheel rims. Are they centered? They should be. Do they wobble from side to side or hop up and down? If there’s more than an eighth of an inch (3mm) of slop in either direction, you’ll need to “true” the affected wheel. This is one job you’ll probably want to leave to a pro—and not just any pro. If you’re still determined to do it yourself, first get a good repair manual and a junk wheel to practice on. And when you’re ready to tackle your working wheels, take your time.

That’s not all. If the brakes aren’t dragging, both wheels should come to rest slowly and smoothly after being given a spin, with the heaviest bit—usually the spoke with the reflector—ending up on the bottom after a period of back-and-forth oscillation. (The freewheel pawls will prevent the rear wheel from oscillating, but it should still coast smoothly to a stop somewhere past bottom dead center.) If not, you need to back off the cones. On the other hand, if the rims wiggle when you shake them from side to side—try it—the cones are too loose. Tighten them.

One more thing: Make absolutely certain that the quick releases or nuts that hold your wheels in place are secure. Being up the creek without a paddle is nothing compared to hurtling down a hill without a wheel.

 
Handlebars, Stem, and Headset  Except for the headset, which should turn easily without excessive shake—if the bearings are too loose, you’ll probably hear a sharp knock when you brake hard—tight is right here. You wouldn’t drive a car with a loose steering wheel, would you?

 
Pedals  Spin the pedals. If they don’t spin freely, and if they have cup-and-cone bearings, try adjusting the cones first. If that doesn’t fix the problem, they’ll need to be overhauled—disassembled, cleaned, and greased. Be careful. The ball bearings are tiny, and if you lose just one, your pedal is out of action.

Make sure the pedal is screwed tight into the crank, too. WARNING! The left-hand pedal usually has a left-hand thread. It tightens counterclockwise. Read about how to tighten pedals here.

 
Saddle  Is the saddle at the right height? Does it have the proper amount of tilt? Reference marks make checking easy. (Use ink or paint. Do NOT scribe lines in the seatpost with an awl.) If the seatpost is fitted with a quick-release, double-check that it’s tight.

 
Impedimenta  Be sure that everything attached to the bike is securely fastened. Pay special attention to the rack(s), bottle cages, and reflectors. And check that your tool kit is where it should be. If you’ll be pulling a trailer, its tires and wheels need the same care that the tires and wheels on the bike get. You’ll also want to be sure the hitch is secure.

 
The Load  Go through your gear list to be sure you haven’t forgotten anything. Check that the load is well-balanced. (Optimal load distribution varies from bike to bike. Experiment near home, well in advance of any long trip.)

 
Don’t know where to look for your freewheel or what a seatpost is? Best get a good repair manual. Until you do, though, this should put you in the picture:

 
OK. You’re ready to hit the trail, but don’t stop listening and looking. As soon as you get under way, check the brakes. Then, as you pedal along, pay attention to any strange sound or unusual vibration, and be alert for any change in steering or braking performance. Mechanical problems don’t go away by themselves. At the first sign of trouble, stop as quickly as possible and put things right—well out of the way of traffic.

 
Afterwards  Trip’s over? It’s time to “debrief” your bike. Unload your gear first. Then remove water bottles, bags, and pump. Now give it a good cleaning. Road dust can be ignored, but mud and grit should be washed off every part of your bike, even the brake blocks. The trailer, too. I use ordinary dishwashing detergent in a hand-operated pump sprayer, along with a bucket, a sponge or rag, and a stiff brush (for wheels and tires). I’m thorough, but I’m also careful not to spray water directly into the freewheel or bearings. If the chain is dirty—it almost always is—I clean and lube it, along with the derailleurs, cogs, and chainrings. I inspect the tires and wheels minutely as I clean them, and when necessary I probe cuts (very carefully) with the point of a penknife (or the aforementioned orange peeler) to dislodge any leftover glass. (WARNING! These tiny, sharp sherds often fly out with surprising force. After one bounced off my nose, I started wearing safety glasses. I’d suggest you do the same.)

When I’m done washing off all the muck, I make a mental note of any chips or dings in the finish for later retouching. Then I repeat the mechanical checks on my pre-ride list, noting everything that requires attention. I make any necessary repairs as soon as possible, replacing wearing items—brake blocks, chain, tires—well before they’re “worn out.” I also overhaul all bearings regularly: pedals every few months, wheels twice a year, bottom bracket and headset when needed. Some of this work is doubtlessly unnecessary, but it’s worth it. On-the-trail repairs are no fun.

Worried that you aren’t mechanically inclined? Don’t be. By comparison with cars and motorcycles, bikes are wonderfully easy to work on. Get a good book, a basic tool kit, and a workstand. And begin with easy jobs. Overhauling an old-style cup-and-cone pedal is a great way to learn how bearings go together, for example. Tackle more complicated jobs when you feel ready, buying specialized tools only as you need them. There’s not much point in owning a tool you can’t use, after all.

Sound time-consuming? It can be. But with experience, the jobs will only take a fraction of the time they once did, and a properly maintained bike needs surprisingly little unscheduled repair. In fact, if you do your post-ride “debriefing” religiously and clean your bike thoroughly after every trip, you’ll find that your pre-trip checks take only a few minutes at most—just long enough to top up the tires, check the brakes, and spin the wheels. It’s time well spent.

 
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I’ve been drawn to the outdoors all my life, and I have to thank my grandfathers for fostering my love of the natural world. They didn’t have very much in common, but they shared one thing: each was an outdoorsman. My city-reared grandfather (I knew him as Gramps) moved to the country as soon as he retired. It was the realization of a lifelong dream, made possible by a long lifetime’s hard work. He’d had a small garden in his suburban home, and he brought his skill and enthusiasm with him to his new old house in dairy country, losing no time in transforming 24 acres of overgrazed pasture into a lush haven for wildlife. He was understandably proud of what he’d done. Almost from the day I learned to walk, he took me with him for ever longer rambles around “the property,” teaching me the names of the trees and flowers we saw along the way and opening my eyes to the cycle of the seasons.

These walks were accompanied by a certain degree of ceremony. In fact, they were quasi-formal occasions, and Gramps was a gentleman of the old school. So he always made sure he was properly attired. In particular, this meant wearing a hat. His favorite was one he’d purchased from a New York City haberdasher. It had been a rich, deep chestnut brown when it was new, but years of sun, rain, and sweat had faded the felt to a mottled and disreputable khaki. It also smelled of citronella and hard toil, and my grandmother often banished it to a dark corner of the garage, right next to the kerosene can and the grease gun. But Gramps always hunted it down. He had lots of hats—he’d been a sales clerk in a men’s store at one point in his life, and he’d made good use of his employee discount—but the worn, old chestnut felt was his favorite. No, it was more than that. Much more. It had become a part of him, in the same way that a leather bicycle saddle becomes part of the rider. Gramps felt incomplete, almost unfinished, without the old hat fixed firmly on his head.

My other grandfather was a very different sort of man. He was a part-time Adirondack guide who’d lived far from the big city all his working life. He taught me to fish for brookies in remote beaver ponds and introduced me to the arts of canoeing in a battered old Grumman. Grandad knew all the boreal birds by sight and sound, and he passed this knowledge on to me. But our excursions together were very different from my leisurely strolls with my other grandfather. Unlike Gramps, who was happy to move at a speed that a five-year-old could easily match, Grandad set a fast pace, even on trails that were little more than deer tracks. And he didn’t make concessions for the short legs of young girls. I either kept up or I got left behind to find my way back to his cabin as best I could. There was no question of stopping to swat any of the legions of blackflies that swarmed over my exposed flesh, nor was there time (or breath) for idle chatter. Which was just as well, I suppose, because my enforced silence meant that when Grandad spoke, I had little choice but to listen—and Grandad never spoke unless he had something important to communicate. There wasn’t much about the backcountry that he didn’t know.

Like I said, Gramps and Grandad had little in common. Still, Grandad also wore a hat. Always. But—unlike Gramps—he didn’t particularly care which hat he picked off the rack by the door when he went out. None had a special place in his affections. The same thing couldn’t be said about his shirt, however. Make that Shirt with a capital “S.” Grandad had lots of shirts, but he only had one Shirt. It was a much-patched old US Army utility blouse with deep chest pockets. No two buttons matched, and the collar and cuffs were frayed and threadbare. The shirt stank, too—a legacy of years of applications of fly dope compounded from a recipe that probably predated Nessmuk‘s celebrated castor oil, pine tar, and pennyroyal “varnish.” Whatever it was, it worked, and the stink was a small price to pay for freedom from blackfly bites. Of course, Grandad could have soaked another shirt in fly dope and retired the old Army relic. But he didn’t. That smelly, tattered shirt was Grandad’s constant companion in the woods. He wouldn’t set off on a fishing trip without it.

Clearly, Gramps’ hat and Grandad’s shirt were more than articles of clothing, and their value transcended the merely utilitarian functions of protection from sun and rain. They were outdoorsman’s talismans. And like all talismans, they brought good luck to the possessor. Most backcountry travelers cherish something of the sort. It may be a commonplace item—like an old felt hat or a threadbare shirt—but it has a special meaning for its owner. In fact, it wouldn’t be too much to say that such talismans are imbued with a kind of magic. And make no mistake. Outdoorswomen have talismans, too. I’m no exception.… Read more…

 
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Only three months ago I was shooting photos of ice and snow along The River. The landscape was monochrome, but not dull and uninteresting. Two months ago the snow was melting and the landscape was monochrome again, but instead of hues of white and gray, the predominant color was brown as last autumn’s fallen leaves were exposed. The landscape is now a vibrant green, and it was especially verdant this weekend as I hiked through the woods and alongside The River. Come on along to see what I mean…

 
Ferns have unfurled along the approach road, and dandelions splash yellow across the verge.

 
Along the trail above The River leaves have emerged on most trees, glowing brightly even under overcast skies.

 
The trail passed under an arch of maple and beech saplings, and my passage is announced by chipmunks and red squirrels.

 
Wildflowers are blossoming, and some are past their prime already, but not the false solomon’s seals in the photo above. The bright green compound leaves of mountain ash are just popping out though insects are already dining on them:

 
Small pink blooms on the shrub below might be wild azalea, but I’m not sure:

 
There’s no doubt what these are:

 
Dandelions are familiar, but no less beautiful for all that. Ferns are common, too:

 
Small fists reach to the light above in the deep woods. Soon they’ll look like this:

 
A bit of dandelion fluff clings to the tips of some of the fronds. Ferns are such elegant plants, and among the most ancient:

 
Dandelions lend more yellow color to the green expanse of touch-me-not leaves:

 
By August, the hillside above will be lush in the orange blooms of “jewelweed,” one of my favorite wildflowers. Down the trail a bit more, the puddles reflect the green canopy:

 
And The River reflects more green:

 
And before leaving The River entirely, a lone fern waves in the breeze as it clings precariously to the rock above a falls:

 
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