Early in 2008 I bought a Surly Long Haul Trucker (“LHT” to its many fans) sight unseen from JensonUSA. The bike was delivered right to my door in a big box, and I had no cause for complaint whatsoever. In fact, I’ve lavished praise on both the bike and the seller many times. JensonUSA answered all my questions promptly and accurately, set the bike up properly, and packed it well. I’d have been lucky to have the transaction go half so smoothly if I’d done business with a local bike shop. But that would have been impossible, in any case. Of the dealers listed on the Surly website, the one nearest to my home is a good 200 miles away, and neither of the two (unlisted) bike shops in the closest town inspires any confidence. Both, in fact, have given me ample reason to avoid them. Which meant that asking either one to do a special order for me was out of the question. Had it not been for JensonUSA, therefore, I’d never have purchased an LHT.

And that would have been too bad. In the three and one-half years I’ve owned my LHT, it’s carried me more than 10,000 miles without mishap. Moreover, it fits me like the proverbial glove—no small matter when you’re as short as I am. Which is why I’ve repeatedly recommended both the LHT and JensonUSA to readers of my articles over the last three years. By no coincidence, many of these same readers lived in places where there was no local bike shop (or where the existing shop was no more inviting than the two nearest my home). Yet I could always hold out my example by way of encouragement. “See,” I could say, “if you take a little time to make certain of your size—and JensonUSA will be happy to help you—you can buy an LHT or other Surly bike with confidence, even if the nearest bike shop is half a day’s drive from home. After all, that’s what I did.”

But I can’t say this anymore. Effective 1 November, Surly has restricted sales of its “complete” (i.e, fully assembled) bikes to drive-in customers. The upshot? JensonUSA and other mail-order retailers can no longer ship LHTs to cyclists across the country. And I, therefore, can no longer recommend the LHT—or any other Surly bike—to readers who don’t have a good bike shop on their doorstep.

Don’t misunderstand me. By all reports, Surly bikes are still as good as the one I bought. Yet even before this latest diktat, Surly’s approach to customer relations could often be summarized in a few words: Surly by name, surly by nature. And indeed this isn’t the first time that Surly has chosen to display its contempt for its customers. (I’m referring to the notorious Affair of the Missing Kickstand Plate, if you’re curious.) But that’s beside the point. For me and for many other cyclists without a trustworthy local bike shop, Surly is no longer an option. Period.

What will I do when I’m next in the market for a new bike? Well, I can’t say for sure—Surly may regret its latest exercise in customer disparagment and relent, after all. (And pigs may someday fly.) But if not… Well, Thorn bikes look mighty interesting, and they don’t seem to have any qualms about giving customers what they want. They also ship to anyone, anywhere in the world. They’re not surly, of course, but then again, that’s not such a bad thing, is it?

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Panniers convert a bike from a show horse (or a race horse) to a work horse. Which is why I own three sets. Nashbar Townies carry the freight when I go shopping. Axiom Champlains haul mass on tours. But neither is ideally suited to local rides for purposes other than shopping. The Champlains are too heavy for short trips, not to mention unnecessarily large, while the Townies lack pockets for small, hard-to-find items. They also generate a surprising amount of wind resistance at speeds over 16 mph, a consequence of their boxy profile. Which helps explain why I acquired a third set of panniers some years back: Delta Compacts. They’re the perfect complement to my handlebar bag and saddle pack. Here’s a photo of my LHT with one mounted on the rear rack:

The Compacts live up (or down?) to their name: They are, in fact, compact. But they’re plenty big enough to haul a full set of warm clothes for blustery fall and early winter days, along with a generous picnic lunch and my extended tool kit. And I’ll still have room to pick up a squash or two from a roadside stand on my return trip. When I don’t need to carry as much as this, however, I can just mount a single Compact. Each pannier has only one mesh pocket tucked away under the flap, but it’s large enough to hold a pair of gloves and a neck gaiter, along with a rain shell or a sweat-soaked jersey. The pockets do have one potential shortcoming, however. The zippers are located near the outer edge of the flap. So if you forget to zip up after stuffing a pocket, and then cinch the flap down, the contents may jump ship as you ride along. This hasn’t happened to me. Yet. But I admit that I worry about it. On the plus side, the straps for cinching down the flaps are generous to a fault, and there’s a small strip of reflective material on each pannier. It’s certainly not enough on its own to guarantee that you’ll be seen, but every little bit helps.

What do I carry in my Compacts? Well, you’ve already had the executive summary, but here’s a more detailed list of the freight they’ve hauled over the years:

• • Clothing that I shed after I warmed up
• • Foul-weather gear
• • My cold-weather cycling survival kit
• • Turtles who needed a lift to a safe place
• • Produce bought at roadside stands
• • Last-minute purchases from HyperMarts or ser-sta-gros
• • Litter collected from the roadside
• • A handlebar bag whose bracket had failed
• • My extended backcountry tool kit
• • A picnic lunch and thermos (and sometimes a cooker, too)
• • Extra water bottles for long, hot rides

You’ll have your own list, of course, but this gives you some idea of the panniers’ versatility. Adding to the Compacts’ convenience is the simplicity of their mounting system: two plastic snap-on rack clips per bag, with a single shock-cord mounted hook to provide the counterforce needed to keep the panniers on the bike on bumpy roads. (The two bags can be joined together with a hook-and-loop fastener, too. That makes them as easy to carry off the bike as they are to mount on the rack.) Despite the simplicity of the mounting scheme, however, my Compacts have never come adrift, even on badly rutted gravel tracks. They’re equally happy mounted on my front rack, too—a handy option on shopping trips and tours, when the rear rack is taken up with either my grocery-hauling Townies or my home-from-home Champlains. What with one thing and another, my Compacts have become my (almost) constant companions, accompanying me everywhere I go on my bike, in all seasons.

Any downsides? Just one (other than the gotcha! pockets, that is): price. I got mine on sale, and I don’t think I paid more than USD30 for the pair. Now Amazon is selling them for nearly twice that. Would I buy them at the new, much higher price? I’m not sure. Probably. But I’d rather take care of the set I have. And another thing—the Compacts don’t have rain covers. Mine have weathered some pretty heavy showers without soaking through, but I still put anything that has to stay dry in a plastic bag. Peace of mind has seldom come cheaper.

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It’s not much to look at, and it’s certainly not high-tech, but it goes with me whenever I hit the road. It’s made of stamped steel, weighs next to nothing, and takes up no room to speak of. Known to Pentagon bureaucrats as the “OPENER, CAN, HAND, FOLDING, TYPE I,” for some unfathomable reason this handy gadget was also labeled the P-38, but to several generations of grunts it was always the “John Wayne.” And one came in every carton of Charlie-rations.

Well, C-rations are history now, and few will mourn their passing. Even the P-38 has fallen victim to technological progress, though it’s larger successor, the P-51, is nearly identical in most salient respects. In any case, I have an original. And here it is:

As you can see, it lost its showroom shine some decades back. But looks aren’t everything, are they? Performance counts, too. And my John Wayne is still up to the job. It’s prone to wandering off, however, which is why I’ve fitted the short lanyard. (Some folks attach a P-38 to their key chains. I don’t, however. The sharp, piercing point makes short work of pockets.) But enough throat-clearing. Let’s take a look at the old campaigner in action:

The drill is simple: Having chosen your can, hook the P-38′s little notch over the can’s raised edge. Then roll the sharp steel point down, stabbing it through the can lid. (Heavy steel lids will test the strength in your fingers, but John Wayne wouldn’t let a little thing like that stop him, would he? And we won’t, either.) Now rock the P-38 back upright, stopping just before the point breaks free. Roll down again. Rock back. Roll down. Rock back. Repeat as often as necessary, easing the can round till you’ve rolled and rocked the P-38 full circle.

A couple of cautions: Keep a firm grip on the can at all times. And mind the jagged edges of both can and lid…

Of course, more and more cans come with pull tabs. But you can never be sure that the can in your hand will prove so accommodating, can you? No matter. With John Wayne at your back, you’re covered. But suppose you don’t own a P-38? What then? First, ask around. If there’s a vet in your circle of family and friends, he (or she) may have a spare. No luck? Then try the surplus outlets. P-38s are still being offered for sale, usually for less than a buck. Which is probably less than the Pentagon paid for them. But that’s another story.

 
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