Rimjob – birth of a crank
In my role as the epitome of Fredly materialistic stupidity, I went through a phase of desperately wanting to own carbon wheels.
The sequence went something like this:
1. Buy expensive and beautiful carbon tubular race wheels. Because black. Because awesome whooshing sound. Because carbon. Use twice.
2. Realise that swapping brake pads to accommodate said wheels is unbearably tedious. Contemplate selling.
3. Decide to mitigate brake pad problem by buying even more expensive set of carbon clinchers that are no lighter than much cheaper aluminium set I already own. Now I don’t have to swap pads. Carbon party all day long!
4. Realise that carbon braking sucks like Dyson, that in gale-force Scotland even a 32mm rim is pushing it for a gossamer-framed pixie like me, and that on the stiff-as-balls Scott, I need some sproing from my rims. Less clatter, more sproing. Also, realise that wheels are patently unsuitable for trips to foreign mountains, which as 0.1% of my riding must form the basis for all equipment choices.
5. Sell clinchers.
6. Sell tubs.
7. Curate strong opinions about handbuilts because get off my lawn.
Here endeth the lesson.