Sheldon is finally over the edge . . .

TBGibb said:

Check http://www.sheldonbrown.com/nanodrive/index.html

Tom, Nanodrive is old news. But I don't recall seeing the photo of Sheldon
in the maillot jaune.

Art Harris

TBGibb said:

Check http://www.sheldonbrown.com/nanodrive/index.html

And then tell me if he isn't! That mountain bike is pure heresy, I wouldn't be
a bit suprised if Elrond doesn't turn poor Sheldon into a frog.

In future do try to keep up with the rest of the class, this is 7 months
and 5 days old now.

Hmmm, doesn't that beard transgress some UCI rule or other? If it doesn't
the helmet cormorant must!

Mike

Reminds me of a former life when I fancied myself a climber and discovered
nano-nads available at Floss Products:
http://www.sljus.lu.se/People/Struan/Climb/Flossprods/

In article <[email hidden]>, "Arthur Harris"

Quoted message said:

Tom, Nanodrive is old news.

You mean Sheldon is still loose among us and still in human form?

Tom Gibb <[email hidden]>

(TBGibb) said:

In article <[email hidden]>, "Arthur Harris"

Quoted message said:

Tom, Nanodrive is old news.

You mean Sheldon is still loose among us and still in human form?

Worse, he's got the body of a 27-year-old. And I don't mean "in a box
in the back of the shop."
--
Typoes are a feature, not a bug.
Some gardening required to reply via email.
Words processed in a facility that contains nuts.

Werehatrack said:

(TBGibb) said:

In article <[email hidden]>, "Arthur Harris"

Quoted message said:

Tom, Nanodrive is old news.

You mean Sheldon is still loose among us and still in human form?

Worse, he's got the body of a 27-year-old. And I don't mean "in a box
in the back of the shop."

If Harris Cyclery had bodies capable of winning UCI races for sale, they
could make quite a bit on money. 😉

--
Tom Sherman - Greater QCA

On Sun, 07 Nov 2004 00:20:53 GMT, Werehatrack
<[email hidden]> wrote:

[snip]

Quoted message said:

Quoted message said:

You mean Sheldon is still loose among us and still in human form?

Worse, he's got the body of a 27-year-old. And I don't mean "in a box
in the back of the shop."

Seven days having elapsed since Halloween, the world may now
be ready to hear the full story . . .

Twilight was falling, so I was hurrying toward the inn, when
a gigantic figure, fully six foot five, overtook me.

Dressed all in black, he was mashing an unusually high gear.
Even in the gloom, I recognized him as a graduate of the
dreaded university not far from the mountains over Lake
T----, where the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due
and thereby fills the ranks of the marching band.

"You!" exclaimed the towering figure, catching sight of my
easily identifiable Fury RoadMaster. "Why aren't you in
Colorado, where you belong? What the devil are you doing
here in Massachusetts?

"I might well ask you the same question, Abrandt Van
Wheelsing," I replied coldly, "since this is not California.
But since you ask, my poor niece and nephew begged for my
help in a family matter. My elder sister lives in Dedham,
whence I am travelling. They could no longer bear the shame
of their mother rooting for the Red Sox, but my sad errand
there is finished."

The tall man on the twelve-speed bicycle winced as his
sensitive ear perceived the deliberately doubled "-ll-" in
"travelling."

"Never mind your Red Sox herrings," he said. "You can make
yourself useful. On this night of all nights, I am hot on
the trail of the monster who makes his lair near here!"

"Would that be a lair of the second kind?" I inquired,
annoyed that he had overlooked the possibility of a pun
on "finished herrings."

"We have no time for jokes!" Abrandt Van Wheelsing
announced. "We must hurry, 'Denn die Todten reiten
Schnell!'"

My extensive research into Buffy the Vampire Slayer had led
me to the original text by Bram Stoker, so I knew that this
meant "for the dead travel fast"--but I decided that a pun
about "travelling fast to Dedham" would be ill-received and
resolved to pun no more.

Such a pun would also have been inaccurate, for Van
Wheelsing turned away from Dedham at a fork in the road.

"Aha!" he exulted, pointing to bicycle tire tracks emerging
from a puddle ahead of us. "The monster is fleeing to his
evil den!"

"Who is this monster?" I asked. "And where does he live?"

"Live?" asked Van Wheelsing scornfully. "He is not of the
living--he is of the undead! By day, he lurks in West
Newton."

"West Newton?" I gasped. "But isn't that where Shel--"

"Do not speak that name here in the dark!"

I was about to argue that we were not in the dark, but under
a street lamp, when my companion gestured at the pavement.

"Look!"

I squinted at the ground again. "Bit of a mess there, but
don't worry, I wasn't going to ride through it."

"Fool! It is oil on the ground! He stopped to oil his chain
without first cleaning it, for he knows that I pursue him.
If we make haste, we shall overtake the bloody fiend, and
then only one of us will survive!"

"Er," I said nervously, "why not two of us? And exactly how
did Shel--"

"Do not speak that name!"

"Well, how did he turn into a bloody fiend? I mean, most
people consider him a rather cheerful sort, not one of the
undead. His prices may not match WalMart, but he's no
bloodsucker."

"Did you not see the Halloween picture that he posted?
The one captioned 'Got Blood?'"

Duh, I said silently to myself. Then I asked aloud, "How
did he go bad?"

"Spoke-squeezing," said the tall man reluctantly.

"Not to be rude," I lied, "but don't you--"

"Yes," came the sad reply, "but I squeeze spokes by hand
only to relieve stress. He squeezed spokes, too, but not by
hand as God intended--he used unholy tools!"

"Tools?" I asked, intrigued.

"Some say that he used old cranks to twist his spokes to
evil purposes, believing that his choice of semi-aero oval
spokes would let him stop before he went too far. Others say
that he was depraved from the beginning. But whatever he
did, his spokes became immortal--at a fearful cost!"

http://www.sheldonbrown.com/wheelbuild.html

"You mean--"

"His rims anodized overnight--he no longer casts a
reflection in them. And . . ."

"What?"

"I hardly dare speak it, but his wheels--his wheels--"

A long silence ensued, finally broken by a horrified
whisper:

"They hang from the upper spokes--like bats!"

http://www.sheldonbrown.com/nanodrive/bianchi-quarter.jpg

Stunned by this revelation, I fell silent.

Presently, my companion looked back over his shoulder at me.

"Why have you mounted a blinking red rear light on the front
of your--your--" He stopped, apparently unable to describe a
Fury Roadmaster as a bicycle.

"So that I can sneak up on him," I explained. "He'll think
that I'm heading the other way."

http://groups.google.com/groups?q=carl+sheldon+%22red+light%22&hl=en&lr=&group=rec.bicycles.tech&selm=41892CE0.60909%40sheldonbrown.com&rnum=1
or http://tinyurl.com/4ktu7

Van Wheelsing said something under his breath that sounded
like "Mormon," but then he snarled "Never mind!" when I
began to correct his mistaken notion of my religious views.

Dawn began to break as we climbed higher into the forbidding
Massachusetts Alps. The tracks of our quarry were clear in
the frost on the shoulder of the road--tracks with obvious
tread patterns, whose useless shapes that filled us with
dread!

But as we followed the monster's tracks, the most amazing
thing happened--as the sun rose, the tread markings began to
fade!

When I remarked on this fascinating supernatural phenomenon,
my fellow rider said, "Frost melts in the sun, numbskull!"

Sullenly, I changed the subject. "Now that the sun is up,
perhaps you can tell me more. What's he riding? And can we
use his name now?"

"He rides in many forms," came the answer. "Derailleurs,
Sturmey-Archer three-speeds, fixies--there are even rumors
of continuously variable transmissions. But mostly he rides
what gave him the name by which we know him best--Count
Rohloff XIV of West Newton!"

http://www.sheldonbrown.com/harris/surly-rohloff/index.html

"Well, speak of the devil," I said and coasted to a stop in
front of 1353 Washington Street.

http://www.sheldonbrown.com/harris/images/shop-frt-angle.jpg

"Dear God!" exclaimed Van Wheelsing, giving every sign of
being shocked. "I might have known!"

"It's just a bicycle shop," I said, baffled by his reaction.

"Look!"

Belatedly, I noticed a funeral black vehicle parked in front
of Harris Cyclery.

"Relax," I reassured Van Wheelsing. "It's not a black SUV.
It's just a hearse." Only when he saw that there was no
trailer hitch was he able to overcome his superstitious
fear.

We pedalled stealthily into the bike shop and were soon
bumping down a gloomy stone staircase, which reminded me
that Van Wheelsing was famed for riding his road bike on
trails.

"What's that noise?" I whispered fearfully, puzzled by a
regular thudding sound.

"Probably someone hammering on a headset," was the unworthy
answer.

Eventually, I noticed that the thudding coincided with my
tires descending the steps.

But when we reached a level floor and our tires were no
longer bumping down the stairs, the hideous thudding
continued!

Then it stopped, which was even more ominous.

Finally we came to a dark chamber, fitfully lit by erratic
flashes of light.

"What can that light be?" muttered Van Wheelsing.

"Maybe it's sparking titanium," I said spitefully.

As we drew closer, we put aside our petty squabbles, for
there in plain sight, illuminated by a torch, was the evil
lord of West Newton, busily brazing a front derailleur onto
a carbon frame.

Nearby on the stone floor was a rubber mallet with which he
had been beating the round seat tube into another and
horrible shape.

My eyes widened further as I saw that even his front chain
rings were sinister ovals!

"Thing of evil!" cried Van Wheelsing, drawing a well-greased
and appallingly sharpened seat post from under his jersey.
"Prepare to meet your doom!"

"Hey," chortled the West Newton Nosferatu, "look who's here!
Halloween's over, and I didn't really expect to see you, but
I kept some just in case--"

The ghoul reached into an unhallowed container and drew
forth the one thing that I had dreaded.

"Don't look!" I warned Van Wheelsing , but it was too late.

"Snickers bars!" There was a clang as the sharpened seat
post fell from Van Wheelsing's hand to the stone floor.

"Yeah," said Count Rohloff, "I know you like 'em. And," he
added, "I've got another surprise for you! C'mere and have a
look."

Like a man in a trance, Van Wheelsing dismounted and
approached his enemy, stiff-legged and unable to help
himself. (At least, I consoled myself, there's no question
of round-pedalling.)

"This'll take a minute," Count Rohloff said, offering me his
unholiest delicacies, "so why not help yourself to some
Product W?"

http://www.sheldonbrown.com/w.html

The demon shrank back as I flipped my Fury RoadMaster
sideways in front of me onto its seat and handlebars to
reveal its true cross-three spoke pattern.

Van Wheelsing quivered, but even the provocation of an
upside-down bicycle was not enough to break the hypnotic
Snickers trance.

Quoted message said:

Perhaps the box contained nothing but 1977 Shimano cranks.

Perhaps not.

Heeeeheeeee!!!
Work at your leisure!

Quoted message said:

Perhaps the box contained nothing but 1977 Shimano cranks.

Perhaps not.

Heeeeheeeee!!!
Work at your leisure!

TBGibb said:

Check http://www.sheldonbrown.com/nanodrive/index.html

And then tell me if he isn't! That mountain bike is pure heresy, I wouldn't be
a bit suprised if Elrond doesn't turn poor Sheldon into a frog. But once Mr.
Brandt sees the road bike he has set up there that attempts (via the power of a
visual) to assert that hubs are suspended from the rim by the spokes . . .
well, it won't be pretty!

Those gears are huge. Check out:

http://www.ipt.arc.nasa.gov/gallery.html
http://www.imm.org/Parts/Parts3.html
http://www.fantasyarts.net/nasa-nanogear-shaft.htm
http://www.mse.ncsu.edu/CompMatSci/Tutorial/listing.html