The Daily Grind

By Rob Manning

A Dirty Little Affair

For me, 2005 was a beginning of sorts. Little did I know that the purchase of something as innocuous as a bike would end up sending me spiraling into obsession. I walked into a bike shop with the intention of buying a hardtail to use for some light trail riding. After about an hour of questions and perusing, I walked out with a shiny new Trek 4500D and a desire to hit the mud. And so I did. Again and again, trail after trail, bump after bump, and fall after fall. I was hooked.

I rode that Trek for a while. My skills progressing rapidly, I became more and more aggressive on the trails, and yet something was wrong. That Trek, outfitted with its cable pull discs and 8 speed parts just wasn’t inspiring confidence in me anymore. It was no longer a case of “me vs. the trail.” No, it was more like a sadistic love-hate triangle of “me vs. the Trek vs. the trail.” I didn’t want to hate her, but I did, and she hated me back. I angrily called her the “Fat Cheese Momma Sitting on a Bench,” as befitting to her Wisconsin heritage. She retaliated by throwing me over the bars, sliding out from underneath me and bucking me off the platforms every chance she got. I was in an abusive relationship and things had to change.

Wrenching Therapy?

After some intense searching for lost passion (Google), I found a therapist capable of dealing with my love triangle. Dr. Upgrades: shifters, cranks, derailleurs, bars and forks. Suddenly I understood my new therapy for the angst I was feeling during every ride. A pair of clipless pedals and shoes was the first purchase, followed by a better rear derailleur. These two items merely confirmed that the upgrade bug had not only bitten me but had burrowed deep into my obsessive mind, pushing me ever further to achieve perfection in bike form. Those bits helped slacken the tension between us (the Trek and I) but they weren’t enough.

A few months later, I left her with my LBS to have her guts ripped out and replaced. Her stock equipment was removed and replaced with shiny new shifters, front derailleur, cranks and hydraulic discs. She’d had a gastric bypass: she weighed less, was spunkier and was ready to roll. She was a new bike, and we began to love each other just a little. A new set of bars and a new air sprung fork only fueled that fire. Alas, I finally knew love.

But there was a price attached to that love. No matter how much I loved her, we still had problems. It was still “me vs. the Trek vs. the trails.” Bumps were harsh and ripped through my lower back, causing more aggravation than running out of beer halfway through a post-ride double cheeseburger. My knees twanged with discomfort from not having an absolutely proper fit. She still bucked me off every now and then and as a result, we both sustained plenty of bruises during our rides. She proudly sported a nice scrape in the paint on her seatstay and some nicks in her chainstay. Layers of dirt and grit had caked themselves into those hard to reach nooks and crannies. I sported plenty of bruises, scratches and scars, myself, the result of frequent encounters with rocks, thorn bushes and tree branches.

During one particularly vicious assault, the Fat Cheese Momma ate the seatpost clamp bolt, threw the seat at my girlfriend, and gave me an impromptu proctology exam via the seatpost. And she wasn’t gentle about it either. My back still hurt (not to mention so did my back end). My knee continued to throb, my arms and legs looked like uncooked hamburger. I knew I had to do something. The next step was clear, and involved something squishy.

I’m looking for something…flexy

Full suspension. Dualie. Squish. Call it what you want; I call it my personal intervention. Back at my LBS, it was finally time to have “the talk.” The owner guided me in the same direction he’d led my girlfriend months earlier: Kona Therapy. I thought about it, considered my options and did my research. All signs pointed to a XC or an all-mountain rig. But there was a catch: a decent specimen of either was a bit pricey, and really, what would I do with TWO mountain bikes? It was back to the drawing board.

My girlfriend finally had the answer, as so often only women can. She had stumbled upon a company with a surplus of 2005 Kona framesets, one of which happened to be a Dawg Primo complete with a rear shock. The price was right, only 40% off retail, but I felt a tinge of guilt in the prospect pf cannibalizing the Cheese Momma to build a new machine. Well, I felt that way until my girlfriend (who often displays more common sense than me) pointed out that the essence of the Trek was its frame and fork, neither of which would come equipped on the Kona. The order was placed and the Dawg came home.

“To walk the Dawg, you must end your Trek, my son…”

One gray Saturday in winter, with a light dusting of snowflakes falling, I strapped the Trek to my Subaru, and placed the Dawg in the back seat. With the Trek sitting in the stand at the shop, and the Dawg leaning quietly up against the bench at my feet, it was time to fulfill my destiny and shoot for perfection in bike form. With allen key in hand, I said a little something of a eulogy for the soon to be departed Trek, and took the wrench to that sentimental first bike. Bars, fork, brakes, saddle, pedals and derailleurs; it all came off, piling up on my workbench. The Dawg was placed on the stand, and like Dr. Frankenstein, I began the transformation (sans bolts of lightening). The fork slid into its new digs, the brakes were installed, and bottom bracket cups threaded in, followed by the sensual sliding of a crank axle through the outboard cups. Wheels were seated and quick releases were tightened down, giving the Dawg legs to run on. The derailleurs were clamped down and threaded onto the hanger, shifters slid over the smooth carbon bars and cables were routed from stem to stern. A half-hour of adjustments brought the transmission in line and the saddle was mounted like a crown upon the seatpost - double bolts this time. With shock and fork pressure dialed in I climbed aboard for the first time. The only word I could think of to describe the feeling was “dreamy,” and I hadn’t even pedaled a stroke yet.

The following day was monumental. It was time to take the Dawg for its first proverbial walk. I was a little nervous about it because, after all, it wasn’t my Trek. Well, it was partly my old lover. After-all the Trek had sacrificed itself for me, donating its vitals to give the gift of life to another. With that in mind, a quick two minute spin around a rutted pothole-laden parking lot, while waiting for my girlfriend to saddle up, confirmed that I had made the right choice. “This bike is incredible!” I reported back to her while hopping over potholes and bouncing my newfound suspension like a toddler on a trampoline. On the trail, plush, responsive, fast, stable and just plain FUN, were the only descriptions that my overwhelmed neurons could muster. We flowed together over logs, rocks, roots, stream crossings, up hills, down washouts and through everything in between with reckless abandon. I had found my own personal Nirvana. It was perfection in bike form- no longer a demented triangle of “me vs. Trek vs. trail.” Now it was simply “Dawg and I vs. trail.” And the Dawg and I, we were finally winning the battle. The clichés are true: Dawg IS man’s best friend.

Just a minor technicality…

So looking back on it, what worked and what didn’t? It turned out that the Trek donated some of the more critical parts, such as the cranks, brakes and fork (I swapped the original brakes and fork before cannibalizing the Cheese Momma in the first place.). I made a few equipment alterations when I built the Dawg, mainly concerning drive-train components. While doing my exhaustive research into what breed of Dawg to adopt, I found a few things that I couldn’t resist. What gadget minded man could resist the thrill of a carbon fiber X.0 rear derailleur? And we all know titanium is another exotic alloy that just has to find a place in my picture of cycling perfection. My new saddle was a Terry Fly with titanium rails and Crankbros Candy C pedals snaked their way onto the crank-arms to ensure that I would keep a tight reign on my snarling new puppy.

The parts all play very well together. TALAS fork adjustment lets me drop my fork travel down on climbs to increase my efficiency and between the 5” travel the TALAS provides when fully extended and the 5” travel provided by the rear Fox RP3 and Kona rear suspension, the Dawg eats descents like Kibbles ‘n Bits. Its Mocha Latte paint job lends itself an air of sophistication that just barely veils its raw aggression, making it unassuming, yet blissfully devilish to ride. It’s reminiscent of a dog that would rub against your leg one moment and pee on your carpet the next. Perfect.

The process leading up to the build was a long one consisting of many nights glued to catalogs and forum pages, searching through specs and geometry and soliciting opinions of lovers and detractors alike. I found myself caught up in the wild and thrilling rush of research through the realm of freeride, all mountain and XC full suspension bikes, but the end result was worth it. I built a machine that is uniquely mine and has a little more sentimentality to it than a pre-assembled squishy rig off a showroom floor.

But, what about the Cheese Momma, you’re asking? I don’t have back pain and sore knees any longer. But, I’ve still got her. She’s like an ex-girlfriend that you just can’t bear to let go of completely. She’s the girl you still send a Christmas card to, even though she broke your heart, insulted your mother and stole your kitten. She’s still got that gash in her seatstay and the nicks in her chainstay. She’s sitting down in my workshop, sporting her original fork, just waiting for me to give her a call and strike up a romance again. I do see something in her future, but it’s a little hazy. Through the fog of time I think I see a lonely cog and a single chainring, but I’m not sure. Only time will tell.