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Musings on Cycling and the Virtues of the Continental GatorSkin Kevlar Lined Bicycle Tire

We live today in an environmentally conscious society, marked by a global recession, and obsessed with health and beauty. It is no surprise that bicycles have enjoyed a resurgence in popularity among American consumers as both a means of exercise and transportation, but also as an enjoyable activity and competitive sport. Even counter-culture has embraced the bicycle as an every-mans means of transport, much preferring the humble bicycle to public transportation and automobiles. As a result all sorts of colorful and exciting niches of cycling have taken bloom in this new millennium.

 

Across the country millions each day don helmet and riding gloves and set off down the trails, sidewalks, and bike lanes of our fair country; be it to school, work, the local coffee shop or merely for pleasure.

 

My own interests in cycling began like many others. It wasn’t long after I could walk that my parents purchased me a tricycle. I graduated on to a sturdy Huffy and finally a serviceable mountain bike. But then something happened. I was a freshman in high school and suddenly a bicycle was passé. Everyone drove around in cars and trucks and my trusty mountain bike collected dust in the garage when I traded it in for a 1968 fire engine red Camaro. Who would have guessed 4 short years later I would rediscover my love for 2 wheel transportation when I went off to college.

 

There I was, stranded in a new city, a stranger in a strange land. At this point the Camaro was passed down to my brother, for I would be focusing on my studies at the University. Still, walking everywhere was decidedly lame. I longed to feel the cool air rush past my face, and besides, the 15 minute walk to calculus was becoming too much to endure while fighting a hang-over with a cafeteria biscuit and past expired fruit.  Suddenly it hit me from behind like a ton of bricks, a swarthy young man on a rusty old cruiser. Fighting the urge to howl certain explicatives across the hallowed quadrangle it took everything I had to retain composure. In that second of twisting agony I had what we alcoholics call a moment of clarity. As I limped off to class I realized that I could be that guy, that swarthy underclassman, running the cracked tires of a vintage Schwinn into the heels of the unexpecting. I could become that man.

 

So a trip to the sporting goods store settled it.  I was now the owner of a shiny new bicycle with a silver frame and knobby tires. Ready to tackle any trail, any obstacle for this iron steed was mine alone to command. My whims became its destiny. Most of that bicycle’s destiny was apparently at the local bar as my friends and I took great pleasure in riding our bikes to the various watering holes. We would often laugh of our exploits, reminiscing the nights when we were simply too drunk to drive, yet sober enough to slide behind the handlebars. Our laughter would echo off the quiet row houses, the tree lined streets, their autumn leaves crunching between our wheels like fresh snow.

 

As my cycling abilities improved, so did my interest in cycling mechanics. I often repaired my bike personally, and because the bike was rather cheap I had plenty of experience. Eventually I graduated to a real bike, a vintage Schwinn World Sport. She was a trusty touring bike with 12 gears and 27 inch wheels. I was a young man rediscovering myself, losing my mind to the sirens of the city. I would drink massive quantities of alcohol and wake up in the morning feeling like death incarnate. Instead of licking my wounds on the couch I would force myself to ride. I would ride to sweat out the sin, the poison within. I would cover great distances visiting corners of the city I had never seen, exploring new sights and smells, and working off some of that protruding beer belly that managed to emerge.

 

One ever present danger however was the dreaded flat tire. Nothing was worse than being 15 miles out only to feel the back wheel lose pressure and slowly start to walk out from under you. That sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach, that understanding that you were stranded, and it would be a long and miserable walk home, was like nothing else. I would often pack a small pump and extra patches but even then, certain flats were irreparable and the disruption of my ride was a great annoyance.

 

I tried various products to avoid flat tires; various tubes and goos and inserts. These magical elixirs made all sorts of lofty claims, their dapper salesmen promising to cure flat tires for good. Some of them worked alright, and others worked poorly. Much like you would expect snake oil at the dog and pony show to cure your cold you were often left, unsatisfied.

 

So finally I decided to bite the bullet and purchase a pair of Kevlar lined tires. I figured if the material was capable of stopping a bullet, surely a piece of broken glass would be easy work for the tires. Oddly enough, I was right. The Continental GatorSkin tire has proven itself to me to be the most effective preventative maintenance against flat tires. As far as tires go, they don’t come cheap, but if you really want to stop flats for good and start enjoying your rides then this is the only way to go.

 

Learn more at: http://www.continentalgatorskin.com

About the Author

Daniel Jackson, global enthusiast.

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