Some Tricks for Installing Aluminum Fenders

I recently installed some Velo Orange aluminum fenders on my Trek 311. I’ve been riding this bike a lot this year and it’s had a set of Planet Bike plastic fenders on it since I built it up in its current configuration back in January. I tend to think of aluminum fenders as higher quality and more “permanent” than plastic fenders, which is why I made the change. But after I installed the aluminum fenders I got to thinking about the differences between plastic and aluminum and the relative advantages and disadvantages of the two types. I’m not sure one type is any better than the other, they’re just different.

For instance, plastic fenders are probably a better choice if you frequently lock your bike up in crowded bike racks where the bike is likely to get banged around. Plastic fenders resist the unavoidable scratches and dents that would have aluminum fenders looking old and beat up in no time. If a plastic fender gets crunched against a rack or another bike, it will usually just snap back to its original shape while an aluminum fender might end up rubbing against a wheel until bent back in shape.

Aluminum fenders tend to offer better coverage which means they keep you and your bike drier and cleaner. This isn't entirely a function of the material. Plastic fenders could be made longer offering greater coverage, but none of the commonly available plastic fenders (SKS and Planet Bike) come in sizes as long as the commonly available aluminum fenders (Velo Orange and Honjo). I suspect that this is partly because aluminum is stiffer and therefore more stable in the longer lengths and less likely to flop around. A plastic fender would probably need to be made heavier or would require additional stays if it were made as long as most aluminum fenders.

Of course there are also aesthetic arguments for aluminum or for plastic. Aluminum fenders just look right on some bikes while plastic looks right on others. It's just as hard to imagine a classic René Herse with plastic fenders as it is to imagine a Trek Madone with hammered aluminum fenders (though I'm sure both have been done).

1950 René Herse porteur

One of the arguments I often hear in favor of plastic fenders is that they're easier to install. In general I'd agree with this, though I think it's not as much a function of the material (plastic vs. aluminum) as it is a function of design. Honjo and Velo Orange fenders are designed to be installed more permanently as an integral component of the bicycle while SKS and Planet Bike plastic fenders are designed to be easily added on as an accessory. You generally won't have to modify much about a plastic fender to get it to fit reasonably well on your bike assuming the bike has room for any fenders. With an aluminum fender, be prepared to do a little bending, drilling, cutting and cursing.

Each time I install a set of aluminum fenders I learn another trick or two that makes the job a bit easier and results in a better quality installation. It still usually takes me more time than installing a set of plastic fenders, but some of these tricks at least remove difficulty-of-installation as a significant factor in deciding which type of fenders to install on a bike, so I thought I'd share some of what I've learned.

• Install one contact point at a time working your way from one end to the other. For instance on the rear fender, attach the fender to the chain stay bridge first, then at the seat stay bridge, then the rear fender stay.


• After each point is attached, work on “shaping” the curvature of the fender to match the arc of the tire from that attachment point to the next. In other words, once you’ve attached the fender at the chain stay bridge work on shaping the curve of the fender only between the chain stay bridge and the seat stay bridge. Once you’ve got that section nicely matched, then attach the fender at the seat stay bridge and begin shaping the fender from the seat stay bridge to the fender stay.


• The curve of the fender can easily be “shaped” by either squeezing the edges of the fender toward each other or away from each other at the point where you want to adjust the arc. Squeeze the edges together to increase the radius of the fender arc (make the curve flatter), and pull the edges outward to decrease the radius or make the curve tighter. A little flexing goes a long way, so go easy. Adjusting the arc in one spot will affect how the fender fits in the adjacent spots so it’s best to make tiny adjustments working along the length of the fender and then go back over it a couple times. It’s sort of like truing a wheel.





Squeeze the edges together to increase the radius






Pull the edges apart to decrease the radius



• Once installed, there should be no tension in the fender. Sprung tension is what causes fenders to crack. In other words, the attachment points shouldn’t be holding the fender in the correct curvature, they should only hold the fender on the bike.


• Use leather washers and rubber spacers between the frame and the fenders to reduce noise and the likelihood of cracks.


• Use nylon lock nuts or locktite on nuts and bolts to keep them from vibrating loose.


• Never, ever embark on a fender installation job without beer.

Those with sharp eyes have already noticed that the rear fender line on my Trek isn't quite perfect. Other than the fact that I'm not a perfectionist and could best be described as a "hack" when in comes to bike wrenching, there are a couple of reasons (or excuses) for this. First, these fenders had been installed on another bike previously and were removed because the rear fender cracked at the seat stay bridge (due to my faulty installation job). I patched the fender back together with a couple of pieces of sheet aluminum and some nuts and bolts as you can see below.

It's not the most beautiful patch job in the world, but it's quite sturdy. While the patch holds things together well, it limited my ability to shape the fender to match the arc of the tire perfectly.

Also, since the Trek has horizontal dropouts, I decided to leave some extra room near the chain stay bridge so that the rear wheel could easily be removed and reinstalled without having to let air out of the tire. I've seen other fender installations that solve this problem by attaching the fender to the chain stay bridge with a spring gizmo so the fender follows the arc of the tire but can be pushed forward when needed to remove and reinstall the rear wheel. I've used this approach before and it does look better, but in my experience it always results in a fender that rattles and eventually cracks. For a randonneuring bike, I'm interested in the simpler, more indestructible approach even if it isn't quite as pretty.

So far this installation seems to be solid and totally rattle free. The 400k and 600k brevets coming up in the next few weeks will be good tests.

There but for the grace of God...

Bikes by the truck full

I saw this on my commute this morning. I understand this person. It starts innocently enough. You spot a great old bike in a Craig's List ad and buy it, not because you need it, but because it's just too good of a deal to pass up. Next thing you know you're buying a pick up truck to haul your bikes around.

(To be honest, I collect pictures like this so that when Sarah complains about my bike collecting I'll have something to throw at her while I deftly argue, "well... um... I'm not as bad as some people!")

From a Recent Ride...

The Vitality Christian Church of Goldbar

Flèche 2012

I rode in my first flèche this past weekend. It was a lot of fun and definitely not like any other Randonneuring event I've ever done before.

The object of a flèche seems to be as much about finding places to hang out and kill time as it is about riding. Don't get me wrong. We rode 370 kilometers. That's a long ways to ride no matter what. But it's definitely not enough riding to use up all 24 hours. So, that out of balance time-to-kilometers ratio leads to a fair amount of stupid stuff like hanging out in restaurants with fish and chickens all over the walls, sleeping in post offices and riding interesting looking trails that you think might go where you want to go even though you really have no idea where they go.


The obligatory "riding to the flèche panda"



My trusty steed at the Seattle ferry dock

I started this adventure by riding downtown to meet my teammates Gary, Dave and Joe. After a cup of coffee at cafe D'arte we headed down to the ferry dock to get our picture taken while the Gilligan's Island theme song played in the background ("a three hour tour/ a three hour tour...").

The Olympic Discovery team waiting for the ferry

Off the ferry, we made a quick stop at Classic Cycle (a very cool bike shop, worth a visit next time you're on the island) to get our cards signed for the official start, and then we headed off up Hwy 305 to begin 24 hours of cycling and time-killing.

Dave taking the lead on Bainbridge Island

From Winslow to Port Townsend, the roads were dry and the weather was perfect.

Nice quiet and notably dry roads

Gary with enough clothes in that pannier to last a month

Approaching Port Townsend we made our first unplanned detour by jumping on the Pacific Northwest trail. The trail is unpaved, but definitely the more fun than riding on the busy highway.

The team on the trail

Approaching Port Townsend

In Port Townsend we met up with Jon Muellner, a fellow Seattle Randonneur who lives there. While sitting there chatting with Jon in Port Townsend I was beginning to realize that I needed to adjust my thinking for the flèche. Normally on brevets I'm trying to get through controls as quickly and efficiently as possible. I rarely just sit and relax. With my brain in brevet mode the sitting was making me feel like a New Yorker who just got off the plane in the Bahamas and hadn't adjusted to island time yet. I was anxious to get moving. Luckily the adjustment didn't take long. By the time we rolled out of PT, I was already shifting gears (figuratively... no real gear shifting on a single speed bike).

From Port Townsend to Sequim we managed to stay off of the highway for most of the trip. First we found the Larry Scott Memorial trail, another unpaved multi-use trail that weaves and rolls its way out of Port Townsend and eventually turned to single track. Then we jumped on every road we found that paralleled highway 101 until we got on the Olympic Discovery trail which parallels 101 some more and goes on for miles and miles. I'm sure it wasn't the most direct route, but it made for some lovely riding.

Trestle on the Olympic Discovery trail

Between Port Townsend and Sequim we saw our only real rain of the trip and a bit of hail (always fun on a bike), but the sun found us too and the weather was definitely nothing to complain about. Yet.

Sunshine has us totally confused

Gary dropping us as usual

Near Sequim on the trail

In Sequim we had an excellent Mexican dinner with a frosty hoppy beverage to wash it down. We were all still feeling strong and fresh. Meanwhile, outside the sun was setting and the temperature was dropping ("a three hour tour/ a three hour tour...").

When I was working out our route, I remember looking at the town of Quilcene on Google Maps and thinking, "a town like that has got to have a bar that stays open until two, right?" "I mean, what else would people in Quilcene do on a Friday night?" Quilcene would have been a great place to stop and warm up a bit on our long 110 mile stretch from Sequim to Elma. Unfortunately the poor souls of Quilcene have to go someplace else to shoot pool, quaff a beverage and share some craic with their mates. There was nothing open in Quilcene when we rolled through at about 11 pm. So, that left us with a full night of riding and 110 miles of road with no services of any kind.

Actually, it's not accurate to say "no services of any kind." Randonneurs are nothing if not resourceful. While most people might look at a post office and see only a place to pick up and drop off mail, a randonneur might see a five star hotel.

Lilliwaup PO: Your tax dollars at work

The thermometer on the bank in Hoodsport read 28 degrees when we went by. The temperature dropped quite noticeably after that as we climbed through the hills near Matlock. I'd guess it was somewhere in the low 20s.

We arrived in Elma as the eastern sky was beginning to glow purple, and promptly found the Rusty Tractor Family Restaurant, which at the time seemed like a kitschy Shangri la.

The Rusty Tractor in Elma

You had to be there...

Spirits and heads were drooping a bit in the Rusty Tractor.

Gary providing inspiration to the team

I don't think Dave said anything intelligible after this. And we were still a five hours away from Olympia.

But with a fifty year old cheerleader for a waitress backing us 110% we were able to hold it together and get back on the bikes for the trip to the 22 hour control two hours away in Rochester.

The wind blew in our faces pretty much all the way to Rochester, and then again from Rochester to Olympia. But by then we knew it was in the bag. There was nothing left to do but keep pedalling until we were greeted at the Governor Hotel in Olympia by a smiling Don and Mimi Boothby. It was 12:10 pm Saturday.

As much fun as it was riding through the freezing night (cough, cough), I have to say that my favorite part of the fléche was the banquet the next morning. It was fascinating and entertaining to hear the tales of adventure and misadventure from the other teams.

Thanks to Josh Morse and Seattle Randonneurs for putting on a great event.

What a Difference a Couple of Days Can Make

On my morning commute I sometimes cut through the UW campus. Yesterday morning I was greeted by this.

Cherry Blossoms on the Quad

On Randonneuring and Time

Wet pavement, gray skies, pickup trucks and single-wides...

March: In like a lion, out like a soggy, hypothermic ruminant. That’s what we say up here in Seattle anyway. And the saying was dead-on accurate on Saturday as I rode the Seattle Randonneurs 300k. The ride started in the dark with a cold hard rain falling, and though the sun came up an hour or so into the ride, it was pretty hard to tell.

I spent the first half of the ride from Tacoma to Centralia and back up to Olympia riding with Todd Sahl and Andy Ziegler. Todd and Andy are strong riders, nice guys and great riding partners, but together we managed to sort of bungle our way through the first 100 kilometers.

First we missed a turn on our way out of Tacoma, venturing a couple miles off course. After a couple of sessions of head scratching and smart phone consulting we figured out where we were and got ourselves back on the route.

Then a couple hours later Andy got a flat tire. Andy’s hands were too cold and numb to deal with fixing the flat so Todd and I got to work on it. We got the new tube in and pumped up and then the valve stem of the new tube came apart. Not a big deal, these things happen… However, while Todd and I were fumbling with the tire in the cold rain, Andy was going hypothermic. He was shivering uncontrollably and literally turning a pale shade of gray. Luckily there was an open Subway sandwich shop close by (isn’t that always the case?) so we decided to take our wheel in with us and fumble around with it in a slightly warmer environment. Andy had more clothes with him so he added dry layers while Todd and I fixed his flat for the second time. Eventually with mechanical issues sorted out and core temperatures back to life-sustaining levels we were able to get back on the road.

By this point we were only about 50 km into the ride and well behind all of the other riders but we rode hard to make up lost time and to stay warm. We were making such good time (thanks in part to a tailwind) that by the time we got to Olympia, about half way through the ride, we had caught up with the most of the other riders.

At the Blue Heron bakery in Olympia I had a yummy Spinach and Ricotta croissant and would have had five more if it hadn't been the last one. I was a bit worried about staying too long because I knew my core temp would drop quickly and it would take a long time to warm up again if I didn't get moving quickly. Also, my legs were pretty cooked from keeping up with Todd and Andy in tailwinds for much of the morning. I was on my single speed bike and they were both fully geared which meant a lot of time with them in their big gears pedaling along casually at 25 mph while I was spinning like an eggbeater on speed. Todd and Andy wanted to stay for a while to have some coffee, so I told them I was going to take off at my own pace and see them down the road a ways when they caught up.

That was the last I saw of Andy and Todd other than a brief fly-by on the out-and-back section out to Hoodsport. Apparently Andy had had another flat that kept them from catching up to me. So I was mostly alone for the last 90 miles of the ride.

The weather never really cleared up for the rest of the day, but at least it went from constant rain to intermittent drizzly showers. The sun even managed to peek through the clouds a time or two as I meandered along the shore of Hood Canal on highway 106.

Hood Canal from Hwy 106

I spent a lot of that alone time thinking about the relationship between Randonneurs and time. Someday, thousands of years from now, the language of the Randonneur will have adapted to the Randonneur's environment similarly to how the Inuit languages have adapted to the Inuit's environment. They say Eskimos have [insert made up number here] words for snow (cough, cough, urban legend, cough). Perhaps Randonneurs will develop a rich language to describe the many various flavors of the passage of time experienced while pedaling a bike miles from nowhere.

There's the time left behind you on the road you've already traveled, limp and empty, like a discarded banana peel, its usefulness completely depleted.

And the time that lies before you when you're all alone, the sun is setting and you're not even close enough to the finish to start counting the miles yet. That time flows toward you like dark cold molasses oozing down a 1% slope. And then a headwind comes up and the slope goes from 1% to 0%. The molasses is still flowing out in all directions, but only imperceptibly so.

Time standing still

Then there's the time that swirls around you like a dust devil on a scorching day, while you're at the control but trying to get in and out quickly so you can stay with a fast group. "Fill the bottles, get the card signed, put on sunscreen, get some food for the next leg..." "Oh crap, there goes the group and I still need to pee!"

Of course there will be a special word for the Randonneur's version of Zeno's dichotomy paradox. I've experienced this one many times... "I'm moving 10 mph, and I'm 10 miles from the pass. I'll be there in an hour." Then a little later, "Now I'm moving 8 mph and I'm still 8 miles from the pass. Just one more hour..." Then a little later, "6 more miles to the pass and I'm rolling at..." (looks at speedometer and groans).

Or maybe we'll just develop a rich and complex language to describe saddle sores.

Tacoma is a lot of things, but it ain't Purdy

Anyway, my afternoon alone was long and quiet but really pretty pleasant. I was riding at a more comfortable pace but still making decent time, or at least decent enough to be able to finish before the sun had gone down. As I approached the Tacoma narrows bridge, the rain had stopped for long enough to tempt me into taking off my rain coat. And then as soon as I was across the bridge the rain started again (There will someday be a Rando word for that too).

A brief sun break as I approach the narrows bridge

This was my longest ride to date on a single speed, and I finished feeling purdy good. It seems like the 400k is doable, though I have to keep in mind that this 300k was an extremely flat route.

Next weekend is the flèche. Randos already have their own word for that.