Doing Time
by Patrick Field
In 1905 Albert 'it's all relative anyway' Einstein put an end to the idea of absolute time. The humble clerk, who had left school at the age of 13 labelled as a dunce, observed that different people could measure time and come up with different answers depending on where they were standing, what they were wearing, how much they ate for breakfast and their grandmother's shoe size.
'Big deal!' cry all lovers of the bicycle, that paragon of mechanics. Hooray for Kirkpatrick Macmillan, John Kemp Starley and 19th century physics. Down with Einstein and subatomic navel-gazers everywhere. Cyclists are practical people. We want to know about refinements of the multispeed hub, the properties of carbon fibre and surface quality of side roads in the Pelóponnisos.
What do we care about the speed of planets and the spiral paths of electrons? Give us milliliters, inches, kilometres and miles. Give us grammes and pounds per square inch. Quarks we don't need. Research has shown that over 98.3 percent of New Cyclist readers have no plans to travel at or beyond the speed of light and that antimatter is the province of second-rate science fiction.
But sooner or later, sure as tyres split, paintwork chips and the peaks of little cotton caps with Italian writing go wrinkly in the wash, you will need to visit a bike shop. On that day, the lessons of history teach us, the item you intend to purchase will, alas, be out of stock. Then, gentle reader, no matter how deeply your world picture is rooted in the laws of Isaac Newton you will come fact to face with the uncertainty principle.
Einstein worked in the Patent Office, but his insights into the nature of time point inexorably to some contact with the nascent retail cycle trade. Then, as now, the Swiss petite bourgeoisie rode bikes. It is safe, therefore, to assume that the young and unknown Albert popped into his local bike shop to buy a replacement component, a seat-clip bolt or maybe a cotter pin for his trusty roadster.
'I'm very sorry, Sir,' replied the jolly proprietor, 'I sold the last one this morning. They are on order. Try at the end of the week.'
The week passes slowly for the young bureaucrat anxious to be one again wheeling through the alpine scenery, enjoying fresh air, healthy exercise and the chance to ponder on the exact nature of the relationship between mass and energy. 'The end of next week' finally comes and young Albert returns to the magasin de vélo eager to take possession of the missing bottom bracket cup lock ring.
At the shop, the assistant has no memory of the amateur physicist's order. 'Have we had any chaincase bolts for a 1902 Puch, come in?', he calls into the workshop in a pessimistic voice. The jolly proprietor emerges wiping oily hands on his brown coat. 'Yes, some came in but they were the wrong size. I've telegraphed the wholesaler in Zurich but he's temporarily out of stock. Try again in a fortnight.'
Young Einstein leaves the shop rather dejected. He is thinking of missed expeditions to the lakeside chalet where his chums drink foaming beer from 2 litre mugs with lids and exchange ideas on multifunction pocket knife design. Two weeks pass.
Albert returns. 'Sorry,' says the jolly proprietor, 'there's been a problem with the delivery this week; a landslide near Bern. Try again early next week.' Dejected, Albert goes home to sit and think. If he had known it would take this long he would have bought another bike. Why did the bike shop proprietor say 10 days when it's now been a month and the pedal dustcap still hasn't arrived? As the cuckoo clock calls 7pm inspiration strikes. He searches for a pencil and paper and begins to write -- in algebra.
The perception of time in the cycle trade is different from that accepted in other parallel realities. In most walks of life a week is taken to mean seven days. But when the word 'week' is used in a bike shop, as in the phrase 'It should be here in about three weeks' it is a grievous error to understand it as 'the goods you request will be arriving here for your collection around 21 days hence.' In a bike shop it means 'try again in a month but don't get your hopes up.' 'Available at the end of April' means 'don't plan to use it before July.' Of course, once you learn to convert Bike Trade Time (BTT) into standard temporal units terminology ceases to be a problem. It would save a lot of disappointment if all cycle shops displayed the following disclaimer:
'Please multiply all times quoted for delivery of items by 2.84. The figure you obtain should then be rounded up to the nearest month. This is the minimum amount of time any order will take to arrive.'
They say Isaac Newton never sat under any apple trees, and doubtless the same skeptics will claim that Einstein didn't use his local bike shop but got all his parts trade, from an uncle who ran a bike rental business on Lake Geneva. But if that's true why was it 1905 not 1805 or 1855 that the elastic nature of time was first established?
© Patrick Field
New Cyclist, May 1992