A couple of weeks ago, I heard a titanic crash from the gym, which, being followed immediately by a loud girlie scream, I deduced was not Jane smashing out a PR on her deadlift. Instead, the cable machine had let go of a stack.
Here is the culprit.
Looks innocent, right?
I couldn’t figure out what had failed, but comparing it to the knob on the other side of the cable machine, I thought it might be some weird spring latch or something. Easily fixed, though. The gym supply company was more than happy to sell me a replacement.
I was just starting out on the long drive to the burbs to give them my hard-earned when I remembered there was a Boltmasters shop a few minutes from my place. Thought it might be worth dropping there to see if they had something cheaper I could use instead.
They didn't, but the bloke behind the counter was a machinist who’d found himself employed as a bolt salesman and I think I might have been the most interesting thing to happen to him all day. He insisted on trying to work out what went wrong, and after ten minutes of messing around with rags and industrial lubricant, he’d sorted it. I’m still not quite sure what it was, but it works perfectly now.
I went to the local hardware store looking for a striker plate that I could fit with a door knocker (very old, long story). The local hardware guy (LHG) couldn't find one, but suggested that I take a few of these handy things, just weld them together and fabricate my own striker plate. Too easy!
LHG then took another look at me, and made the very wise assessment that I'm not the proud possessor of a welding kit, am very much capable with a screwdriver and that's about all, and sold me a flat metal plate to screw into the door that would do the job.
About seven years ago now, in Chelsea, London, my SIL's cake leveller wire broke while she was making ms insomniac's daughter's wedding cake, so I had to go to the local, tiny, crammed full of shite, hardware store, minutes before closing, to source a new wire similar to the one I held in my hand. They didn't have anything quite like it, but sold me something we all considered might do the job. It fucking didn't. I'm sure they're great and salutable and all that, and I would salute them too in principle, but they didn't come through on this occasion.
I went to the local hardware store looking for a striker plate that I could fit with a door knocker (very old, long story). The local hardware guy (LHG) couldn't find one, but suggested that I take a few of these handy things, just weld them together and fabricate my own striker plate. Too easy!
LHG then took another look at me, and made the very wise assessment that I'm not the proud possessor of a welding kit, am very much capable with a screwdriver and that's about all, and sold me a flat metal plate to screw into the door that would do the job.
I too salute the bolt masters!
About seven years ago now, in Chelsea, London, my SIL's cake leveller wire broke while she was making ms insomniac's daughter's wedding cake, so I had to go to the local, tiny, crammed full of shite, hardware store, minutes before closing, to source a new wire similar to the one I held in my hand. They didn't have anything quite like it, but sold me something we all considered might do the job. It fucking didn't. I'm sure they're great and salutable and all that, and I would salute them too in principle, but they didn't come through on this occasion.
And it still hurts.
It hurts a lot
I may have over egged the hurt somewhat. It's not like someone abused my cast iron pan or anything.