All In a Day's Fun

This was an entertaining assignment - again from a creative writing class. We were supposed to write about an event (I selected the occasion of when I bought my first DI bike; first lesson in bikes my friends, buy a decent one. The time spent fixing a crotchety one will not equate the money saved.), write about it from the imagined perspective of someone else involved, and then write it with a happy ending. I think the point of this exercise was to demonstrate how much more entertaining life is when it doesn't proceed correctly or as planned...) 

As a side note, it was this very event that launched my intense interest in how mechanical things (especially mechanical things that provide transportation) work. I'm still not much better - but at least it's become another interesting hobby...

PART 1 – Me and Xander

            The cold black frame turned slick and warm under my untrained and impatient hands as I wrestled with this strange thing before me. I knew what to do with it. When I was seven years old my mother put me on one and pushed it down the hill. The pedals slipped then under my nervous feet clad in sneakers without socks again. I always forgot socks. I wobbled and fell. The grass smeared my pants green, but I tried again. Eventually, the day ended with my first successful journey across the grass. All by myself, without training wheels. I loved it. I felt like I was flying.  No, twelve years later, what to do with it was not the problem. How this strange frame functioned was the problem with which I wrestled. 

            I met my dear bike Xander hanging innocently enough in the inconspicuous back room of the Provo Deseret Industries. There began a strange relationship. No matter how much he frustrated me, I was determined to fix all his problems. The more often he broke, the more attached I became to him. I determined that there was nothing I could not do, with enough time and effort. This evening, however, looked like it was shaping up to be an exception. My unskilled fingers could not find what was wrong with him.

            It began as normal, I hauled Xander outside and flipped him upsidown as I began the normal diagnostic to see what was wrong with him this time. I had work in three hours, but I was sure that I could finish in time. The wheel was obviously a problem, but I had replaced it before. Two weeks ago I had bought a slightly smaller parts bike from the same DI, which I affectionately dubbed Cordie (short for Cordilia), in order to use her back-wheel to replace his worn, rusty, bent and battle-scarred one. Unfortunately, no sooner had this swap occurred than the previously good tire from Cordie ceased to function. Frequently, my neighbors observed me tiredly walking Xander to the gas station for yet another air refill. Now, I wrestled with wrenches and stubborn lug nuts as I tried to get the tire back off in order to find the problem.

            While Xander had apparently rejected this tire for his own use, he seemed equally stubborn in his fervent desires to prevent me from fixing the wheel. I sweated, fumed, came up with a hundred new insults, and still the wheel remained firmly stuck on the bike for one reason or another. The chain was in the way, now the lug nuts slipped back on and needed to be re-loosened, and now the brake pads clamped down firmly on the wheel and refused to release it. My ignorance was plain to be seen, and just as many insults rained down on Xander as reached my own clumsy fingers. Somehow, I finally wrestled the wheel off and took the tire off so that I could examine the tube.

            Now it was time to discover the hole in the tube, for that was surely what it was, every internet athourity I could find said so. I tried in vain to find the hole, but it evaded me. One site suggested filling the tube with air so that I could find the hole better. Thrilled with this suggestion, I raced from apartment to apartment looking for an air pump, until I reached the man who had been polishing his car across from me all evening. I had seen him on several bikes, including a unicycle, and was sure that he would have one. He looked faintly amused when he saw me, and I had the sneaky suspicion that he was enjoying the show. He good naturedly, however, offered me several different brands and types of air-pumps. I wildly selected the one that looked the most familiar and easy to use. I thanked him and rushed back.

Failure to find the hole after blowing it up (being unable to hear or feel the air escaping) I rushed back to my great sources and searched for a solution. I eventually settled on carefully submerging the full tube into the toilet tank in order to see the air escaping. It worked remarkably well (if it did knock a few things askew and require maintenance in the tank itself) and I quickly set about patching the hole with a proudly purchased kit. That part at least, was simple. Scrape the rubber, enlarge the hole, peel the white patch off the sheet (which would avoid my fingernails) and place over the hole.

At this point I had become an expert on taking tires apart, so with wild glances at a clock which showed that I had to finish, dress and leave in exactly 15 minutes, I rushed back outside and began hastily throwing the entire assembly back together. I was in a bit of a rush, so I didn't worry too much about those warnings of taking care that the tube doesn't become pinched in the frame or anything. I managed to do it all, finish everything, and leave only three minutes late. I stopped to return the bike pump with a swiftly uttered thanks and fled, pleased with my accomplishment.

Five hours later, I left work, footsore and glad with the knowledge that when I reached the outside I would have a bike to carry me downhill all the way home in a matter of mere minutes. I proudly strode towards my bike, turned the numbers to line up for the combination, and began to back my bike out of the rack. Then I saw it. I froze, moaning my disbelief. There sat that backwheel, flat. I then remembered those neglected instructions about pinched tubes and groaned aloud. I slowly, slowly backed my bike out and began the long walk home to repeat the process again.

PART 2 – From the Neighbor's Perspective

My hand slowly warms under the running water as I wait for it to reach the right temperature. I nod in satisfaction and stop the rise in temperature with a twist of the cold water knob. I stick the bucket underneath it and begin filling it, dumping in car soap. When it reaches the exact level I turn the water off. I grab the bucket and some rags and head down to my black SUV. I pass four bikes lined neatly inside my apartment. Three belong to me: my unicycle, my sleek red mountain bike and my delicate blue road racing bike. The fourth is my roommates battered, green around town wonder. It works, but I shudder when I think of riding it.

I reach my SUV and begin washing it. Soapy water first, then a gentle scrub, then a rinse, then toweled dry. As I work, I watch people around me. There she comes, that girl with the crazy bike. I think I see her walking it home with a flat more than I ever see her returning on a round wheel. She spends at least one night a week with it up-si-down on her lawn, fixing something else that went wrong. She doesn't really know what she's doing, but she looks so ferociously intent on her work, I doubt she wants help. The SUV isn't really dirty, but I don't have anything else to do with it. That's the problem with keeping beautifully working equipment, there is never anything broken to tinker with. Is she ever going to get that tire off? Good grief, it's not that difficult. Maybe if she'd put a tire of the same size on it she wouldn't be having such a problem.

I start cleaning slower, her frustration is too entertaining to miss. I head inside to get a sandwich and come out. I dry the SUV slowly, deliberately. She finally has the wheel off.  I mutter a dry congratulations as she proceeds to dismantle the wheel and takes the tube out. I can see from across the parking lot that she doesn't have enough air in the tube to find the hole, but she'll probably figure it out eventually. She gives up with exasperation and runs inside. I am beginning to think maybe she gave up.

I go and get the wax from inside and start waxing the SUV. Suddenly she comes running out again. She starts at one row of red brick apartments and begins going door to door. What on earth is she doing now? Probably doesn't have an air-pump. Well I know that none of those places do either. I wait with a slight smile. Eventually she comes to me and runs over.

"Hey, do you happen to have a bike-pump that I could borrow?"

"Yeah, let me grab one," I go inside and grab the three from their neat positions on the wall.

"Here, which one do you want?" She looks bewildered and hesitates before selecting the smallest handpump.

"That one, thanks a lot!" She runs back to her tube, grabs in and runs inside. She doesn't come out for awhile. I'm done with the SUV and bored, so I head inside. 20 minutes later I hear a knock on the door. I open it and see her standing there, hand on an assembled bike, hair tucked up under an MTC dining hat and the pump in her proffered hand.

"Thanks so much, it helped a lot!" She climbs onto her rickety bike and rides away. I watch her leave in amusement, wondering how she'll return. About five and a half hours later, I suddenly remembered that I forgot to get the mail and went outside. As I was turning away from my aluminum mailbox, my hands full of glossy flyers, I saw her coming home, walking. With an amused smile, I waved and went inside.            

PART 3 – The Better Conclusion from my Perspective

My beautiful bike had a flat. It didn't happen very often, in fact had never happened before. But I had seen my Dad fixing my bike, and of course remembered exactly how to do it. I easily inverted my bike on the ground and set about with my socket set to remove the wheel. After taking it off, I took the tire and tube off and examined them. A quick inspection showed that I needed an air-pump to find the leak.

I saw my neighbor, who I knew was good with bikes, polishing his automobile across the parking lot. Heading over, I asked if I could borrow a pump. He offered several, of which I accepted the easiest to use. I quickly filled my tube with air and found the leak by holding the tube in my hand and rotating it next to my ear. I fixed the hole in a matter of minutes and twenty more minutes of careful work found my tire nicely assembled and my bike back together. I returned the air-pump with cookies, and spent a leisurely hour reading before I needed to dress and leave for work. Later that evening, when I emerged from a long shift at work, I was very pleased to see that my work had been well done and the wheel was still round. It only took me 10 minutes to ride home.