Sensible and Daunting

I think this is going to be a good idea.   But getting from ten minutes around the compound every so often to twenty miles a day for a week is going to take some doing, for my younger one.   She’s very excited about this bike trip we’re planning but she also has concerns.  Rightly.  This will be something rather different than she’s ever asked her body to do. 

I tried to come up with a next month’s routine to get in shape.   "You need to ride a half an hour in the morning and a half an hour in the afternoon everyday to get ready for this.  Otherwise you’re but muscles will be in total rebellion an hour into the first day. " This, at one and the same time, struck her as both sensible and daunting. 

"What do you want for breakfast?"  "Pancakes!" It is Sunday morning.  “Tell you what, let’s bike over to the diner this morning.” “Can’t we just drive over?”  “Nope.  The biking regime starts today.”   “Where is it again?  Wait, that’s far!”  “It is not ‘far.’  That’s about one twentieth of what you’ll be doing ever day, Tootsie.” 

And it was a nice ride over.  The sun was out.  Cool breeze.  I kept repeating that it was almost like biking in . . . Provence.  We took the long way home and I got a flat.  Fortunately we were fifty yards from the old guy who has, seemingly forever, parked his three-wheeled cart there at the intersection to offer bike services.  He suggested I needed a new inner tube as the hole was too close to the nozzle.  He wanted what seemed like a lot for a new one and I kidded him about whether that was the foreign price or the local price.  My daughter innocently said that he reminded her of Golem and it was then that I noticed that a few fingers on his right hand were lame and I thought about how constant the reminder of that loss would be if you’re trade was fixing bikes on the road side.

The tire was repaired and he spun the wheel.  He immediately noticed that one of the gears wasn’t spinning.  I’d known there was something wrong for weeks but figured the gear shaft had been bent.  He pointed out that there was some plastic spun up into the gear rendering it immobile.  He tried to pull it out to no avail.  I couldn't either.  Looking things over he then tried to work a wrench or two into the sextagon hole, to release the gear, but none of them fit.  He suggested there was nothing he could do.  I'd assumed I'd need to schlepp into the city and see a proper bike shop to fix this anyway.  I asked how much for the tire and if he had change for a hundred.  Nothing else was spoken, but soon was off rummaging through another bag.  He dug up People’s version of a Swiss army knife and after a try or two, he managed to fit the shaft in and loosen the gear.  And after some spinning of the wheel and digging at the axel we managed to loosen the plastic bag remains and free up the gear.  Wiping off my greasy fingers I pulled out the hundred I had in my pocket and gave it to him, suggesting it was all his. 

I didn’t mean to, but I looked for acknowledgement in this and he did smile. But only after a time.