Yesterday I pulled my bike out of the repair shop. For some reason, that place and the people in it make me feel strangely uncomfortable. Its like they can sense that I really don't know the first thing about bikes or bike maintenance. I was even a little apprehensive to tell them which bike was mine because I was afraid that I might be pronouncing Motobécane incorrectly.
After getting her home, I took the time to wipe her down with a rag and make her feel all pretty and special. The 20 years of dust left this greenish veneer over her silver frame. A little bit of elbow grease and alot of window cleaner did the trick. Now she was just begging to be shown off at the dance! I think the bike gods had been pleased with what I had done, because the weather cleared up just long enough for me to take her out for a spin around the park. Suddenly the child-like glee of riding over puddles and wind rushing in my face overtook me. I wanted to ride her all the way back to my parents home. Ride it down to the lake and feed the ducks or ride into the back of the neighborhood where my sister and I built our forts.
Perhaps next time I visit grandpa Mose he can show me how keep her in tip-top. I think he would be happy to see that I have given the bike a second life.