Gary's Garage

Not too long ago, my wife and I were talking about what we want to be. Not when we grow up, but how we want people around us to see us. I told her that I want to be just like Reed Palmer. I want to be known as the neighborhood bike guy that all the kids come to when their bikes aren't working right. We're already the most crowded yard in the neighborhood, so I have the clientele right outside.

Lately I've been feeling down. I'm going through a cycle where people crap on whatever I do. My work, my writing, my choices, whatever it is, someone, co-workers, clients, friends, family will find a way to take something I feel good about and make me feel like crap. People don't mean to do it, but when all you hear is "constructive" criticism about everything you do from the time you get up to the time the wife and kids come home and remind me what it feels like to be liked.

Today that turned around. I was about to do the dishes when I heard a knock at the door. It was the kid whose backyard meets ours. Figuring he was here to see my daughter, I started to tease him.

"I have a problem that only you can help me with."

These are not words you long to hear. Nine times out of ten the problem is either something you didn't want to know about or will only lead to someone being disappointed.

"What's up," I asked.

"My brother trashed his bike. I told him that you are the best bike rider I've ever seen and you can fix it." True, I did fix this kid's bike last summer, but that was just an easy adjustment. "Trashed?" This worried me.

But, flattery gets you everywhere so this great bike rider said sure. We wheeled the bike into the garage and I put it on the repair stand. The neighbor kid went through the story. His brother crashed and now the handlebars were all messed up and the chain keeps falling off. I quickly fixed the handlebars and then started looking at the chain. It would spin, start to drag and fall off. Hmm.

I started going through the diagnostics I could think of and was ruling everything out. The front derailleur was fine. The chain rings were all okay. Neighbor kid said he needed to call his mom because he forgot to tell her where he was.

"Hi tell Mom I'm at Matilda's. Yeah. I told you he can fix it. Yeah, the handlebars are already fixed and he's working on the chain. No, he can ride really fast it's amazing. He'll fix it. He can do anything with bikes!"

Now, this isn't true. My repair skills are rudimentary at best. But now I had to perform. An eleven-year-old and a fourteen-year-old are depending on me.

Just then, we found the problem. One of the links on the chain was bent. And it was rusty. It was a kid's bike after all. Well, I had another chain, by luck. So I scavenged it and . . . popped the pin all the way out. That was bad. But it needed to be shortened anyway.

I slapped the new chain on, adjusted its length and . . . it fixed the problem. I cleaned up the chain and the cassette a little (it's a Target bike, so I could only do so much). I wanted to double check the length on the chain, but he had to go home. So I told him to come back tomorrow because I had to take out another link.

"Thanks! We'll pay you for fixing it."

"Nah," I said. "I'm just happy that your brother will have his bike back."

"He'll be happy too! Thanks!"

And he was off. So, in about an half hour's time I was able to be a hero and was called the greatest bike rider some kid has ever seen.

I know I'm not a great cyclist. But, you know what? To an eleven-year-old I probably really do seem like Lance Armstrong when I go speeding through the neighborhood in my ESP team kit. And, you know what? That's good enough for me.