Hot Potato

A short story about a bike that found a loving home.

Several weeks ago, I dropped off two rental bikes at John's guest house, THE STORE. There was an old bike collecting dust in the corner, its glory days well behind it. I noticed it had a Brooks B17 saddle in black... Nice, I've been looking for one of those. I had a brown one, but its color clashed with the all-black build I had nearly completed.

John said I was welcome to take the bike if I wanted; he wasn't going to ride it any time soon. So I did. I immediately removed the saddle and put it on my build. If you haven't ridden a Brooks, you're missing out. After a ride or two, it feels like sitting in a leather hammock. I digress.

After I harvested the saddle, the bike leaned up against my porch for several weeks. Just sat there. Rain, cold, wind... it saddened me to see it saddle-less, alone and unloved, out in the rain. It broke my heart to see a bike so neglected.

I found myself playing my harmonica (an occasional habit) on a bench near Fayetteville street one night a few Saturdays later. A young guy sat down next to me and pulled out a guitar. We dipped under an awning when it started raining, and got to talking. He told me that he lives out in Zebulon, takes the bus into town to get to work. Long walk to the bus stop.

Do you want a bike? I have an extra one lying around that I don't use.

On Monday, we met at Crank Arm Brewery. I'd cleaned up the bike, outfitted it with an extra saddle I had in my spare parts bin, and tuned it up to my standards. He took it for a spin around the block. It went, it stopped, it seemed fun. He said thank you, I said No, thank you. Then he rode off.

That was that.

Later that week, I asked him how it's been riding. The time it takes me to get to town is now a third, maybe even less, of what it was.

My soul smiled. On bikes, out of cars. This is the way.