How It All Began

Every summer, right after school let out, my mom would take me down to the local bike builder’s house to pick out a new bike. The local builder was a really cool old guy who would drive around town salvaging old bikes that had been thrown away. He would take the scrapped bikes home to his garage, dismantle them, and then commence with making a treasure out of someone else’s garbage. The old man spared no detail; nothing was overlooked. Frames would be sanded, primed, and repainted. A new, or just like new seat was always installed. Wheel bearings were cleaned up, greased and then reinstalled; crank bearings received the same treatment, any chrome or silver parts were polished to remove rust, and finally new tubes and tires were installed to complete the job. Believe me when I say that these bikes were as good as new, and the best part was the price range; anywhere from $15.00 - $25.00. You see, my parents are big-hearted hard working people, but we never really had much money, and so the old man’s prices made it possible for my parents to afford a bike for all three children.
Each summer the ritual was the same; my dad would drive us down to the old man’s house on Saturday morning. We would arrive just as he was taking the bikes out of his garage, and would wait patiently in the family car as each bike was parked along the driveway. There was always an ocean of bicycles consisting of all different styles, colors, and sizes. As I’m sure any kid would, I made sure to ride as many bikes as possible before making a final selection; according to my dad I always took way too long to make up my mind. The old man was always kind, patient, and courteous, and would never rush anyone into making a selection. This went on for years, and not just with me and my family; I bet every kid in the neighborhood, at some point, had visited the old bike builder’s home.
My family relocated here to Florida, from the old neighborhood in Jersey, when I was eleven. Around the age of 13, I discovered the world of BMX and Freestyle. Although I never raced or participated in any Freestyle competitions, my love of bicycles never faltered, and I found myself building a new bike almost every summer; sound familiar? I’m pretty sure I drove my parents crazy with my non-stop tinkering. One thing is certain, I ALWAYS had a bike, and my bike and I were inseparable.
After 6 years here in sunny Florida, my parents decided to move back to Jersey, and we ended up just a few miles down the highway from the old neighborhood. This may sound corny, but I have to admit that my first thoughts were of checking-in on the old man with the bikes; it’s amazing how being in old familiar surroundings can spark up old memories. When I asked my dad to drive me past the old man’s house one Saturday morning, he told me that surely the old man had passed away by now, and that he doubted we would be able to find the house due to there no longer being bikes outside to landmark it. We decided to give it a shot anyway, and we were both pleased when, after a few turns onto wrong streets, we spotted the house; there must have been 20 bikes refurbished bicycles in the driveway. My dad pulled the car over, and parked. We got out and walked up to the house expecting to see the old man sitting on his old rocking chair in the garage. However, this time we were greeted by a middle-aged man. I knew that this man had to be the old man’s son, as I saw the resemblance right away. Not only did this man look like his father before him, but he had also inherited his kind and patient demeanor.
We struck up a conversation, and my dad and I both told him the story of how our family had purchased new bicycles from his father every summer. We also told him about how much we had missed the local bike man’s service with a smile, and that the memories of the old man and his bikes had led us look for the house with the bicycles.
The old man’s son told us about how his dad had passed away a few years prior, and that many people from surrounding neighborhoods, families who had purchased bicycles from him over the years, had attended his funeral to pay their last respects. He told us about how he had been overwhelmed when he realized that his dad had touched so many people through his work with bicycles, and so he decided to carry-on his dad’s work. I asked him how his father had come about becoming the neighborhood refurbished bike shop, and he explained that it was always a true labor of love for his dad. “You see,” he said, “my dad never intended to get rich, or even to make a living refurbishing bicycles.” “His only intention was to bring smiles to children’s faces, and I’m proud to say that he was successful at reaching his goals.”
Although I did take a break from riding for several years, I’m happy to say that I was fortunate enough to rediscover it back in 2001, and I’ve fallen in love all over again. I’m 36 years old now and I’ve experienced many ups and downs in my life, but I have never forgotten the old man and his bikes. Whenever I feel stressed, or like the weight of the world is on my shoulders, I grab my bike and hit the road or the closest single track, and my worries melt away. My bike has gotten me through some difficult times in the last few years, and although I realize that it’s me mashing away at those cranks and propelling myself forward (never back), I can’t help but feel that somehow I owe a great deal to the old man that made it possible for me to fall in love with a bicycle.