Bike Repair 101: Keeping the wheels turning

by Daniel Conaghan (Australia)

Making a local connection USA

“Is that catching?” My frigid hands fumbled with the chain and pedals at the question. “Not yet,” I reply, half laughing at the peculiarity of the situation. I had not expected to be attempting bike repair in the middle of a suburban street with a golden-ager assisting me. More so I did not predict finding a character so similar to my own passing by. Travel was something that I had always expected was waiting for me. I grew up on anecdotes of adventure from my parents and their friends; across England, France, Spain, Morocco and Africa they travelled. Souvenirs would be routinely exhibited to my sister and I in tandem with these stories; trinkets as simple as a coin purse would stun us. When my sister turned twenty-one she made her way across the Pacific for a ski season in Utah. Of the nine years since then she’s spent one in her hometown. It was my turn to explore more of the world and search for more than what my humble neighbourhood could offer. I followed my sisters footsteps and set course for America. I secured a job on mountain in Lake Tahoe, far from the familiar beaches and climates I grew up with, and found a home with four other Australians. The season in the snow taught me of cultural differences, lifestyle choices, relationships, wildlife, and nature. Solitary moments afforded me time to reflect on myself and what kind of person I was at home; who I was shaping up to be. I had left my sunburnt country to unearth lessons and wisdoms of the world. One particular weekday I borrowed my housemates bicycle to explore the surrounds. I took off for Fallen Leaf Lake which was about thirty minutes away, an easy ride. On the return trip I passed through the Tahoe Keys, homes built into manmade canals that provide inspiration for house-hunters. A wrong turn landed me opposite an empty lot covered in long grass. Shouldering the bike, I picked my way through the terrain and over a chainlink fence to arrive at another road. Possibly the one I needed? Stepping foot on the bike, the adventure was halted by the chain no longer moving and the wheels immobile. The chain had come off the rear sprocket and was wedged in the drive sprocket. My mechanical expertise lacking, I sat on the curb-side wrestling with the wheel, slowly coating myself in grease. Scrutinising the task at hand, I failed to notice the stranger approach. “Everything alright?” The voice was raspy yet caring. I looked up to see the rugged up older man peering over the side of the bike at the chain I was attempting to manipulate. I illustrated how it had slipped off when moving it over the fence. “We should be able to fix that.” Optimism and confidence flowed from him. Another set of hands was what the operation needed; more dexterity to manoeuvre the pieces of the puzzle to where they belonged. We introduced ourselves while we worked and we discussed how I had ended up there. Not just on that road, but in Tahoe, and overseas. How I ended up so far from home. Travel was a large part of his life as well, he explained, having travelled for work as a teacher when he was younger. He’d chosen a career he could travel with in order to find out more about himself and the world. He’d experienced a multitude of emotions and ordeals in his time, much more than I could relate to. The common cross-generational desire we shared however, was the desire to learn and to grow. We raved about what we had learnt, or wanted to learn, before our time on this plane was up. We shook hands before parting ways; I saw some of myself in him and intuition told me he felt the same of me. I’ve never seen him again. The longing to travel coursed through my veins, an unofficial inheritance, and it brought me to a man whom shared my aspiration to ascertain the knowledge of this world. His name was Roy and I won’t forget what he told me.