ss1

Sparks Flew
2002-10-09 - 10:58 p.m.


before/after
strangely non-functional guestbook

And so with all this bike action going down, it leads to bike related talk.

My father is trying to restore his old bike.  His original bike, the first one he ever rode.

Its interesting sorta'.  He got the arcwelder out, and I ran into him doing that out back, after an unsucessful attempt to gather the fallen pears from under the pear trees.

I did not realize bees and wasps would so aggressively defend the fallen fruit.  It never even crossed my mind.  Best to leave nature to sort itself out.  The first frost is not far away.

And I saw him working on the bike frame of his original bike.  Straight outta' the fifties.

And its another girl's bike.

Gramma and grandpa' got their firstborn, a male child, a bike.

A girl's bike.  Why?

Sure, they hemmed and hawed about it when I asked if they did it deliberately, with it in mind he had a little sister at the time, and eventually two others.  The fact remains they got him a girls bike for his first bike, and the fact amuses me slightly.

"Y'see now Arg, when you're older and a bit more mature, you'll understand why I'm doing this," he said, "Its purely for the sense of accomplishment and victory."

Hell, I understand that.  I've been kicked in the ass enough by life to full appreciate that sentiment.

"I don't think I have to mature to get that."  I said.

Later, of course, y'know, there's a lot of talk about the bike.

The bike this, the bike that.  I'm doing this to the bike.  Blah blah, blah.

And it puts me in mind of the last time father tried to help me fix my bike, which is the story I told my parents as I'm telling you now.

It was a hot summer day, and I had a steel, blue huffy OMNI-10 ten speed bycicle.

The rear deraillure was jammed somehow, and making it impossible to shift, rubbing the chain, whatever.

I spent a lot of the afternoon working on that bike, trying to make it work.  I was tweleve or fourteen or something, I really didn't have the torque necessary to bend it into the right position.

And Father toddles up.  Its getting on in the day, and I suspect he had a couple of canadian mist and rc colas in him by that point.

"I'll help you Arg."  he says, and bends down to get to work.

Cool.  I think.  This will get done, and I can go for a ride.

And Father works at it, and works at it.  I notice he's stopped talking, and is gritting his jaw.

His eyes have darkend, and he glowers.

Still working on it, though.  Trying to help me.  You know. 

And suddenly, without real warning, he picks the bike up by the frame, and heaves it a few feet away at the floor.

"FUCKER'S BROKE!!"  he bellows angrily.

He then proceeds to take the screwdriver he was using, and throw that at the bicycle itself with great velocity.

The screwdriver hit the bike and the floor so hard, sparks flew up, and it richotches away.

"Well," I say trying hard not to laugh like a motherfucker "Its just the rear deraillure.  It needs to be bent back into place."

"I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THE FUCK A REAR DERAILLURE IS!!!" He bellows angrily and stomps off.

I really had to choke on the laughter with that one.  If I would have laughed out loud, it would have only made him more angry, and I would have been in all kinds of trouble.

But I'll never forget it.

Sparks flew.


a template by wicked design

about comment designer archive archives newest diaryland

tml>