Conquering Vertigo

Ask not for whom

the bell tolls, it tolls for my Nishiki.

This is not like "My Sharona." No, this is something much finer, a far, far better thing.
This is my old road bike.

So, when you really love your car and your bike, you keep them, you nurture them, and you make life-long relationships with mechanics.

I look for in mechanics what other people look for in lovers, rabbis, coffee baristas -- I look for warm understanding, a nurturing spirit, the ability to to work miracles with their hands.

My first new relationships in SF have been with mechanics. Manuel is in that probationary period with the Pathfinder... so far, so good, he might win a customer for life. And Peter is off probation with the Nishiki. Peter is my bike mechanic.

The old bicycle, which was old when I got it third-hand maybe ten years ago, came to The City in the moving van with the piano and assorted baggage. Somewhere along the route, a rogue shelving unit broke free and pierced the back wheel. The tire was pinched flat and a spoke was snapped in two.

A neighbor sent us to the Sports Basement, on the northern edge of the Presidio. I met Peter, and he began to speak consoling and painful truths about the bike. He fixed it and breathed a little new life into it, and didn't charge me much at all, but still the bell is tolling, and the Nishiki is not long for these hills.

The main problem is the chain and related gear assembly. Over the years, chains and gears change to continue to fit each other, warping in response to pressure and wear. So now, my old chain only fits my old gears, and vice versa.

There's a great truth here about human relationships and human systems, but back to my bike. When the chain breaks - and on these hills it will - both the chain and the gears and all the accompanying stuff will have to be replaced. This is a $300 piece of open heart surgery.

Peter looked at me kindly: I know, he said, I love my bike, too. I can help you salvage some of the parts. But once your bike costs $300 to fix, and it's 20 years old and will only break down again, it's time to get a new bike.

So, lunch time today was spent picking up the bike. The shop is less than ten minutes away. I drove down to the Sports Basement and picked it up. Peter said, Ride it around the block, or around Chrissy Field, and make sure it's fine before you take it home.

So although I was wearing lace-up hiking boots and blue jeans - not the latest approved cycling gear - I jumped on and went across the street to Chrissy Field.

CF is the old landing strip for the old post (the Presidio). It was christened in 1921 for a young airman who left the field one day flying to the East Coast, and crashed and died en route. It's one of the flattest places in San Francisco, with a little beach on the bay side of the Golden Gate. As you ride along the bike path at Chrissy Field and look out across the beach, to your left is the bridge, in front is Alcatraz, and to the right is the City.

The bike seemed to work fine, but I hear those bells, and I'm preparing myself for the inevitable end of the affair. But my mechanic will be there.

posted by Woman In Love @ 11:16 PM