Yesterday as I left my house to go for a ride, I slipped a chain. Somehow my chain had gotten beneath the little rubber piece that is supposed to keep the chain from getting that low. Ridiculous. I figured this out about a block from my house, so I pulled over and tried to see if I could just yank the chain through. Anyone with any finesse in this world should be appalled at my tactics, but I grew up with a lot of brawn and little patience. For the most part, I don't live from that place anymore, but when I feel without direction, boom. I'm right back at ten-year-old, red in the face with anger, fighting back tears Sierra, trying to force the chain through. Luckily I remembered that I am (almost) 25 and not ten any longer, so I took a deep breath and assessed the situation.
I had a few options. I could push the bike back home and wait for my roommate. I could turn the bike upside down and fiddle with the chain until it would surely squeeze through. And, finally, I could unscrew my water bottle cage, unscrew the little plastic part, and gently pull the chain through. After considering the first option at length, I decided that I needed to figure out how to fix my bike on my own sometime. Mike was not going on the 545-mile bike ride in June, for instance. Fifteen minutes after trying option two again, I turned to option three. I pulled the multi-use tool out of my bike bag and thought to myself, Good lord. I have no idea what any of these do.
I looked down at my hands black with grease and decided to try a few out. As I maneuvered each tool against the screws and bolts on my bike, I finally found the proper tool for each part. A neighbor walked by as I was kneeling and examining the issue, bike parts scattered on the sidewalk. I kept my head down and kept tinkering. Wiping my brow damp with sweat, I thought of my father, Paul Martin Fleenor. My dad has been a mechanic and a farrier my whole life. He has always, always lived by the sweat of his brow, something I have never had to do. I paused for a moment, staring at my greasy hands and remembering all the rags he had when I was a child. I distinctly remember wondering why one person would need so many rags and why my dad didn't do a better job washing his hands.
I fixed my bike quickly, did a little celebratory dance, and decided I would stop home to wash my hands before heading for an easy ride. I scrubbed my hands over and over. I used a dish cloth. I used paper towels. I used cold water. I used hot water. I used hand soap. I used dish soap. The grease would come off a little more each time, but my finger nails were still stained. For the first time in my life, I understood why my father's hands were blackened. For the first time in my life, I had fixed something using mechanical ingenuity. For the first time in my life, I think I truly began to appreciate how hard my father worked. My back ached from the half an hour bent over a bicycle. His back aches today from the half a century bent over machines. My heart swelled with gratitude.
Today as I rode, I carried that gratitude with me. I spent many of the miles thinking about my family, including my grandfather and my uncle. I smiled thinking about how proud my grandfather would be. I laughed picturing myself clumsily coming to a stop behind my uncle in a short month. As I sat at a little Italian restaurant in Leominster, MA, thoughts of everyone who got me to this point flooded to me. I mustered all my strength so as not to break down into sobs in the middle of the early bird special.
My gratitude was not just for the support to be on this ride, but also for the support to be who I am today. Without my entire family, all my friends, my mentors, my allies, my enemies, my coworkers, my teachers, my students, and even strangers who wave when I pass them on the road, where would I be?
So, thank you. Thank you to everyone who reads this little blog. Thank you to everyone who doesn't. Thank you to everyone who had a hand in raising me. Thank you to everyone who helped me raise hell. Thank you to everyone who broke my heart and to everyone who helped me mend it back. And, thank you, Pops, for believing in me.
No comments:
Post a Comment