On the Rim

by Florida Ann Town

  There she meets another problem: getting inside. It takes two hands to balance the bike and one to hold the heavy door open.

  “Shit!” she explodes.

  Several frustrating minutes later she learns how to hold the bike steady with one hand, open the door with the other, jam her foot against the door, and back the bike through, leading it like a balky pony. At the halfway point she props the door open with her backside and guides the bike into the building by pushing on the seat and bashing her ankles against the pedals.

  There are bikes on some of the apartment balconies.

  “That means,” she mutters, as she wheels toward the elevator, “that there has to be something better than this Monty Python routine every time I want to go in or out.”

  Before she can think about it further, another hurdle looms: the elevator. She walks the bike in, then backs it in. Neither works. She rams it toward the far corner but it refuses to co-operate. It’s simply too big to fit in the elevator. In the end, it’s easier to take the machine apart again. She feels like a mechanic by the time she reaches her apartment and reassembles the pieces, double checking that the chrome lever is locked in place before bracing the bike on its kickstand. If she wasn’t so tired, she’d give up on the whole thing and take it back to the store.

  Now that it’s here, she doesn’t know where to put it. Her hand caresses the smoothness of the handlebar. The tires whisper across the floor.

  The apartment seemed empty when she first moved in, shouting for things to fill up its spaces, but the emptiness has evaporated. There isn’t a convenient space for the bike in the bedroom or in the living/dining area. Briefly, Ellen considers storing it downstairs, in the locked compartment provided for each tenant, but she doesn’t want to leave it alone in the damp and dark. And she isn’t one of the lucky tenants with a balcony.

  When the kids were little, bikes appeared in the front room only when they were under the Christmas tree. From there they went directly to the garage. Today isn’t Christmas, and she feels guilty, as though someone is watching — a disapproving someone who will tell her bikes aren’t allowed in the front room.

  “I’m the one who washes and polishes this floor,” she argues. “I can track across it in muddy boots if I want to.”

  She wheels the bike across the floor and stands it beside the window.

  “There you go,” she croons, standing back to get the full effect, “three-dimensional art.”

  The bike is compelling. It catches her eye unexpectedly. Gradually, the sense of surprise ebbs and she realizes she enjoys its presence in the room. It belongs here. And for the first time, she feels that maybe she does, as well.

  It’s several days before Ellen returns to the mall. The fitness demonstration has gone, replaced by a four-wheel drive white SUV, the dressed-up version of a Jeep, whose oversize wheels will likely never leave pavement, towing a metallic-flake painted boat — the kind that looks as though it’s speeding even when it’s tied up at a dock. Smiling young men try to entice passersby to buy raffle tickets for the car and boat, but business is slow.

  Ellen winds past the display, heading for a sporting goods store farther down the corridor, looking for bike accessories. The open front of the store, fenced off by a waist-high wall of high-topped, high-priced running shoes, barely contains the energetic clerks who remind her of enthusiastic puppies, waiting for someone to play with them.

  Sales staff, men and women alike, wear shorts, striped jerseys, and large, bulky running shoes that look forbiddingly expensive. As a group they give the impression they’ve dropped in on the way to or from the gym. As Ellen steps into the store, a young girl bounces toward her, oozing energy. Ellen hates her.

  “I’d like to see something in a good bike helmet,” Ellen announces. “It’s for me,” she adds, daring the clerk to smile.

  “Right on,” she chirps, unleashing such a friendly grin that Ellen feels like a Grinch for even suspecting she might have laughed.

  A dozen helmets later they settle on a lightweight, well-

  ventilated model, which the girl helps her adjust.

  “If it’s too loose later, you can add these foam patches,” she says, throwing a handful of charcoal grey squares into a bag. “Just peel the strip off the back and stick them on.”

  She glances at Ellen with concern. “If you haven’t used them before, make sure you know exactly where they have to go. Once they’re on, they don’t come off.” She fusses with the helmet, adjusting the chin strap, and confides, “I put them on with masking tape first. You’re probably not supposed to but it helps get a better fit.”

  Ellen smiles, not sure why masking tape is frowned upon, but says nothing. The girl continues to fiddle with the straps before triumphantly passing the helmet to Ellen.

  “There. That should be about right.”

  Ellen places the helmet on her head and reaches for the strap, but the girl moves swiftly.

  “No. Not that way. Helmets don’t sit on the back of your head. They have to come down on your forehead.” Quickly she tilts it forward, until it sits over Ellen’s eyebrows.

  “There. Now do up the strap.”

  She waggles the helmet on Ellen’s head. “Good. Nice and snug.” But she isn’t through yet.

  “We’ve got a great special on bike gloves,” she announces. “You’ll like them. They’ve got gel inserts — way more comfortable than ordinary gloves.”

  The store has a full selection of bike wear too — body-hugging jackets and padded shorts, which the clerk insists are essential. Ellen zips herself into a jacket, wincing at the bright neon colour.

  “Great visibility,” the girl says.

  Ellen agrees, but she’s puzzled by a series of three pockets across the back of the jacket.

  “No pockets on bike shorts. You need someplace for your keys and wallet. You can even put a spare water bottle in one of the pockets — or a Hammer Gel. That’s a power gel — gives you quick energy. Great to have for the last lap of your ride.”

  Ellen slowly removes the jacket. Nice, but too pricey, she tells herself. Maybe later. But she will need shorts and squeezes herself into the largest pair of black shorts on the rack. The effort leaves her breathless. Quickly she peels them off, sliding back into her baggy sweats. As she leaves the change room, she notices a bulging book rack that covers every aspect of biking from repairs and maintenance to bike routes across the country and around the world.

  “Fancy that,” she muses, thumbing through a book about local bike routes in the Greater Vancouver area. In a spirit of abandon she also picks up Biking in Ireland. For “inspirational reading,” she tells herself.

  When she struggles into the new shorts at home, she decides a diet book would have been more appropriate. Her bulging butt is nothing to giggle at and shiny spandex does nothing to diminish it. Tomorrow, she promises, she’ll take the bike out and learn to ride it. This evening she contents herself with straddling it in the front room, clicking the gear levers and adjusting the light, making diminishing circles on the wall, then expanding them out again. Someone (Sammy Davis Jr.? Frank Sinatra? George Burns?) ended his TV show by walking off the stage in a gradually diminishing spotlight until it, and they, were gone. From somewhere in the back of her memory she hears the theme song and hums along. “Ink, a dink a dink” — of course! Jimmy Durante.

  The chrome handlebars look naked with only the small bell. Ellen reconsiders the electronic horn. She may get one. Today’s traffic is neither as sparse nor as patient as when she was a child.

  The next morning Ellen walks the bike to a church parking lot that could have been designed for beginning bikers. Painted lines divide the stalls and there are no asphalt speed bumps. The lot is on a gentle incline, tilted just enough to allow her to work through the gears. Gingerly she sets herself in motion, pressing cautiously against the pedals, then more firmly as she gains her balance. At the bottom of the lot she pushes backward on the pedals to brake. Her feet spin wildly, meeting
no resistance. A flutter of panic twists her stomach before she remembers: hand brakes.

  Her handbook stressed using both hand brakes simultaneously. Engaging only the front wheel brake while the bike is in motion can result in a forward somersault over the front wheel, the book warned ominously.

  Ellen wants neither a somersault nor a swan dive. Obediently, she squeezes both grips at once. The bike shudders to a halt. She turns it around, lines herself up with the other side of the parking lot, and tries again. Soon she can brake with relative comfort and security. Shortly after, she finds she can handle wide, swooping turns at the end of each pass across the lot and no longer has to lift the bike or walk it around in a circle to turn.

  “Those are the basics,” she gloats. “That’s what everyone says you never forget. Now let’s get into the new stuff.”

  She opens the book again. The instructions sound terribly complicated. They make even less sense when she tries to apply them. One set of gears is for the right hand, the other for the left, and she isn’t sure what either set does, but there are two levers on each handlebar waiting for her thumbs to activate them. Warily, she pushes off again, building up enough speed to keep her balance, and cautiously presses the left hand lever. She’s startled by a sudden thunk somewhere below her foot. Something has happened. She stops to look and realizes the chain is turned by a three-headed wheel instead of the single wheel she remembers from long ago. She clicks the lever again. Nothing happens.

  “Dummy. It won’t work unless you’re moving,” she mutters. She cranks the pedal and this time when she clicks the lever, the chain obediently jumps to the smallest wheel. She clicks the lever again but nothing happens. Maybe it isn’t so simple after all. In desperation she pushes the second lever and the chain jumps to the middle wheel. After a bit of grating and grinding the chain jumps to the biggest wheel on her next push.

  Happily, Ellen swings back and forth across the parking lot, changing gears first on one side, then the other, then in combinations. Gradually she realizes the differences between the two sets: big changes from the big gears under her feet, lesser changes from the little gears on the back wheel.

  The bike book discusses gear ratios, which she understands in an abstract sort of way. She’s not quite sure exactly how burning gasoline makes the wheels of a car turn, but she’s grateful that it happens. She feels the same about the bike. She doesn’t need to know how the gears work, only that they do.

  She launches herself confidently now, straight up the steepest part of the parking lot, picking up speed, lurching through the gears until she reaches the top, swoops through a turn and glides back down, counting the thunks as each gear falls into place. At the bottom she gently squeezes the brakes and comes to an easy stop.

  She reaches for the bottle mounted on the bike and sends a stream of water gurgling into her mouth. The taste of plastic spreads across her tongue and she makes a face as the water trickles down her throat. She should have soaked the bottle in something overnight.

  She slides it smoothly back into its holder and contemplates her next move. It’s time to graduate from the parking lot. Re-snugging her helmet, she adjusts the Velcro straps on her gloves and straddles the bike, pushing off smoothly, finding an easy rhythm as she pedals slowly toward a large industrial park nearby. Its wide, level streets offer a haven for a beginner. There’s little traffic today and soon she’s zigzagging happily from driveway to driveway, around buildings, up and down loading ramps, gearing up, gearing down, and sometimes, just for the fun of it, changing the focus on her light.

  It feels wonderful. Ellen loves biking. She’ll spend the rest of her life on a bike. Maybe she’ll even sell her car and just use the bike. Become an eco-leader for women of “a certain age.” She could design some trend-setting bike togs and become the Cheryl Tiegs of the bike world!

  At that moment, in the middle of her dream, as she changes gears going through her turn, the bike suddenly lurches forward. Her feet spin in wildly ineffective circles. Frantically, she churns faster, then spins backward, but her pedals are unconnected. There’s no resistance. She tries the brakes, thankful that they,

  at least, still work.

  It’s obvious that something has broken, but what? The bike is guaranteed, so she can get it fixed, but what to do now? She can’t carry it home and she doesn’t want to leave it here while she goes home for her car. She could push it, but the apartment is a good number of blocks away. Funny how much shorter distances seemed when she was riding. Briefly she wonders if there’s a roadside service for bikers, with help for flats and towing and all that. Probably not.

  Gloomily she presses the kickstand down and balances the bike against it while she drags out the biking book and sits on the curb, trying to figure out what’s happened, trying to hold back tears.

  “I should have known better,” she rages. “Every bloody thing I try goes wrong.”

  She looks at the bike again, comparing it to the illustration that names all the parts. It’s like the puzzles on the comic page: Can you see anything different in these two pictures? Then suddenly, she can. The chain hangs in a loose loop. Ellen searches through the index looking for something under “chains” or “repairs” or whatever else it might be hidden under.

  “Chain come off, lady?” a voice asks.

  She looks up. A young boy, eleven or twelve years old, leans over the handlebars of his bike.

  “Chain come off?” he repeats.

  “Yes. I think so. Yes, it did,” she replies.

  “Need a hand?” he asks.

  “I guess I do. I’m not sure how to get it back on.”

  In a single motion the boy slides from his bike and drops it to the ground. No kickstand for him!

  “Here. It’s easy.”

  He bends over the rear wheel, presses something, lifts the back wheel and touches the pedal with one foot.

  “There you go.” He turns toward her, a triumphant smile gleaming across his face.

  “What did you do? How did you do that?” she asks.

  The smile disappears. This isn’t the reaction he expects.

  “This is my first time out,” she says. “It’s a new bike. If it does that again, I need to know how to fix it.”

  The smile returns. Someone has recognized his expertise. Even better, an adult has acknowledged him as an expert. He relishes the moment, carefully removing his baseball cap and replacing it firmly, visor twisted to the back.

  “It’s easy. See that little extra wheel at the back? That’s your tension wheel. It keeps the chain tight. Just push that wheel and you can move the chain around and put it back on the gear wheel.”

  He doesn’t often have the chance to instruct a grownup and he makes the most of it. The grin seeps over into his voice.

  “Now, sometimes the chain doesn’t come right off — it jams. Then you have to push it backward and loosen the tension wheel at the same time. When it comes free, put it back on, the same as before.”

  He steps back and looks at the bike. “Nice bike, lady.”

  He returns to his own bike, scooping it from the ground and lining it up beside him.

  “Thank you,” Ellen says awkwardly. “Thank you very much. I’d like to give you something, but I don’t have my purse with me. Maybe you could …”

  The youngster cuts her off.

  “That’s okay. You don’t owe me nothing.”

  With another smile, he climbs on his bike and pushes off, pedalling swiftly to gain speed as he heads straight for a nearby curb and lifts himself and his bike over it, like the rider on a pure-bred jumper clearing the bars in a gymkhana.

  That’s a manoeuvre she’ll try later. Much later. Or maybe it’s a manoeuvre best left to the young.

  Gingerly, she remounts and moves away. The chain stays in place. She pedals past the curb the boy jumped so effortlessly, and changes gears again. When she gets home, she’ll try whatever it was he did to the bike. She can’t depend on someone turning up every time she�
��s in trouble.

  “My knight in shining armour.” She laughs. “Just my luck he turns out to be under-aged and riding a rusty old bike instead of a white horse.”

  She makes it home safely, releases her front wheel, and carries the two parts of her bike into the elevator and upstairs. She rejoins them and wheels down the hall into her apartment, then stands the bike back in its special spot by the window and searches her near-empty linen closet for a rag.

  “All those years of saving stuff and now I don’t have anything I need,” she grumbles, thinking wistfully of piles of cleaning rags, plastic yogurt tubs, and brown paper bags stacked in her cupboards. Sighing, she assesses the skimpy contents of her closet and pulls out a pillow case. It’s still too new and too good to cut up. She rummages further. There’s a slightly worn dish towel with a couple of stains on it.

  “You’ll do,” she tells it.

  Ignoring the voice in her head that says there’s still a lot of use left in the dish towel, she cuts it in half and rips one of the squares into smaller pieces. There’s something exciting in the feel of the fabric and the resistance as she rips. She relishes the sound of shredding cloth. She uses one of the torn pieces to remove the road grime from her bike, another to polish the bike tracks on her floor, before squatting down in front of the bike to get into the serious work of finding out exactly what her knight in shining armour did.

  Thumbing through her bike book, she discovers the technical term for her predicament: derailing. She derailed. For practice, she loosens the chain and replaces it.