After a few bleak moments, Martin’s dad returned with the keys to the van.
“Where are you going?” Martin’s mom asked.
“The mini-mart,” said Martin’s dad. “There are a few more things we need.”
Breakfast, when it finally came, was a glum affair. Everyone poked at their eggs, lost in thought over the morning’s tragic events.
It was Aunt Laverne who finally broke the silence.
“Someone in a truck picked up Martin’s old bike from the curb this morning,” she remarked. “And it wasn’t the regular garbage collector.”
“Really,” said Martin’s dad, barely looking up.
“So I demanded to know what he was doing. It turns out that he was taking it to a place that makes new bikes from old ones.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of it,” said Martin’s mom. “The shop is run by a retired police officer. He rescues broken bikes that would be going to the dump, salvages the working parts and builds new bikes out of them. And then he gives those bikes to kids from families in need.”
“Maybe you should go there,” said Aunt Laverne to Martin, “and see if the shop can help you build a new bike. Then you’ll learn a thing or two.”
Martin scooped up the last bit of his eggs, mulling this over. He liked tools. He liked fixing things. And rebuilding his old bike would definitely be better than having no bike at all.
“What’s the place called?” Martin asked.
“Bicycle Recycle,” said his mom. “Or something like that.”
“Can we go after breakfast, Dad?” asked Martin.
“Sure, Sport,” said his dad. “It wouldn’t hurt to check out the place.”
“I’m coming, too,” said Aunt Laverne.
And because of Martin’s fledgling new hope, for once he didn’t mind her tagging along.
The next thing Martin knew, he was sitting in the van, holding a piece of paper with Bicycle Recycle’s address written on it.
“There,” said Aunt Laverne, pointing with her knobby finger. “That looks like the place.”
Martin was disappointed at what he saw. The big sign in the window was hand-made, and the building itself was rather shabby. The steps to the door were crumbling. The outdoor light fixture was missing its shade.
“Are you coming, Sport?” asked Martin’s dad as he slid open the van door.
Aunt Laverne was already climbing the front steps.
Martin nodded reluctantly and undid his seat belt.
Once inside, Martin was surprised to find Aunt Laverne in high gear, chatting with the man behind the counter.
“That’s my sister’s grandson,” remarked Aunt Laverne, scarcely glancing Martin’s way.
“Hi. My name’s Darby,” said the man in a deep voice, and he came out from behind the counter to shake Martin’s hand.
Darby’s hands were huge, and he was practically bald, except for a few tufts of hair behind his ears.
“So, you’re a police officer,” said Martin’s dad.
“Retired police officer,” Darby corrected him.
“What made you get involved in this?” asked Martin’s dad, nodding at the shop.
“When I was on the beat, I saw a lot of poverty. Kids with nothing to do. No parks to play in. No bikes.”
Martin nodded sympathetically. He remembered all the times he had ridden around his neighborhood park, having one adventure after another with his two best friends. And now, he didn’t have a bike.
There was nothing worse.
Just then, a creaky pick-up truck filled with bikes pulled into the parking lot. Martin could see that many of the bikes were twisted and rusty beyond hope.
“You fix those?” said Martin in awe.
“Not just fix,” said Darby. “I rebuild.”
He ducked into the back room and came out wheeling a shiny bike, complete with training wheels.
“It looks brand-new, but this bike is made from the parts of about six others,” said Darby proudly. “And all my bikes get paint jobs. I build three or four a week, and when they’re ready, I call the agency. They send the kids over to pick up their bikes. The kids on the agency’s list are pretty special,” he added.
The truck driver started to unload the bikes, and Martin spotted something familiar.
“You were right, Aunt Laverne! There’s my old bike!” Martin turned to Darby. “Do you think I could have my old bike back and you could help me rebuild it?”
“Well, sure,” said Darby. “But first I’ve got to build bikes for the kids on my list.”
“What if I helped you build some?” offered Martin, thinking that if he did, it would speed things up a bit.
“Volunteer? Great! How about you help out on Saturday mornings for the next couple of months?”
Martin nodded vigorously.
The next Saturday, Martin reported for duty just as a truckload of cast-off bikes arrived.
“Come outside and help unload,” said Darby.
They brought the bikes into the shop, and Martin watched carefully as Darby disassembled them. Martin got to know the names of all the parts, and then he took his old bike apart himself and sorted the pieces into bins.
“Front forks here. Calipers there. Cranks over here. Shift levers in there. Derailleurs here,” he recited proudly.
After a couple of Saturdays, Martin could hand the correct tools to Darby as he needed them. And it was always fun to be the first to see the bikes when they came out of the paint booth in the back room. The finished bikes were masterpieces.
Best of all, Martin loved watching Darby give the bikes away. Eager kids would burst through the door, and after Darby checked their names on his clipboard, he would wheel out bike after shiny bike. The kids were thrilled.
“But Darby never wants anyone to make a fuss over thanking him,” reported Martin back at home over dinner. “Darby’s the best.”
Later that evening, Martin stood at the doorway of the guest room.
“Aunt Laverne,” said Martin. “Thanks for telling me about Bicycle Recycle.”
“Darby does good work,” said Aunt Laverne gruffly.
She was packing her suitcases. She stopped what she was doing and turned to Martin.
“I wished I had a bike, growing up,” she said in a voice a little less rusty than usual. “But I never got one.”
“That’s sad,” said Martin, remembering Darby’s words about the kids he’d seen on his beat.
“I never had a lot of things. You’re one lucky boy,” she added, back to her old rusty tone.
Martin nodded. He returned to his own room, wondering what Aunt Laverne might have been like if she had gotten her childhood wish.
Aunt Laverne left the next morning.
“This flight better be on time,” she warned the ticket agent at the airport, nit-picking to the end. “Your pilots need to learn a thing or two.”
Weeks went by, and Martin showed up faithfully at Bicycle Recycle every Saturday. He was becoming quite a pro at the job. Darby even cleared a space so that Martin could have his very own workbench.
Then one Saturday, Darby stopped what he was doing and turned to Martin. “This bike we’re working on includes parts from your old bike. How about we say this one belongs to you when it’s finished, and you can have it on your last day here?”
“Really?” exclaimed Martin, his heart leaping.
Darby nodded to confirm.
All week Martin talked excitedly about getting his new bike. Because he had helped work on it, this bike somehow felt even more special than the one that had been stolen.
When Martin arrived at Bicycle Recycle for his last day, there was already a family waiting.
Darby checked his clipboard to see if their name was on the list, and then handed over a lime-green bike with purple racing stripes to a boy a few years older than Martin. The boy whooped repeatedly as he eased the bike out the door.
Later that morning, another family
arrived. A girl in pigtails squealed in delight when Darby presented her with a tiny bike on training wheels. She especially liked the wicker basket on the handlebars and shoved her teddy bear in it for a ride.
The last bike to be handed out went to a family with two boys. The older brother had received a bike a few months back, but he was there to share his younger brother’s excitement.
“I really love my bike,” he told Darby. “My little brother can’t wait to get his.”
Out came a red bike with gold flecks in the paint.
“Wow!” said the younger brother, all eyes.
Darby beamed.
After they left, he turned to Martin. “Well, I guess you’re ready to see your bike now.”
Martin nodded eagerly.
Darby returned to the back room and came out wheeling a gorgeous blue bike with flame-orange decals.
“It’s perfect!” exclaimed Martin.
“You’ve been a great help,” said Darby, patting Martin roughly on the back.
Martin was so pleased, he couldn’t speak.
Just then, a boy about Martin’s age burst into the shop, his dad tagging along behind.
“See, Dad! We made it!” shouted the boy.
“Truck broke down,” explained the dad with a tired shrug. “Didn’t think we’d get here in time.”
The boy rushed over to Martin’s bike.
“Is this it?!” the boy exclaimed, pulling the bike right out of Martin’s hands. “Look, Dad, look!”
Martin didn’t know what to say. He glanced at Darby, who was busy flipping through papers on his clipboard.
“Is your name Cameron?” Darby asked kindly.
“That’s me!” said the boy, practically hopping.
“I’m sorry, son,” said Darby, “but you’re on the list for getting a bike next week.”
“Next week,” the boy repeated in a little voice as his face collapsed.
“I’m so sorry,” Darby repeated, his booming voice reduced to a whisper.
The boy reluctantly let go of the bike and stood staring at the ground, blinking hard, hands shoved into his pockets.
Martin could tell that this was a boy who didn’t get a lot of things.
Just like Aunt Laverne, when she was young.
“I think you’d better recheck your list,” Martin said to Darby, “because I’m pretty sure this one is Cameron’s bike.”
The boy raised his head, hardly daring to believe Martin’s words.
“Really?” he asked.
Martin nodded, and the boy hugged him fiercely. Then he took hold of the bike and wheeled it over to his dad, who ran his hand over the frame in a way that Martin could tell was deeply grateful.
Martin and Darby watched proudly as the bike was lifted gently into the back of their old truck.
“Think you can help out one more Saturday? I’ll have a really nice bike for you then,” said Darby.
“That’d be great,” said Martin.
“Why’d you do it?” asked Darby. “Give that bike away?”
Martin shrugged with immense satisfaction. For just as Aunt Laverne predicted, he had learned a thing or two.
Darby’s Tips on Keeping Your Bike Safe
Parking your bike:
Find a tall pole and rest your bike seat against it. Then back-pedal the pole-side pedal until it comes up (to about 12 o’clock) and touches the pole. Ta-da! The concave shape of the seat keeps your bike from rolling forward, and the pedal keeps your bike from rolling backward. Your bike won’t fall over and get dinged and dented and is now ready to be locked.
Locking tips:
Don’t lock your bike to something weak, such as a small tree or a chain link fence. Make sure your bike cannot be stolen by being lifted over what you have locked it to. Using two different types of locks, such as a horseshoe lock and a cable lock, makes your bike harder to steal. And don’t lock only one wheel of your bike; lock the frame, too.
Serial number:
Always record your serial number to give to the police in case of theft. Most bicycle serial numbers are located on the underside of the bottom bracket near the pedals (you may need to turn your bike over to find it). That’s your bike’s fingerprint!
About the Creators
Jessica Scott Kerrin, who lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia, loves detailed schedules with color-coded tasks. In her free time, she enjoys beach walks along her province’s pristine coast. She also shares a tandem bike with her husband and once borrowed her son’s scooter to get to work when she had a flat tire.
Joseph Kelly often asks his wife, son and daughter to pose for the drawings of the characters in Martin’s world — Martin, his friends, Zip Rideout, and sometimes even space aliens! Now Byron, the family cat, who curls up and snores beside Joseph while he draws, has been immortalized as a model for Scoots. Sonoma, California, has a new star!
An Excerpt from The Lobster Chronicles
Floater Number Four
“I’ll dangle Lynnette by her ankles off the gunwale,” Graeme Swinimer swore to himself when he discovered a mummichog floating sideways in his plastic saltwater tub.
Its lifeless, speckled body bobbed above the sand dollars, periwinkles, brittle sea stars, urchins and a rock crab, all part of his marine life collection.
Lynnette was always feeding her food to his fish. What else could explain the soggy banana-and-peanut-butter sandwiches, crusts cut off, hanging in the water?
A dead giveaway.
And this was the fourth floater since the start of the spring lobster season!
Graeme sighed. Ankle dangling would have to wait, because his little sister was at the playground with her buddies from the after-school program. He could hear their screams of glee way off in the distance, along with the putta-putta sound of Homarus II, his dad’s mint-green Cape Islander, motoring home for the day.
Graeme cast about his room for the fishnet. He checked underneath his aquarium magazine, Cold Marine Tanks. He skirted past his posters of sharks, whales and sea turtles and scanned the top of his sock-and-underwear dresser. He turned to the other side of his room, which featured a large plaque of sailors’ knots mounted next to his closet door.
Aha! There it was, hooked on the knob. He remembered that he had hung the net to dry after scooping out Floater Number Three just last week.
Graeme strode across his bedroom’s round braided rug to retrieve the net. Then he dipped it into the saltwater tub to recover the limp fish.
Down the hall he plodded — drip, drip, drip — into the yellow bathroom with the wicker clothes hamper that faintly whiffed of lobster and diesel. Graeme stopped in front of the toilet. Plop went the fish. Whoosh went the bowl. Then, as payback, he grabbed Lynnette’s hairbrush and plunged it deep into the smelly hamper.
Graeme returned to the scene of the crime and wrote up the incident in his scientific journal. He included the usual details: the date, the type of marine animal, the probable cause of death.
Entry completed, he closed his notes, then gazed into the saltwater tub to observe the remainder of the school of mummichogs frolicking between barnacle-covered rocks, apparently unaware of the recent decrease to their number.
“Graeme’s going to be a marine biologist,” his dad boasted regularly at the government wharf next to the Lucky Catch Cannery where he unloaded his lobsters.
A longtime widower, Mr. Swinimer was determined that Graeme follow his dream, despite the challenges of having to raise him and Lynnette alone.
“Can’t wait!” Graeme always added, riding the wave of his dad’s enthusiasm.
The other fishermen would reply by thumping his back good-naturedly with their sausage-fingered hands.
“It’ll be nice to finally have a local scientist who knows what’s what around here!” they would say.
Fishermen often argued with come-from-away biologists about the state of the lobster stock in Low
er Narrow Spit. But they argued even more with the owner of the town’s only cannery about the price for their daily catch.
From the open window above his desk, Graeme heard that the putta-putta had slowed down to a dull throb. His dad was maneuvering around the shoals at the entrance to their harbor.
“The sea is as big as the all outdoors,” his dad liked to remind Graeme, “but you best mind the rocks in the bay.”
Graeme understood what that meant. Even though his dad supported his career choice, he also believed that Graeme should know everything about home port before safely venturing farther away.
Which was true.
Except that Graeme had run out of fresh discoveries. He even knew exactly how many steps it took to get from their white-shingled house to the government wharf where he collected his specimens to study.
For Graeme, the unexplored sea beckoned.
The reverberation of the engine changed again, and Graeme realized that his dad must be getting close to the wharf by now, preparing to throw the lines. When he heard that his dad had cut the engine, Graeme got a move on. He raced past the bathroom and down the stairs, but froze when he heard a knock at the front screen door. A bothersome voice he recognized called out from the covered porch.
“Graeme! You home?”
“Geez Louise,” Graeme muttered when he saw who it was.
“Hi, Norris,” Graeme said flatly, talking through the screen door, arms crossed. “I was just leaving to meet my dad.”
Norris was Graeme’s least-favorite classmate. Unlike the rest of the school, Norris loved dodgeball, and he hammered slow-moving players every chance he got. Norris was always telling everybody what he thought, even when no one asked. He had the annoying habit of jingling coins in his pocket whenever he started to argue, which was all the time. And Norris was the only boy Graeme knew who had the audacity to use the front door rather than the one off the kitchen mudroom.
Martin Bridge: In High Gear! Page 3
