Connections

I am struggling somewhat in trying to tell the story of our ride yesterday (besides, Robert will tell the full story.  I am just here to add a little color).  Rather, I am not sure of the focal point. Do I want to focus on our struggles? On local community? On weird connections? On all of it?  I am not sure. I know what I like about today’s ride in a round about way, but I am not sure what I like best. 

During our ride yesterday, I noticed that Robert’s bike was making a bit of an odd noise. I think that made made him slightly satisfatied because it would solve the mystery of why he felt as if he was struggling in the saddle all morning.  We thought at first that the brakes were rubbing against the tires so he realigned them, and we set on our way.  Miles later, it was clear that this alone was not the solution. We reached the small town of Stuart, where we went immediately to the campground to figure out what was wrong with the bike and to claim tent spots if that was necessary.

It turns out that Robert had two broken back spokes, which accounted for the wheel being off center and the struggle of the ride.  While Robert had spare spokes, changing them in the back is a much more difficult task than in the front, a task that neither of us was up to, at least without a shop space (and even then I would screw it up).

On to the phones. No local bike shop, nothing resembling a bike mechanic for more than an hour away by car.  While Robert called our friend Dan, who had been a bike mechanic, I decided to pursue the one route that I have learned can work in small towns (i.e., call City Hall—this is how we got camping back in Killbuck, Ohio).  

The guy at the town hall had no real ideas but suggested I call Brent at Super B Automotive.  When I got Brent on the phone, he told me he didn’t know any bike shops or mechanics, but—after pausing—he did know a retired lawyer named Steve who biked a lot. He gave me Steve’s number and said, “If he doesn’t answer, call me back, and I will tell him to answer his damned phone.”  

I called; he didn’t answer. I left a message and called Brent.  Two minutes later, I get a call.

“John, it’s Steve. Where are you?”

Five minutes later, Steve arrives.  He can’t fix the bike, but he has a good mechanic back in Norfolk (two days bike ride back from where we are now) who could maybe fix it.  He is also headed to Omaha for a doctor’s appointment tomorrow and Norfolk is on the way.   Steve calls the mechanic and puts Robert on the phone with him. The mechanic agrees to come in three hours early to work on the bike.

Amazing just what folks in these towns pull off.

So, this morning, after a night of a few beers at a local bar and grill, I am sitting at the Southside convenience store table, drinking coffee and writing this story while Robert, after a 6 AM departure) is off in Norfolk, doing laundry and getting his bike fixed. While here, I have told the story three times to locals who asked what I was up to. Each time, they’ve talked about how much they like Brent, how nice Steve is, and/or how much they enjoy meeting cyclists (a great plus of riding along something like the Cowboy Trail is that no small towns are suspicious of you and seem to genuinely want to hear your story).  For a ham like me, this only encourages me to go on too long).  All in all, this has not been the disaster that it at first seemed. 

I would rather be on the road, to be sure, but the comfort of generosity makes a second day in this town easy.