God Help Me; It Is Only January 19th

“We have so many bikes right now,” says Ainsley exuberantly. “Storehouses of bikes made from recycled parts. Let’s start by looking at Long-Haul Trucker style bikes. You can beef up the tires, swap out the handlebars, change the shifters, change the type of brakes, get new seats, strip down and rebuild any of them.” The possibilities are endless. She says there are hundreds to chose from. Tractor-trailer beds full. Storerooms. Oakley and I hover together in the Portland Gear Hub, a cinder-block bike shop in Portland, Maine. This is it, the moment we have been waiting for. No more talking; time for action. We are going to start building our bikes.

The Gear Hub is an amazing place. They take donations of used bikes from all over the Portland area and rebuild them, swapping old broken parts for working ones, polishing up the ugly parts and making them shine and then putting them back out for sale at affordable prices. They make it possible for just about everyone to buy a bike. They turn the profits directly into a campership fund. They also have a bike school. They have classes for kids, women, and the general public to learn step-by-step how to rebuild a bike from the ground up. They make these classes accessible with low prices, some of them even free, and create specialty classes so no one feels intimidated. Women and trans-people, kids, beginners, you name it. You can show up not knowing how to hold a wrench and come out with true knowledge of bicycle maintenance. Participants can attend open-bench time and use the Gear Hub’s tools, space, and expertise while they work on their own bikes. Something everyone needs, especially if you are about to embark on a cross-country cycling adventure. The Gear Hub wants to put people on bikes — all people — not just the elite. What’s not to love?

Oakley and I are ready. First, Ainsley, the manager, sizes up Oaks and me. She has us survey the shop floor: what shaped handlebars do we want? What kind of seats? What are the pros and cons of click shifters or thumb shifters or twist shifters? Our minds whirr. So many choices. “Would you like to look in our shipping container out back? We have lots of options.” She says. Would we? You bet!

We follow Ainsley through the cold, dark January evening to a freshly painted, corrugated steel shipping container. It is freezing and we stand close together with our fists jammed into the pockets our down jackets. This is it. She kneels down on the pavement and readies the key for the padlock. I can hardly wait. Which will be my baby to ride home? Which bike will become my best friend, my chariot, and the bane of my existence?

Ainsley fiddles with the lock and key. Her naked hands look cold as they maneuver the small metal parts. She isn’t wearing a coat. “Hmmmm,” she says. The key doesn’t look like it is working. She repositions herself and tries to force the key into the lock again. Oakley and I shift hopefully “It’s not going in. Maybe there is ice in the lock.” The cold wind blows up my jacket and tickles my spine in an unpleasurable way. “This has happened before, we might need to boil some water and thaw it. The lock sometimes fills with frozen water.” I am so excited to see these bikes, but the idea of Ainsely scrounging around her shop trying to boil water on this frigid evening seems too much to ask. “No, that’s okay, we can come back,” I say, feeling my stomach sink just a bit. I am hoping she insists that we stay, but after another moment she reluctantly gives up. “That’s probably a good idea.” The shop closes in half an hour. There is a ferry to catch. I don’t blame her at all. “Okay,” I say, maybe a little glad to get in out of the dark and cold.

January. Yes, it is beautiful in Maine in a shocking, startling kind of way, but really, it sucks when you are chafing at the bit to break free. I am the worst at sitting still. I am impatient and overly intense. Ask any of my children. Ainsley will call us soon, she promised. I believe her. We will take her class and rebuild our bikes. But today? We return home empty-handed. My daughter is lying on the couch after her third knee surgery. She stares vacantly at the wall. So do I.