Bubble Wrap

“Mom, we are out of tape.”

” Let me look in the…”

“Mom, pass the bubble wrap.”

“Here.”

“Where are the scissors?”

“Um…I saw them…”

“Mom, did you get that tape?”

“I am going to look in the…”

“Mom, what is Oakley doing? He has his seat in, like, six pieces!”

“Oaks, what are you doing? Hands up! Stop disassembling everything!”

“It needs to come apart.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does!”

“No, it doesn’t. Why don’t you cut some more bubble wrap?”

“I am out of here.”

“Where are you going? Come back and help!”

“Mom, tape?”

“Yes, I am on it.”

“These bikes are not going to fit in these boxes.”

“They have to.”

“They won’t.”

“Will Scotch tape work?”

“Whatever it takes.”

Last night, my two sons Finn and Jonah came to my rescue and helped me box up our bikes. I thought it would be fairly simple, but like most things about preparing for this bike trip, it took on a life of its own. We went through three rolls of tape and three rolls of bubblewrap, and used three bike boxes for our two bikes. We dismantled all the racks, fenders, pedals, lights and odometers that I have painstakingly assembled over the last several months. I cringed with every part that was removed, feeling that it was unfathomable that I would ever get them together again.

When we finished, we were all sweaty, and a bit anxious. Even the boys seemed genuinely concerned about the bikes and the idea of me trying to tackle bike maintenance on my own in the future. I found myself trying to reassure them that it would all work out, that people would help me, and that I am cleverer than I let on. Inside, I was already exhausted and overwhelmed at the prospect of remembering which bolt went with which nut.

Ready to start fresh today, I got up and energetically lugged the bike boxes onto my garden cart and pushed them through the streets to the ferry. I shipped them across Casco Bay, manhandled them into the car, drove them across town, dragged them down the sidewalk from the parking garage to UPS, and deposited them in the not-overly-caring hands of a bored UPS worker. I had thought this would be a moment of triumph.

The UPS worker was young and seemed a bit too vacant to be handling something so precious to me. But, to be fair, I probably looked a bit like a madwoman. My messy, ponytailed hair was sticking out in odd tufts and wisps a little like a halo from driving with the windows down; my shirt was clinging to my sweaty back, and I am sure I had a look of desperation on my face. The young woman helping me was a bit more put together than that.

“Hi there. Could you help me? Do you think that I have used enough tape on these boxes?” I inquired

“Uh-huh,” she replied without looking at them or me.

“Can you read that the boxes say ‘1 out of 3, 2 out of 3, and 3 out of 3’ clearly enough?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you think they will get damaged because they are packed too tightly?’

“I don’t think so.” Her lovely pink nailed fingers pecked away at her keyboard in a most disinterested way. She avoided all eye contact.

“I am riding across the country with my son. These are our bikes. I am really anxious about them. Sorry I am being so high maintenance.”

No response.

“Okay, that will be $671.47.”

“Excuse me?”

“$671.47, because you are shipping them so far.”

“That is more than I spent on the bikes themselves. That is more than I paid for our airfare.”

“It is because Oregon is so far.” Now she met my eyes and gave me a lazy blink. Maybe, she had her own worries filling her head, because she was certainly not taking on mine.

I felt trapped. I had thought they would cost 1/3 of that, but what could I do? I reluctantly handed over my credit card, feeling my stomach flip.

As I watched this woman drag the boxes away, filled with our disassembled bikes, 10 pounds of bubble wrap and various unidentifiable bit and bolts, I picked up my cell phone and called “Bikes and Beyond” in Astoria, Oregon, the bikes’ final destination.

“Hello there. . . when my bike boxes arrive, would you be willing to put them together before I pick them up, no matter what condition you find them in?”

“Absolutely.”

“Down to the fenders and odometers and racks and everything?”

“Absolutely. We do this all the time.”

He even offered to call me when they arrived. I may not love him as much as I loved my sons when they helped me take the bikes apart, but if he can pull that off, it will be a close second.

I am looking forward to rendezvousing with our bikes again when they are in better shape and all we have to do is pedal.