Revolutions

The manager seems slightly surprised when I walk in on a brisk Saturday afternoon and

ask to work at the Big Wheel Bikes bike shop.

“I want to intern to learn how to build and fix bikes,” I tell him. “I’ve always been good

with my hands, and I do basic repairs on my neighbors’ bikes.” I add that I love to ride bikes,

that I enjoy mountain biking in particular, gesturing to my purple Trek bike beside me. Dirt is

caked into every crevice on the frame, tucked into the metal derailleur, the rusty top tube, the

silver saddle rails.

He shrugs, “Sure, you can intern. Build a kids’ bike and let me know if you have any

questions.” All the tools you’ll need are at the workstation table, he adds.

Then he moves to the front of the store to help a woman find a racing bike, leaving me in

the back with the whirring of the heater as company. I look at the parts in front of me, scattered

across the muddy carpet: pedals, two deflated wheels, handlebars, a plushy green seat and rod,

the main frame. Shoot. I have no idea where to start.

A couple months pass, it’s December. I’m still an intern, unpaid. I’ve fallen in love with

spinning chains, pedals cranking, screwdrivers turning. I’ve learned how to get grease out of

denim. I’ve memorized the prices of the bikes, Trek, Marin, Kona. In moments of stress, I’ve

found solace in the mechanical actions of pumping air into deflating rubber, wiping a muddied

frame with a clean cloth, cranking wrenches to spin bolts and nuts.

I’m working in the back, using red and white calipers to true the wheel of a purple Marin,

when the bell clangs and the door opens, letting in a blast of cold air. An older man comes in,

wheeling a pale green Fuji in behind him. He tells us his name is Dillon, that he was biking to a

lunch meeting when his tire punctured on a nail in the road. He needs it done now, he says, so he

can get to the restaurant at a reasonable time. He promises to pay extra. The manager tells me to

replace his tire, that I can come back to the Marin later.

I’m prying the punctured tube out of the tire, my fingers sore and aching under the weight

of the rubber, when Dillon says, “I’ve never seen a girl work at a bike shop before. Shouldn’t

you be working at a flower shop or a bakery or something?”

I look up, startled. Did I hear him right? He’s leaning against the doorway, his arms

crossed over a neon Nike shirt. I’m not exactly sure what to say, not sure if there’s a right

response. I stay quiet and finish tucking the new tube into the frame of the wheel. I don’t think

the manager heard Dillon, and he doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t even thank me when I

pump the new tire with air or when I screw the wheel to his bike frame, and within moments, the

bell is clanging as the door bangs shut behind him. I go back to the Marin.

It’s summer now; the door is propped open with a cone, the fluorescent orange ones used

to direct traffic. Dappled sunlight breaks through the large windows and falls across the bikes

and the dark carpet in patterned rectangles. Bikes are crammed on the storage rack and lined up

in tight rows on the shop floor, their taped handlebars shoving against each other. With the

school year wrapping up, it seems everyone wants to start the summer outside on the trail.

I’ve been working at the shop for a couple hours when a man comes in with a little girl.

She’s holding his hand, dressed in UnderArmour shorts that fall below her kneecaps. Her face

immediately lights up when she walks down the steps, her neck craned to see the bikes propped

up on the electric yellow wall.

“She needs a bike,” I overhear her dad say to the manager. “She recently learned how to

ride, and she wants a two-wheeler for her eighth birthday.”

The girl is smiling wide, bouncing on the carpeted floor as she follows her dad through

the store, and I’m reminded of my younger self, walking through a bike shop.

Her bright eyes bring me back to a time years ago, to a trail below a canopy of trees, a

paved path with dots of sunlight scattered across. I rode a blue-and-white two-wheeler, teetering

slightly as I pushed my velcro Asics sneakers against the plastic pedals.

As I approached the looming hill in front of me, my eyes widened. The top looked so far

away. I tightened my grip on the handlebars as my sweaty fingers slid on the grimy rubber. My

breath shortened as I biked upwards, my legs aching, the loose strands of hair from my braid

stuck to my sweaty neck.

Slowly, inch by inch, I reached the top, my heart pounding in my chest. I took a deep

breath and, with renewed energy, pushed my sneakers to the pedals to descend down the hill. I

picked up speed quickly, racing down the gravel. The trees blurred by, strips of green with

pockets of baby blue sky. The wind whipped at my face and my hair, and I didn’t know anyone

could feel so free and airborne on the ground.

I streaked past my mom, flicking the metal bell and laughing at the twinkling sound that

burst through the cool air. My shirt billowed out behind me, the sun hitting the small of my back.

It was magic, this feeling, and I was flying and flying and flying…

“I want a blue bike, dark blue like the sky between dusk and night, or black if there aren’t

any blue ones in my size,” the girl declares now, and her voice brings me back to the linoleum

floors, the electric yellow walls, the racks of bikes.

She’s wandering around for a few minutes, her dad and the manager talking about seat

height and training wheels, when she sees me in the back. I’m hunched over on the tattered roller

seat, using a flat head screwdriver to tighten the brakes of a vermillion Kona bike propped in a

metal stand. My jeans and calloused hands are smudged dark, coated in grease and debris. The

worktable, painted a fading black, is splintering, cluttered with chain breakers, spanners, and

bottles of Tri-Flow chain lubricant. The sweet scents of glycol waft through the back of the shop.

She stands in the narrow doorway and watches me for a moment, her eyes focused on the

turning screws, maroon from rust.

“Do you want to help me fix the bike?” I ask her. “I can show you how to tighten the

brakes and how to pump a deflated tire.” She grins, says yes before I have even finished my

sentence. I teach her which way to turn the wrench to tighten and loosen a bolt (“righty-tighty,

lefty-loosey”), how to attach the nozzle of a bike pump to the valve in a tire to pump it with air,

how to apply lubricant on a bike chain so it spins smoothly. I’m unable to change a broken chain

without getting dirty and by the time we finish, our hands are dark with grease.

“I’m going to work at a bike shop soon,” she tells me as she’s leaving. When we’re done,

she wipes her greasy hands on her shorts and skips out of the shop. I think of the girl and her

greasy hands, hands too dirty for flowers and flour, for florist shops and bakeries, places where

girls like her and I are ‘supposed’ to be. I think to myself, “That’ll change soon.”