Ftrain, by Paul Ford

Because last night I had drenched the bottom bracket in lubricant it did not creak much this morning; between the cleaning and greasing and the cup of coffee I permitted myself, the bridge melted away behind me. Still I knew that something was tired within the bicycle and I took it in to the shop at 10AM as the shop opened. They look at things right away.

The repairman, a tall, thin black man, kicked the pedals for a moment. "Loose," he said. He had an island accent. He took the bike away. Fifteen minutes went by, during which I examined helmets; the repairman emerged from the back room and showed me that the bracket was grinding heavily with every revolution. He put it into my hand. "No, no, feel it," he said. I spun the grimy spindle. I could feel the grind.

"I better get a new one," I said.

"Yes, you need a new one."

While I waited I sat down and read over the NYC folding bike map, wondering whether to go to Floyd Bennett Field on a Saturday. Shop clerks talked to me, asked what was going on. No one seemed to think that I was particularly out of place or wanted to assign blame, even though I was expecting them to.

In another ten minutes I was ready--a $50 fix with labor. "You know, I need a new bracket too," said the woman behind the counter. "I can feel it when I pedal."

It's only idle bike-shop badinage. Why does it feel like such an accomplishment to just chat amiably with strangers?

Between lowering the seat, new bracket, cleaning/greasing, and my being in slightly better shape it's like a new machine. Much, much more of my effort is being translated into forward motion. Far more than I wonder what it might be like to weigh less I wonder what it would be like to ride without carrying my nine-stone bag. I don't imagine speed. I just imagine myself drifting, smooth, like a sailboat with a brisk wind behind it. As I pass by I turn to you, smile in recognition, maybe wave, then I am gone.