My Father used to tell me that my real love wasn’t cycling but bicycles themselves. He wasn’t wrong but to be fair wasn’t exactly correct either. It’s more of a loving what bicycles give me when cycling sort of thing. Well maybe not just when cycling. They represent freedom. Love and friendship. To be clear on the former I mean so literally. You can escape your location via two wheels. On the latter it is more that near everyone I have formed a strong bond with the first thing we shared in common was bicycles!
So, as COVID nearly drove me insane, or pushed toward that conclusion, as it would be I found out who I really was. On my parents porch in the States coffee in hand I announced, “I’m moving back to France and opening a bicycle repair shop.” As soon as the words left my mouth I regretted saying them. My Mother sighed heavily and went inside. Leaving me clear on her opinion of my plans.
My Father stared at me a while and then as his nature smiled. To date he has offered but two simple words on the topic. “Why not?”
Those words have been heavy on my mind for some time since. Writing this in a small one room flat on the coast of Ireland they ring in my head. The answer always the same. I’m getting there and close to doing it. So, not sure I can think of a single reason “why not?”. Though maybe poverty, loneliness, trying to sort out what Irish people mean, trying to find pints of beer that aren’t Guiness, and of course did I mention poverty. But none of those alone area reason to not do a thing. Combined they begin to make a case for retreat and reconsideration. But again not one single reason can be found. [emoji849]
Now, you may be pondering why I am in Ireland to begin the process of opening a bicycle repair shop in the mountains of rural France. That’s a great question with a quite complex answer. To be to the point. I’m not gonna tell you exactly but when done reading this rambling you can draw your own conclusion. Or possibly not care even slightly.
I busy myself daily collecting vintage bike parts and working on restorations in a small bicycle co-op. Colleagues watch in wonder and from time to time fear as I wrench apart components.
That’s the only way to truly clean them. Fear of failure in reconnecting the bits is just not something that resonates within me. Funny because often times fear and anxiety have controlled my life. But not so and never with bikes and bike bits.
I’ve acquired the building space for my future shop. A strange dealing all it’s own. Finally after much research the property owner was located. His first reaction was. “That tiny dump isn’t big enough for a bike shop. That’s why the previous one closed.” After I informed him my first job was in that shop and my first love was his father the old man that built wheels on a worn bench and smelled of greases and oils. He warmed to the topic. Sipped an Espresso and said, “I tell you what young lady. After the first year if you don’t starve you can sell it back to me. After that recall I warned you and the problem of getting rid of the place is yours alone.” Another three hours and finally he named a price for the tiny street front shop with small apartment upstairs. I walked fast nearly running two blocks found a bank and wire transferred two thirds of my inheritance from my Grandparents to a man who never really new his own Father. And has no clue what the man more than the building meant to me as a child in the French Alps. A man that if he had bothered to attend his own fathers funeral would have known I was the girl who stood alone in a slender black dress crying holding a freshly laced but not tensioned wheel which the man being placed in the ground would never finish building. A wheel that has hung on the wall of every place I’ve slept since. Had he cared be a part of his fathers last years he would have understood why I didn’t bat an eye at overpaying for what he calls a “tiny dump”.
I’ve spent nearly my remaining life’s savings on new old stock and the best of used parts I can stumble on. All this in hopes of making enough money to eat on restoring vintage bikes. If it turns out to be profitable I’d be more shocked than finding a full unopened Campy 50th anniversary group set at a bike swap and sale. Nonetheless, dreams without action are useless and of course not to mention “why not?”!
If things go as planned in less than two years I’ll hang an open sign from a string in the window of a door I once bounced thru saying “Monsieur! my wheel has a wobble!” Not knowing that an old man would mentor and teach me to build wheels and change my life forever.
If things go really well the shop will be fully stocked with bikes that my hands have revived. Bikes no one feels are worth effort or money to bring back. Bikes that not unlike me needed a second chance at what we are meant to be.
After all “Why Not?”.
So, as COVID nearly drove me insane, or pushed toward that conclusion, as it would be I found out who I really was. On my parents porch in the States coffee in hand I announced, “I’m moving back to France and opening a bicycle repair shop.” As soon as the words left my mouth I regretted saying them. My Mother sighed heavily and went inside. Leaving me clear on her opinion of my plans.
My Father stared at me a while and then as his nature smiled. To date he has offered but two simple words on the topic. “Why not?”
Those words have been heavy on my mind for some time since. Writing this in a small one room flat on the coast of Ireland they ring in my head. The answer always the same. I’m getting there and close to doing it. So, not sure I can think of a single reason “why not?”. Though maybe poverty, loneliness, trying to sort out what Irish people mean, trying to find pints of beer that aren’t Guiness, and of course did I mention poverty. But none of those alone area reason to not do a thing. Combined they begin to make a case for retreat and reconsideration. But again not one single reason can be found. [emoji849]
Now, you may be pondering why I am in Ireland to begin the process of opening a bicycle repair shop in the mountains of rural France. That’s a great question with a quite complex answer. To be to the point. I’m not gonna tell you exactly but when done reading this rambling you can draw your own conclusion. Or possibly not care even slightly.
I busy myself daily collecting vintage bike parts and working on restorations in a small bicycle co-op. Colleagues watch in wonder and from time to time fear as I wrench apart components.
I’ve acquired the building space for my future shop. A strange dealing all it’s own. Finally after much research the property owner was located. His first reaction was. “That tiny dump isn’t big enough for a bike shop. That’s why the previous one closed.” After I informed him my first job was in that shop and my first love was his father the old man that built wheels on a worn bench and smelled of greases and oils. He warmed to the topic. Sipped an Espresso and said, “I tell you what young lady. After the first year if you don’t starve you can sell it back to me. After that recall I warned you and the problem of getting rid of the place is yours alone.” Another three hours and finally he named a price for the tiny street front shop with small apartment upstairs. I walked fast nearly running two blocks found a bank and wire transferred two thirds of my inheritance from my Grandparents to a man who never really new his own Father. And has no clue what the man more than the building meant to me as a child in the French Alps. A man that if he had bothered to attend his own fathers funeral would have known I was the girl who stood alone in a slender black dress crying holding a freshly laced but not tensioned wheel which the man being placed in the ground would never finish building. A wheel that has hung on the wall of every place I’ve slept since. Had he cared be a part of his fathers last years he would have understood why I didn’t bat an eye at overpaying for what he calls a “tiny dump”.
I’ve spent nearly my remaining life’s savings on new old stock and the best of used parts I can stumble on. All this in hopes of making enough money to eat on restoring vintage bikes. If it turns out to be profitable I’d be more shocked than finding a full unopened Campy 50th anniversary group set at a bike swap and sale. Nonetheless, dreams without action are useless and of course not to mention “why not?”!
If things go as planned in less than two years I’ll hang an open sign from a string in the window of a door I once bounced thru saying “Monsieur! my wheel has a wobble!” Not knowing that an old man would mentor and teach me to build wheels and change my life forever.
If things go really well the shop will be fully stocked with bikes that my hands have revived. Bikes no one feels are worth effort or money to bring back. Bikes that not unlike me needed a second chance at what we are meant to be.
After all “Why Not?”.