Tools for Remembering
I bought a bike.
A brand new bicycle. After years of riding a too-tall steel frame 80’s Centurion with a Schwinn fork (dubbed the Shwinchurion only by me), given to me by a generous friend, I invested in a brand new, tiny, 3 speed with panniers and a custom made front bag. My friend gave me The Schwinchurion after I had a bike stolen. It was too small for him, and though he had tried to make adjustments, it never really fit him. Or so he said. It a little too tall for me but once I changed the handlebars and seat, it was smooth and fast, and fit ll except that I could not stand straight up over it. I brought it to the west coast, rode it all around the Bay Area, packed it back to Louisiana. I knew I needed a smaller bike, but we had made it work. And then my friend died. Suddenly and tragically. I had not seen him in years. I could not lose another connection to him. So I rode the too-tall bike until my hips ached from standing askew at stoplights.
After bringing it on the back of my camper to Portland I finally decided to find a better-fitting bike. I tried trying a few different frames and found something workable. It sat for 9 months until Adam transferred the parts from the too-tall frame onto the new-to-me frame. The old parts did not fit on the newish frame. The brakes didnt quite reach the rims at the best angle and the rear cassette needed replacing but I kept riding it, stubbornly, slipping out of gear, braking slowly down hills and eventually walking it more often than riding it. I rode my dead friend’s bike to pieces and then tried to move the pieces onto another ill-fitting frame., riding that into disrepair.
Once, many years ago, I attended a community bike shop conference. At the host shop, we chose bikes to borrow for the week, fixing them up from the shop’s collection. I chose a single speed bike with a coaster brake. I felt self-conscious, as if everyone would judge my mechanical skills on this bike. I hastily worked and decided it was good enough. I rode up a mountain with the group, the bike in such disrepair that I had to pedal downhill. Finally, out in the desert, a friend offered to take a look and realized I’d been riding with a malfunctioning brake . I am stubborn and proud.
Finally, this spring, I accepted that if I had a better functioning bike, I could depend on e more often for transportation. I was driving less after an injury but also preferred riding. I knew it would not stress me the way driving does, and I knew it made me feel better. I researched new bicycles. I asked a million questions at the shop. I debated. I test rode two different bikes, confirming my choice.
Nothing brings a dead friend back. Nothing reverses history or aging or and some injuries stay with us. I gave up the bike that won’t bring my friend back. I felt like a traitor buying a new bike. Physical objects remind us of our lost loved ones but objects are just vessels for the memories, for the love. I bought a new bike because what I remember about my friend is his generosity, his kindness, biking with him and shouting at cars, riding to the swamp. And it doesn’t matter which bike I’m riding when I remember that.
