Tube Quest

My most recent flat tire arrived with a satisfying pop, a small explosion of air bursting through my rubber tube at Bloor and Bay late at night. A few people looked, perhaps thinking that a gun had been fired. I walked my bike home, thankful that it was not minus 40 degrees with the wind chill, as it is today. The boots weren't right for walking, and my feet felt a bit sore when I finally removed them at home.

There are lots of nice bike shops in Toronto, but all of them were closed for some sort of bike show at the Exhibition. So, I was forced to go to a run-down place that reminded me of my youth. There was a chap on the outskirts of the small town that I am from who had what can only be described as stockpiles of crap. The man had everything from bicycles parts to old records, bits of steel, dismembered parts of electrical devices, topiary, stuffed foxes, fish mounted on old pieces of wood, tackle, knives, probably bullets and grenades, bits of planes, tanks, anti-aircraft weapons, and what appeared to be robots or parts of them. He also had odd mechanical devices that few had ever seen before, and fewer knew how to operate. But, this guy could fix anything, from a radio to a flux capacitor.

A blast of smoke hit me when I opened the door to the bike shop. I was transported back to my days as a bartender at a hotel in my hometown. The place was so smoky, I had red eyes well before last call. I worried that I was getting cancer in two ways: from the smoke I breathed in, and from the smoke that soaked inexorably into my skin. I worried that I might break out into lesions.

The bike shop was dark and dingy, but I could see some flickering light at the back. My boots thudded on the plywood floor, as I made my way back, through a darkened nave filled with bikes then, up a small ramp, a few feet more to the counter looking more like a smoky altar in the poltergeist-like glow of a small TV. It would have been oddly appropriate if the TV had been broadcasting old Jerry Falwell sermons or the 700 Club. Two guys sat on lawn chairs, smoking. Beside them, at least two dozen empty beer cans - the 500 ml variety - covered the floor. These men looked as though they had just returned from 39 days on Survivor.

"It's been a day of cigarettes and beer and TV," one of them grunted, as he stood up. At least he stood up, I thought. They had no ashtrays, so the ashes and butts piled up on the floor, among the cans.

"I need a tube," I said, almost coughing from the smoke.

"What size?"

"26 by 1.95," I replied. He ducked behind the counter and came up with the goods.

"5 bucks," he said, but he didn't ring anything in, did not touch the cash register. In fact, I don't recall a cash register of any sort. I wondered if I could have paid him in beer.

I handed him a $5 bill. "Oh, you're rich," he said, far too gleefully for a man who had been smoking and drinking all day and watching a TV with a pinkish hue.

The other guy said nothing, barely moved. I was certain I could have given him a light push and he would have tumbled over into a pile on the floor.

Later, I installed the new tube and realized that I also need a new tire, as mine had a hole in it. I decided to go to a different shop.

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