The bus didn't come

I walked from Mid-City the next morning and the bike was still there.

Good lock, I thought.

With the front wheel back on - and after a little more tinkering with the chain - I was able to ride, slowly, most of the way home.

A few days later I needed to get to school for something. I decided to try to take the busted bike with me to school - I was going to ride the bus and stick the bike in the bus' bike rack - and then I'd take another bus to Plan B when I was done working.

I would love it if we all rode public transport more. My most selfish reason: the public transport system would improve. Right now buses arrive at a stop at thirty-minute intervals, if you're lucky. If a bus breaks down or, like one time, the bus driver stops to tell you she has to take the bus back to the station because someone threw up in the back, you have to wait for the next one.

The bus didn't come to the stop on Claiborne Ave. as scheduled and I couldn't take it. Most days I was patient and read a book or something. But this day I couldn't.

I walked the bike to Plan B.

I was early so I sat inside The Iron Rail, a book shop of sorts, and read.

putting my u-lock to the test

I had bragged about my bike-to-be with my family the weekend of my brother's wedding. And when I returned to the shop I was sure that was the day the bike was going home with me.

I arrived around 4, leaving two hours for work time. I started on the brakes, finding clamps for the front and back, making sure all their parts worked together and fit the frame. There was a guy working there I'd seen before but couldn't place. He came over to assist me.

"I remember when you found this bike," he said.

He was the guy, the first day I got there, who told me how the shop worked. His name was Kam.

Kam and I found a set of new brake levers (?) in the brake lever bin and he pulled out a fresh couple of brake cables. We got the front brake on in a flash, but the rear was trickier. The cable kept coming out of the lever and Kam couldn't seem to tighten it enough. It was 6, closing time, and Kam saw I was getting tense.

"Don't worry, we'll get this finished so you can ride it home."

Kam tied up the rear brake cable in a loose knot.

I had $40 with me, since I'd heard a full bike cost between $30 and $35. Kam and Stacy added it up and came up with $55. I was surprised but willing to pay it, if I had it. They said I could pay the rest when I came back.

"Now get the hell outta here," he said.

I took the bike outside. It felt a like I was learning to ride a new contraption, familiar yet unfamiliar. It was leaner than any bike I'd ridden, and much taller, so I felt wobbly and I had to relearn how to balance. And the drop handlebars were new as well. I grabbed the chrome (we hadn't had time to re-wrap them) at the bottom of the "U" and pushed off.

The ride was smooth enough. No screws popped out and the wheels stayed put. The one brake worked. I turned onto Elysian Fields.

A block later I felt the chain go. I pulled over and slipped it back on. Two blocks later, it happened again. When I inspected the chain I saw it was looser than desired and I diagnosed that as the problem. I needed to readjust the rear wheel.

I knew the shop was closed. But Bicycle Mike's was still open. I walked the bike to Frenchman and dodged some guys exiting the store. A guy working there gave me a wrench and watched me try to set the wheel right.

"I suggest you tighten the right side first, then the left," he said.

When I got that done I asked him to show me the best bike lock he had. He showed me a U-shaped lock and offered me a used version for $20 less.

"Only thing is," he said, "there's only one key."

I bought it, put it on my bag and hoped I could make it home.

I turned on Rampart, trying to take Jack's advice to take Canal. The chain would not stay on.

Somehow I made it to Claiborne and St. Bernard. But it was here, behind the LaundroMax, that I gave in. I called Bekah and asked her to bring my tools and meet me at the gas station on Esplanade.

I tried again with the tightening, my hands smeared with grease and my fingers narrowly escaping the gear's bite. I tested it around the gas station. No use.

So I ended up putting my u-lock to the test and locked the bike to a street sign in Treme'.

You don't have to fit in everywhere

I went in with the hope that I would be taking my bike home at the end of the day.

Again, Billy was not there. But there were new faces and I met them and asked for their advice. I had the wheels and tires and a chain. I just needed brakes. Jack helped me out but by the time I had to leave we still hadn't put anything together. I put up the brake I was working on and when I went to leave Jack offered me a ride. He asked if I could try out his new project, though.

It was spray painted black. It was a road bike and Jack was just thrilled about these new brakes he installed. They were in the middle and even though he tried to explain to me how they were different, I still couldn't get it.

I took it outside where a group of guys in black clothes sat against the wall.

"Cool bike," one of them said. "I like the kick stand. It's so shiny." They giggled and I chuckled.

"Thanks," I said. "It's Jack's." I talked to the one of the group I'd seen inside. He was wearing an orange vest. "He can't ride it so he asked me help him out." I chuckled again. I knew when I said it that I was like Peter denying Christ, in some respect. But I felt uncomfortable. I didn't feel welcomed even though I thought I was fitting in pretty good.

I rode the bike and the back wheel came loose a bit and began to rub on the frame. I walked it back.

"Yeah, I can fix that," he said and he showed me how to put it on the rack on his trunk. One of the guys, a tall one with short shorts and a jester hat, was drawing with chalk on the wall of the building.

We drove home.

"Dang," he said. "I forgot my glasses. I'll get 'em next time."

At home I told Bekah that those guys bothered me.

"You don't have to fit in everywhere," she said.

You don't have to listen to these fixed gear fanatics

Thursday I decided, on a whim, to head out to work on my bike for a bit. I planned to spend an hour in it.

I took a streetcar and got a lot of reading done. I found an open stand and set up the bike. For this part where I chose the wheels I was hoping to work with Billy, though I knew he only came in on Saturdays. I had gotten some advice, but I still wasn't sure what to look for. I didn't know what differences the sizes made, what to look for in a hub, in spokes, in gears.

I recognized a guy that I met at a newly-opened outfitters store near my apartment. Dietrich was from Israel and when we first met he thought I was, too. He said he had heard about the shop and came by just to see it for himself. I told him what I was doing and he grabbed a wheel and stuck it on the front. He asked me what kind of gear I wanted and I told him I wasn't sure. He explained why he liked fixed gear bikes so much and as he looked at my bike he kept saying things like, "With the frame and cranks you have this bike can be crazy."

Dietrich was sorting through wheels and talking about fixed gear bikes when Marcos walked by and said, "You don't have to listen to these fixed gear fanatics."

Then a guy I'd seen before and heard about through a friend spoke up from behind a work bench.

"And if you get a fixed gear bike might as well get pedals with big teeth so when you go to stop it'll mess your leg up real good."

His name was Jack. He was a middle-aged man, thin, nearly bald and wearing a plain white t-shirt tucked into his p.e. coach shorts. As Dietrich continued looking for wheels Jack hobbled over. It seems his left leg and arm where at least partially paralyzed. Jack looked at the bike and said I could have it done and ride it home today if I wanted. I got excited and looked at the clock. It was already 5. I had planned to leave by then.

But I followed Jack around as he found wheels he liked and picked them up with his right hand. We tried a wheel or two. The first, when we got to the device that tests the true-ness of the wheel, how straight it is when you spin it, the wheel was really bent. We found another that looked better. Jack said I should pass it by Marcos or Maria first, since they knew best.

I'd never seen Maria before. I walked up to her with the wheel and she said she wasn't working today. I looked for Marcos but he was busy. I looked at the wheel I had. I had three gears. Dietrich had shown me his bike, it had one gear, and he said his combinations of 42 and 18 was fine for his work commute from Carrollton to Mid City. But what I wanted, I realized, was three gears. I wanted at least a few options. Plus, I wanted to learn how the shifters worked.

Dietrich had already left by this point and it was already almost 6, so I decided I'd go home for the day and try again Saturday. I put up my bike and walked out the door. Jack was smoking and sitting on carton that was holding the door open. I said bye and thanks for the help and headed for the streetcar. I passed Marcos and Maria talking.

"You walkin'?" Jack said.

I turned.

"Yeah, well, to the streetcar."

"I'm leavin' in a second, hold on."

We had realized that we lived in the same neighborhood and Jack had driven his 1980's Olds sedan with a bike rack on the truck. Jack went inside, saw there was nothing left he wanted to do, waved at no one in particular and we got in the car.

"I forgot my glasses," he said. He went back inside and I saw up at the corner Marcos and Maria holding each other. Then they kissed. A nice, long kiss.

I ran into Jack Saturday morning when I was walking my dog. He was riding his bike and I waved him down. He showed me his brake system, which he had begun describing at the shop. His was a road bike with the drop handlebars. He had two brake handles out front like you'd normally see, plus he had a third brake, a moutain bike-type brake, in the middle. He used his right hand on this brake, which was connected to his front wheel.

I had heard, when I was learning to mountain bike, that using the rear brake first was key, or else you could flip over.

"Well, if you stop quick no matter waht you fall over," he said. "Ninety percent of your breaking power comes from the front brake. The rear brake tends to slide."

it ain't gonna be nothin' nice

The next time I went in was the following Thursday. I drove there and found the shop was busy. All the bike stands were taken. I went over to the wall of parts and looked at the pedals. I asked one of the volunteers what to look for in a pedal and he said they're all basically the same. Some you add a strap to, some are wider, making it easier to keep your feet on.

There was a guy on the floor sorting through the cranks. I overheard him tell Marcos he couldn't find a 175 length to match one he found. I kept looking through the pedals, thinking that I was lucky to have found the pieces when I did. And feeling a little guilty. For no good reason, of course. First come, first serve. But I got that dang feeling inside that said, "Share your things, like a good boy."

He saw me holding a set of metal pedals and said they looked pretty good. And then he made me feel even more guilty by saying they were the ones he was going to be looking for when he got to it. I didn't know what to say.

"I was looking for 175s the other day and the only two I could find were mismatched," I said, though I'm not sure why. He had cranks all around him on the ground.

All the stands were still full so I took the pedals to the storage room in the back and screwed in the pedals into the hanging bike's cranks. They fit nicely.

Back in the shop I found an empty rack. I took down my bike and set it up. I spun the cranks and they whizzed in circles. I admired what I'd done so far.

The guy from the floor looked at it, too.

"You've got your cranks on the wrong sides," he said.

I found that hard to believe since I put them on with the help of four volunteers last Saturday. But he was right. I had put the gears on the left side, and even I could see that that was wrong.

I asked Marcos how to fix it. He said just switch the cranks, the bottom bracket was fine. He grabbed the tools and asked me if I knew how to use them. I assured him I did.

The switch was easy enough and it felt good to be able to fix something by myself. I ask Marcos what I should do next. He said I should find some wheels and pointed up where wheels of different sizes hung above our heads.

I wasn't sure what to look for in a good wheel. I looked for Marcos to ask him. I could hear him arguing with someone outside. It sounded like someone was trying to take something from the shop. This went on for a while and I wanted to get home soon so Bek and I could watch the finale of America's Next Top Model before went to a friend's for dinner and to watch the Hornet's game.

I put up my bike and went out to the car, parked near the door. There was Marcos working on a kid's bike. I recognized the kids from last Saturday, the kids who were spray painting their bikes. Marcos was on the ground and working furiously on something while arguing with the kid about something I couldn't quite understand.

I waited hoping to get Marcos' attention for a second to tell him thanks and that I'd see him next time, but he never saw me. There was a guy leaning on the door watching it all and a tiny black dog at his feet. The dog crept near me and I squatted. When it got close enough I scratched it's head and back. The guy at the door said something to Marcos and headed down the street. He called the dog and it followed him.

As I was leaving I heard the kid say something about his mother coming down here.

"It ain't gonna be nothin' nice," he said.

I drove away thinking about that and I felt sick. I hate confrontations. Witnessing them is probably worse than being part of them. When I'm in it I at least have some control. But I didn't know what was going to happen here. I feared something would actually happen, that this kids friends or family would come down and bully tiny Marcos over some misunderstanding.

This was the first time I'd left Plan B with a bad feeling, I realized.

did you get the crank working?

"I'm working on the bottom bracket today," I said to Bekah before I left for the shop.

Saturday was busier than Thursday, but I found an open stand in the corner and set up. Billy was there, and in the course of the day I met Ava, Cain and Zane. They all volunteered there.

If I haven't mentioned this before, I enjoy working with Billy. Maybe it's because he's an engineering grad student, but for whatever reason he loves to explain and elaborate on every little point of the bike.

With a little of all the volunteers' input, I gathered the correct-sized pieces for the bottom bracket. I cleaned them out until they shined. I used a small wire brush labelled "small wire brush" to clean out the grains of dirt in the threads, in the pieces and in the frame. Billy helped me find a good three-piece crank, the pedals, basically. I can't remember the names of all the parts, but they included a crank with replaceable gears, which was great, Billy said. Especially since these gears were dull. I could only find one crank of the same length for the other side, and length was about the only thing they had in common. One was black and rectangular and the other silver and flat. Whatever. Not thrilled but what I'm I gonna gripe for.

Before I put it together Billy gave me something to spray into the frame tube to keep them from rusting. I flipped the frame and sprayed until the stuff leaked out holes here and there. It also leaked out of the headset. I didn't like that so I tightened it up.

When I was sure I had the instructions right, I put the bottom bracket together, all greased up and clean. I asked Zane and Billy what they thought as they passed and they both said to tighten it up just right, not too tight so the cranks don't turn smoothly, and not too loose so that it all shakes. It was too loose, I noticed, so I pulled on the crank to give me access.

Didn't budge. I yanked. I knocked with a mallet.

"I can't get this off," I said to Billy.

He grabbed a tool and I realized it was just like the fly wheel puller I had bought when I was trying to fix up a Vespa. That didn't work out.

The part the crank fit on was tapered, Billy said, which was why the crank wouldn't budge. This tool popped it off. A few minuted later the guy next to me had the same problem so I gave him the tool but he couldn't get it to fit. I tried and so did one of the volunteers, Cain maybe, and he thought they needed a smaller tool, which they couldn't find.

Billy suggested I remove the smallest of three gears on my crank. Road bikes don't usually use them unless they're doing hills, he said, plus it was getting in my way when I wanted to adjust the tightness of the bracket...thing.

I removed it with an allen wrench but realized I couldn't find a wrench that would fit my bracket...thing. The special tool were all too big. Billy directed me to a tool chest and said there's all kinds of stuff in there. I found a size 28 wrench and voila, the stars were aligned in my favor. Zane checked it and said it was good.

Bek called around this time. She was picking me up to go shopping. I said I'd meet her on Elysian Fields, the boulevard two blocks away. I started to put things away. She called again.

"Where are you?" she said.

I gave her directions to the shop and hurried to put everything up.

She called again.

I was heading out the door and saw her. There were three kids spray painting their bikes. I had seen them in the shop earlier.

"I have to wash my hands first," I said. I turned around to head back in.

"Can I see it?" she said.

I was surprised. Of course, I said. She got to see the shop and I pulled down the bike for her.

"Nice," she said.

I washed my hands and we walked back to the car. Cain and Ava were sitting against the building.

"Did you get the crank working?" Cain said.

"Yeah, I did," I said.

this time i brought our camera

The following Thursday I returned, in our car, with the two chrome forks in the trunk. I remembered that I also had a set of handlebars in the trunk, handlebars I bought the first time I went to Plan B, sometime last year, with the idea that I would put them on my present bike. Never happened. Now I returned them.

The shop was not busy. I grabbed my bike, said hello to Marcos and set up the frame on a stand. This time I brought our camera. I took off the saddle and seat post. I stood back and captured the frame.

I checked all the headset pieces and they fit the new fork. I didn't think they would. For some reason I didn't think this would be so easy. I was getting the hang of it.

I tightened the headset, but not too much. Then I tightened the handlebars in place, though I realized they weren't in line with the fork. I left it for now.

I got the idea to change out the regular screw and nut that held the seat post with a quick-release type thing. I asked one of the guys, his name I don't know, if he thought that was a good idea.

"I want to change this out," I said, pointing. "I want, the, uh..." I couldn't figure out the word and this guy was not able to read my mind. Finally I found the words "quick-release" and he said he didn't see why not.

I looked for the pieces and ran across a filthy plastic bag I'd seen before but never examined. It was an unopened quick-release, I saw. I brought it over to the bike. This may not make sense to anyone else, but I felt bad opening that bag, tearing it open. It felt like a mixture of doing something wrong (I had this kid-like guilt telling me I should ask someone first) and a feeling that I wasn't worthy, that this had apparently lasted a long time and been through a lot and the person who opened it must be pretty dang important. Like it was the Holy Grail or something.

But it was just a quick-release thing. I put it on the seat post. Thought altogether it seemed a bit crooked, it tightened fine. I turned on the camera, stood back and snapped another shot.