An Ode to Wrenching

I first caught the bug for working on mechanical stuff at an early age from my dad. He was always working on something, be it his notoriously unreliable Royal Enfield motorcycle or his equally curmudgeonly Corvair. As a wee grom I would hang out with him and watch in fascination, admiring his incredible talent for making a broken thing work again and his knack with tools – of which he had many – and of course they all lived in the coolest toolbox ever.

Time would always seem to stand still and all would be in perfect mechanical harmony, until he’d slam a tender knuckle into metal. This would usually unleash a torrent of invective and a choice rant at the inanimate object in question in at least two languages. If he was really pissed he’d hurl a wrench or two. At the times I’d make sure to keep quiet, observe the rant and commit it to memory. Which I obviously did well since I share (occasionally) in the same sort of behavior and have been known to hurl a wrench or two myself.

But rather than develop an aversion for mechanical issues my curiosity flourished, and as early as I can recall I remember tinkering with wrenches, developing a great talent for rounding off bolt heads and stripping threads. I even mastered my dad’s tantrums and learned to muster the internal rage required to rail with vitriol at whatever it was that was offending me. But I’ve never beat on my bikes. Wanted to – but I just won’t go there.

I’ve always felt a great deal of respect for my bicycles, especially my first real bike – a glorious Raleigh with 24” wheels, swept-back handlebars and a bitchin’ red and white paintjob that I ministered to with great care, laying on many coats of wax and polishing the chrome so that it would always shine more than my friend’s bikes. I learned the importance of lubing the chain, proper tire inflation and proper positioning of my very cool (and mostly useless) generator light. But I didn’t mess around with spokes and such until I was much older. That was to come a few years later, courtesy of Señor Martinez – the owner of the hole-in-the-wall bike shop in my neighborhood. He was a retired road racer who’d raced on the Mexican Olympic squad in the 50’s and knew everything there was to know about fixing bikes, racing – and women’s legs.

I used to love hanging out at his shop, and he always welcomed my company. From him I learned how to patch tubes, repair bearing components, true wheels and adjust derailleurs on road bikes – which back in those days were true ten speeds – yup, 2 chainwheels and 5 cogs. He told me stories about racing in the peloton and gave me a basic understanding of road racing tactics (which languished unused for a very long time.) And as mountain bikes had yet not been “invented,” the bikes I coveted were the sweet lugged Italian rockets that belonged to a few of his racing buddies. And his cherry red Ciocc, which was always in impeccable condition.

Sr. Martinez also taught me to appreciate the fine art and subtlety of the female leg, and he would dispense his knowledge and observations with the gravity of someone who obviously knew a great deal.

“Mira guero, see that lady across the street? Look at her calves – see how they are curved just so and how beautiful her ankles are. Look at the way she walks and… now THOSE are some legs!” And he would more often than not let out a bodacious wolf whistle that would make my ears ring and always get the subject to turn our way; then he would smile and wave and call out “Buenos Días!”

More often than not the lady in question would shoot him a scowl and go on her way, but every so often one would smile and blow a kiss our way. Then he’d be in heaven for the rest of the day! So needless to say, as a result of this ad hoc carnal education I’ve always been a leg man, and whenever a particularly outstanding pair presents itself I always think of my friend and mentor, and crack a smile.

It was truly a sad day when we had to move from the house in which I grew up and into another neighborhood, far from my buddy Sr. Martinez. I rode over one last time to say goodbye and told him I’d come to visit as often as I could. He gave me a Molteni cycling cap and told me if I ever needed anything that I could always come to see him. I rode away with a heavy heart and somehow knew that we’d never meet again – I stopped at the corner and saw that he was still in the doorway looking my way. We waved and I pedaled away feeling very sad indeed. And then insult to injury was heaped on as my precious bike was stolen in the move!

I managed without wheels until a couple of years later when my dad sprang for my first real road bike. I didn’t know it was heavy, heinously geared and had the shittiest brakes on the planet – it was new, it was fast and it was mine. And so I rode the wheels off that thing, wheelied it, jumped it, bent the forks more than once, crashed into a car, broke an arm on it, got loads of road rash and basically had tons of fun on it. Always kept it tight and sano and so it kept on going until it too got stolen.

But more bikes were to follow this one over the years. Progressively faster and cooler bikes. Bikes with twice as many gears. Bikes with suspension forks and shocks and disk brakes and carbon fiber and titanium. And one thing has been a constant – I still love to work on them.

I also have this thing about keeping them clean. Wise words dispensed into my youthful ear from someone long ago rang true said: “A clean bike is a happy bike. And a happy bike is a fast bike.” And this wisdom has truly prevailed, as I’ve suffered from precious few mechanical issues in all my travels, while friends’ chains broke, their wheels unraveled, bearings blew up and all sorts of other unspeakable mayhem took place while I merrily kept on keepin’ on.

Of course my love for wrenching on more than just bicycles naturally carried over to my motocross bikes. And it’s alive and well today as I minister with great love and dedication to my wickedly sexy sport bike, which always bags me choice compliments and gives me great pride and satisfaction. Not to mention my stable of bicycles is (usually) in tip top shape as well. With something always needing to be done, but such is the nature of repair and maintenance. And of course, rust never sleeps.

So when I retreat into my little shop and get into the zen of wrenching, I almost always think about my dad and also about friend and mentor, the good Sr. Martinez. And along with the memory of happy times spent lurking among bikes and parts and tools and grease, I always feel a genuine sense of gratitude for having had the opportunity to learn something as rewarding as working on my own stuff. And of course, the ability to appreciate the magnificence that is to be found in a finely sculpted pair of women’s legs.