In one of my unsuccessful estate sale escapades I lost out on a tandem bicycle. It was tagged at $200 and I only offered $35 while the sales person stood firm at $50. I should have caved, but for the next three years I was looking for a tandem. Never even saw one at many a Saturday spent inspecting estate and garage sales. I had gotten the itch to pick one up, albeit frugally, to entertain the Grands and my wife. We had a slew of bicycles even a few bought for a buck just to cannibalize the parts, but no tandem. I finally went to Craigs List and for $50 bucks found a deal at some 28 Mile Road, near Timbuktu, where the cows graze next to subdivisions.
With a little spit and polish and the bones of a few bikes in my inventory I got the tandem in shape and learned a few things about derailleurs and brake cables. We use it around three times a year; the annual Labor Day parade and a few parties with the Grands who loved a trip around the sub. We were educated that the driver in front is the Captain and the other person is the Stoker. So our tandem was fun but an effort to transport and store in the off season.
All good things come to an end. The bearings in the back wheel revolted and disintegrated into a pile of metal filings. What do you want; it was a 50 dollar special. Looks like I needed professional help. The tech at bike shop, a twenty something covered with tats and appropriately pierced, gave the death knell. They don’t make the parts to fix that dinosaur. I went away dejected but did some research on Google and found parts four times the cost of the tandem. Was I left with scrap metal for the Sheeny man?
Sometimes there is a resurrection. After some court filings in the D I cruised around Cass Corridor, once a very dangerous and seedy area of the city. There were signs of improvement, an apartment building or two being rehabbed near the university I attended, a few businesses and restaurants opening up and as I breezed up Cass to see what the Masonic Temple looked like I saw a bunch of bicycles outside a storefront. I went into this hovel of a store and met Darren the proprietor with bicycle grease on his hands and apron; a quaint little shop that had a line of local folks, downtown workers and college students there to repair their transportation. Darren said “Bring in the wheel and I think I can fix it.” There were a lot of rehabbed bikes in the shop and a flyer that they fix donated bikes for kids in the city.
I had another court hearing the following week and brought in my damaged wheel. At first Darren gave the last rites on the wheel hub. He had no replacements. But then we scratched our heads together and came up with a solution; a new wheel, swap the gears, tire and tube and switch the braking system. Darren you are my main man, under 50 bucks and I am out the door. Darren fixes bikes and takes the proceeds to get youngsters into bikes. Darren I will be back with three bikes from my inventory for the kids. Good job!!! His shop, The Hub of Detroit, really is.
I tried to finish the fix but my part room, the truck bed in Olde Betsy, my 74 pick-up, had the wrong brake caliper; too far to trip back to the Hub so I was directed to a small Schwinn shop in the suburbs. An old-timer was selling off his once profitable bike shop. Unlike Darren’s, there was no line of customers, only one or two bikes for sale and the lights were barely on to save a few dimes. That old-timer was once a Darren with his love of bikes of all kinds but he was at the end of his race. The old-timer fumbled through his parts room and got me the right brake. That night the Tandem was rolling and ready for one of the annual rides. My granddaughter turned me down and I sulked. Maybe my better half, the Stoker would do me the honor.
I was quite impressed seeing Darren’s inner city bike shop, a thriving enterprise among the ruins. I rounded up a couple of excess bikes to donate for his kids on bikes project. Got the bike rack on the Jeep and went to another tax hearing in the D. I stopped at my client’s truck terminal to pick him up. One of his employees, Rick, the tire guy (because he was in charge of changing tires) asked me. “What are you doing with those bikes?” “I am taking them Downtown and donating them to a bike shop.” He asked “What will you take for them, my bike was just stolen?” I replied “Nothing, I am giving them away, do you want them” “That would be great; I don’t have a car to get around.” So Rick helped remove the bikes off the rack. Rick was a scrawny thin guy, probably 40 or 50 years old and lived not far from the industrial neighborhood. By the time we got back from our hearing Rick had the tires filled with air, he was the tire guy, and thanked me for the bikes. I kind of liked that I saw the person who got the bikes even though it did not go to children via the bike shop. He needed them as much as anyone, maybe more. They were not cool mountain bikes just a couple of my dinosaurs. But they found a new home.
On the home front my wife was happy that my inventory of possessions was diminished. She is a good sport and maybe this weekend I will take her for a spin. I am the Captain and she is the Stoker. Maybe we will dress up in some 1900 style clothes; hats and all. Won’t she look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two!
Grub Hoe 
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