Mr Dibbs Fixes Bikes

1

There were those that said that a bicycle chain had to soak overnight to ensure the oil penetrated the joints, making the chain last longer, free of corrosion and wear and tear. Alfie Dibbs thought those people were bloody idiots.

No. Good care and attention made bicycle chains last longer. A good wire brush, used with a healthy amount of vigour, but not so much as to score the surface of the metal, put paid to any corrosion. Wear and tear was often fixed by ensuring that the links were all tight, in order, not buckled or bent. Bathing the chain in oil only made the workings smooth when putting the chain back on the bicycle.

He blew the shavings from the chain, adjusting glasses that now bordered on the useless. Old eyes. Old glasses. He should have had his eyes checked months ago, but he never seemed to have the time. A cloth, dipped in freeing oil, dabbed against the link as he held it up to the window in his little shed, the smell of metal and grease and oil felt more like home than the empty house not twenty feet away.

With the two ends of the chain gripped by the two clamps, attached to the old, worn workbench, Alfie placed the cleaned link between them. A nudge by an arthritic finger aligned them and two rivets placed in the appropriate holes awaited his gentle, but firm taps to secure them together. He could find the tiny ball peen hammer without even looking, knowing exactly where he placed each tool.

It wasn't practised, though he had performed this exact repair on hundreds of chains in his long, drawn out life, maybe thousands. Probably thousands. It was care. Tools placed in the right positions, looked after and repaired when needed, returned to their proper places when their work had finished, was a matter of caring about the work. He had cared as a boy and he cared now. Age couldn't diminish that kind of devotion.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Check. Tap. Tap. Tap. Check. Releasing the clamps, holding up the chain and paying attention to every detail, every possible chance that he had made a mistake, or whether the chain required more repairs. Running link after link through gnarled fingers blackened by hours of work within his little shed. Satisfied, he carried the chain back to the bicycle, upended and held in place by more clamps.

The rear wheel hung on the wall, to the side of the second, larger workbench, awaiting the moment to return to the frame of the bicycle, but only after Alfie fitted the chain, link by link, onto the chain ring, turning the ring to ensure the links fitted as the ring turned. Now the rear wheel, lifted from the hook, making sure the spokes didn't catch, carrying it to the upturned frame.

He lowered the wheel, lifting the chain back up with the other hand and attached it to the chain ring on the wheel. Only the one gear for this vision of beauty. No multiple gears. No derailleurs. Only the simplicity of sitting on the saddle, collecting the pedals into position and moving forward. No need to worry about the right gear. Only needing to peddle away, catching that wonderful breeze against a smile of glee. Not that Alfie rode bicycles anymore. Not at his age.

A slight turn to the side and his hand reached out, catching the correct drawer in his tool box for the spanners he required. In their correct place. Returned every time. There were those that used those multi-head spanners that came with most new bicycles, or, at least they used to, but Alfie had no use for them. The proper tool for the job. No half-way measures. No it'll dos. The right tool made all the difference.

Tightening the rear wheel to the spokes, Alfie ran it for several rotations, moving to the end of the workbench, laying a careful eye upon the spin, watching for any wobble, any imperfection. Only after he had made certain the bicycle was fully ready did he release the clamps, lifting the bicycle from the bench and returning it to its wheels. A little more difficult, these days. Old bones, old muscles, complaining with every movement.