Below, find three more characters that I have come across in my time at the bike station.
The Seasoned Veteran
This individual walks toward me with a strut that was practiced the night before in front of his bedroom mirror, and eventually, with evident concentration seen in the face, reaches the Bike Station. This where the seasoned vet non-nonchalantly questions the station's ownership of the triple splined, double hex bottom bracket tool. Having gained insight to their status as the seasoned vet through the lack of the tool's existence, I will say no, I do not own that devise. I continue the conversation by humoring his ever increasing bicycle ego. Finally, when I think they might implode from self-confidence, they acknowledge their flat and say that this is no big deal, "I have been changing flats for 25 years". I don't question that this individual cannot be older than twenty, but rather give them the necessary tools and a substantial girth between myself and them to avoid future limb flailing. Two hours later, I return to where I left them and come upon an unrecognizable being. Their face is contorted into a mixture of grime/sweat, and depending on the case, may have half a patch kit stuck to their face. Furthermore, the once repairable tube is now analogous to a cut up paper snowflake. This is the time when their guard is low and they might actually concede that they need help in fixing their flat. I then proceed with utmost caution toward the veteran, usually making a few rattles of a patch kit as to not surprise them in their weakened state. Finally, I am able to help them fix their flat and with an excuse muttered along the lines of "it's really just a hot day and I couldn't concentrate" they make their inwardly depressed way off into the distance.
Applying for the Big Firm
This individual is commonly mistaking for just passing through. They talk intensely on their cell phone as if it was a breathing devise and then stand at the corner of the Station before I hear their well practiced professional goodbyes. Upon hanging up with a clear snap of the phone, they bypass the three people patiently waiting and announce that they are dropping off their bike for "service" and will return in exactly two hours to pick it up. With dread, I react to this foreboding figure with a calm explanation of a mutual client employee service offered at the bicycle station. Realizing that they have a very important lunch meeting with a possible future client, also known as a friend, they either start to use their breathing device again, or, simply walk away. For those that wait, the incessant jabbering on the cell phone is finally completed to tell me that they need a full service tune up. Trying not to make this person get back on their cell phone, I quickly check the bike for problems. When I notice that the bicycle was bought one week prior to the present, I will either tell them nothing is wrong, or, if they are staring intently I will turn a screw back and forth and tell them its good as new. Clearly satisfied, they will then contact their future client in order to schedule their lunch plans and ride away.
I've been Registered Since 1847
The path to the Bike Station is like many times before. They have going to and from the area for the last twenty years and know more about bikes then I will ever comprehend. Their registration number, simply a four, acts as a sentient being that has more than double the life experience of myself. When I first came across one of these individuals I did not know what to say. Luckily, they began the conversation by talking about their experience in the Civil War and how this very bike brought them home afterward. Following this, they expertly draw the necessary tools from the lock box and begin the biannual cleaning and servicing that has saved them thousands of dollars. I drop every action and stare with awe as their bike exits the stand looking as if it just left the bike shop for the first time. Then with a cadence that looks like they were born on a bicycle, they pedal off, not to be seen for another six months. I continue to stand where they first found me and it takes physical contact in order to realize what I had just witnessed was bicycling in its most perfect state.
The Seasoned Veteran
This individual walks toward me with a strut that was practiced the night before in front of his bedroom mirror, and eventually, with evident concentration seen in the face, reaches the Bike Station. This where the seasoned vet non-nonchalantly questions the station's ownership of the triple splined, double hex bottom bracket tool. Having gained insight to their status as the seasoned vet through the lack of the tool's existence, I will say no, I do not own that devise. I continue the conversation by humoring his ever increasing bicycle ego. Finally, when I think they might implode from self-confidence, they acknowledge their flat and say that this is no big deal, "I have been changing flats for 25 years". I don't question that this individual cannot be older than twenty, but rather give them the necessary tools and a substantial girth between myself and them to avoid future limb flailing. Two hours later, I return to where I left them and come upon an unrecognizable being. Their face is contorted into a mixture of grime/sweat, and depending on the case, may have half a patch kit stuck to their face. Furthermore, the once repairable tube is now analogous to a cut up paper snowflake. This is the time when their guard is low and they might actually concede that they need help in fixing their flat. I then proceed with utmost caution toward the veteran, usually making a few rattles of a patch kit as to not surprise them in their weakened state. Finally, I am able to help them fix their flat and with an excuse muttered along the lines of "it's really just a hot day and I couldn't concentrate" they make their inwardly depressed way off into the distance.
Applying for the Big Firm
This individual is commonly mistaking for just passing through. They talk intensely on their cell phone as if it was a breathing devise and then stand at the corner of the Station before I hear their well practiced professional goodbyes. Upon hanging up with a clear snap of the phone, they bypass the three people patiently waiting and announce that they are dropping off their bike for "service" and will return in exactly two hours to pick it up. With dread, I react to this foreboding figure with a calm explanation of a mutual client employee service offered at the bicycle station. Realizing that they have a very important lunch meeting with a possible future client, also known as a friend, they either start to use their breathing device again, or, simply walk away. For those that wait, the incessant jabbering on the cell phone is finally completed to tell me that they need a full service tune up. Trying not to make this person get back on their cell phone, I quickly check the bike for problems. When I notice that the bicycle was bought one week prior to the present, I will either tell them nothing is wrong, or, if they are staring intently I will turn a screw back and forth and tell them its good as new. Clearly satisfied, they will then contact their future client in order to schedule their lunch plans and ride away.
I've been Registered Since 1847
The path to the Bike Station is like many times before. They have going to and from the area for the last twenty years and know more about bikes then I will ever comprehend. Their registration number, simply a four, acts as a sentient being that has more than double the life experience of myself. When I first came across one of these individuals I did not know what to say. Luckily, they began the conversation by talking about their experience in the Civil War and how this very bike brought them home afterward. Following this, they expertly draw the necessary tools from the lock box and begin the biannual cleaning and servicing that has saved them thousands of dollars. I drop every action and stare with awe as their bike exits the stand looking as if it just left the bike shop for the first time. Then with a cadence that looks like they were born on a bicycle, they pedal off, not to be seen for another six months. I continue to stand where they first found me and it takes physical contact in order to realize what I had just witnessed was bicycling in its most perfect state.
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