It wasn’t terribly long ago that I decided to limit the scope of my daily cycling to the immediate neighbourhood. For as much as I have always enjoyed a degree of adventure on these athletic outings, the plain truth is that my gusto for the escapade has declined with age. In addition I have lost my enthusiasm for the endurance of gravel pathways and rough roads, preferring instead to maintain a predictably smooth passage upon the interior carriageways.

Today I pedalled about the neighbourhood with prolonged vigour. Initially – that is, at 9 o’clock this morning – I was awaiting the arrival of Roger’s Mobile Bike Repair. I wanted him to inspect a recurring squeaking noise and to correct a chain malfunction in the lower gears. As I peddled and awaited Roger’s arrival, I systematically changed gears from 1 – 7, confirming which of them sounded good or bad, listening at the same time for the repeated revolutionary squeaking sound, all of which naturally came and went sporadically. It was impossible to isolate the problems but they were assuredly repetitive. While cycling about in this investigative manner I passed by several people who were walking their dogs.  We exchanged the usual morning greetings. At one point however I stopped to chat at length with a chap whom I knew from previous similar outings – indeed, so long ago that he and his wife have since moved from one location to another in the same neighbourhood.

When the hour of my appointment with Roger arrived at ten o’clock, he appeared precisely as scheduled (indeed his on-line system had previously alerted me to the scheduled appointment; and, when I replied that I awaited his arrival, he texted me, “I’m on my way!” I confess I wasn’t 100% confident that Roger would be able to perfect my Western society anxieties (which coincidentally I had only moments earlier related to Gretta who is an athletic enthusiast and who shared my trauma). Gretta was returning from her yoga class and wondered whether the cleaning of the subterranean garage were complete. I told her I did not know; but I suspected not as yet. When I had collected my trike from the storage cage in the basement earlier, Jeff (the caretaker) advised I could return my trike without interfering with the cleaning (which he predicted would take 6 or more hours).

Roger undertook his clinical duties immediately and with care and precision.  Time and again he rode the trike to test its mechanics and balance.  He ended tweeting the small rear adjustment which controls the tension of the chain; he applied small amounts of special oil (deliberately not 10W-40) here and there; he tightened the fittings of the seat, the handlebar and whatever else he saw of attachments.

When Roger completed his systematic study, I regained my seat on the trike and proceeded to test it myself. All appeared to be well! Before giving a final assessment I was drawn to cycle further abroad. These ruinous mechanical complications are so often wont to reappear. In the end I travelled as far and more as I had previously done. Of course I stopped along the way to prattle with Tommy (whose father I knew and whose son I met); with Mel (whose wife was a former stenographer at my firm); with Don (whose son over a decade ago had organized my web site – the very one upon which I am now composing this account). And naturally I was enthralled by the flowers growing in the numerous gardens – at one of which I stopped to take a photo.