“Gary? Gary Land?”
“Al Tietjen! Damn! Long time no see. What are you doing here?”
This was an unexpected twist to today’s scheduled plot. I had come to the swap meet in this gentleman farmer’s field to join a motley collection of old hobbyists in my search for arcane bicycle parts - not childhood chums.
I was on an epic quest at this semi-annual tri-state event to restore the missing pieces of my grandfather’s 100-year-old bicycle. It was full of decidedly quirky people who were looking for shared happiness in the company of other rusty bicycle nuts.
“You’ve gotta be there,” a local hobbyist had insisted. “Everyone who knows everything I don’t know will be there. If you don’t find any parts, you’ll at least make some connections to keep you going.”
About halfway into the early morning mist, that grew heavier with every peculiar conversation, I was enjoying the comradery, but was growing weary of the usual response to my imploring query.
“I’m looking for parts to this turn-of-the-century bike,” I began, displaying the well-thumbed pages of the portfolio detailing my obsession. Initially, the only nugget I could extract was a short or longer version of “Cool bike. Never seen one like it. Good luck!”
The air was escaping from my old tires, the ones I hadn’t yet found.
Fortunately I was picking up the lingua franca of old bicycle parts quickly and soon feeling more like one of the natives. When I started with something like “I’m looking for some wooden clincher rims and double-butt long nipple spokes,” it led to more generous conversations. My newfound, self-declared legitimacy unearthed an unexpected referral.
“You’ve gotta’ go talk to Gary Land. He knows all about turn-of-the-century bikes.” That name had a familiar ring. It belonged to a long-separated friend from another place and time.
“He’s a great guy, he can help you if anyone can,” was delivered with aplomb.
My quest was still very much alive.
Through some quality conversations with brand new friends, I was able to discern his set-up location (pastural swap-meets are loosely organized affairs). I tracked him to the outer edge of today’s commotion where he was already packing up to leave when I swooped in.
“Gary Land, I’ll be damned,” I proffered in the surprised state of finding a pal from my youthful days in Boise, Idaho.
“What the hell,” he replied, dead-pan. We quickly sorted out the universes that had just collided. “How did you get here, where have you been, what have you done with your life?” were the details we sifted through before we got down to business.
“This is my grandfather’s baby,” I pleaded hopefully. “I’ve been told by everyone it’s likely the only one left. Possibly the first changeable-speed bicycle. Most of the working gear parts are here, but that’s the best I can say,” I intoned mournfully while turning the greasy-finger-printed portfolio pages that showed the remains in full glory.
“Yeah,” Gary agreed. “Never seen one, and I’ve seen a lot. It’s unusual, but there are parts for everything, somewhere.” I suspected he was trying to let me down easy, so I changed the focus.
“I’ve never seen your bikes before,” I exclaimed, pretending to know something while peering over the three unusual antique specimens standing in his pickup bed.
“Yeah, they’re rare, but not unusual. I got ’em for a song from an old geezer who didn’t know what he had. Unfortunately today at a podunk affair like this, nobody wants the high-end bikes like these.
“I’ve been buying and selling old bikes for the last fifteen years. Made a pile of money buying fat-tire clunkers from witless jerks at garage sales for $50 and turning them over for a quick $300 to even stupider jerks the next day. Now you can’t even buy a rusty part for that.
“It’s not worth it anymore. I’m thinking I need another line of work.”
He quickly pedaled into “Hey, I think I’ve got a front axle you could use. I’ll just give it to you - send it when I get back home.”
Then his face lit up.
“You wanna’ get high? I’ve got a long drive back to Boise this afternoon, and there’s only one way I can think of to take the edge off.”
Same old Gary, still on his own less-than-epic search of a different kind. As we smoked, my mind wandered to another place in another time.
We were eleven years old again, riding home on our bikes from football practice, laughing. As quickly, we were in high school. He was surly and shuffling down the hallway, giving up on life early. I was saddened all over—one day he was funny and seemingly carefree, the next an ‘I don’t give a damn attitude’ permeated his existence. It eventually colored his future. Now, he was just in it for the money.
The last time I saw him we were on a fishing excursion with a couple of other buds. He spent a lot of time in the van being high on something while I spent most of my time fishing. When I showed up proudly with six slimy fish, he made me feel like the loser.
“Why should I waste my time trying to hook a dumb fish. I can get one faster at the store,” was his well-reasoned defense. He was successfully care-free at an early age with a good life and good money as an electrician’s apprentice.
Later, I heard through acquaintances he spent some time in jail for drug dealing- not totally unexpected. He was already heading in that direction, with a less-than-satisfied attitude stalking his demeanor.
When we parted today, I smiled remembering my great conversations with perfect strangers, the thrill of the hunt, and the esoteric search for happiness. Gary’s search was aborted years ago.
He wasn’t looking for the missing pieces of his life in a cow pasture anymore. I couldn’t help wishing he would take up the quest again.
Author: Al Tietjen
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