This is the actual bike
I was on my ten speed one bright spring morning when I decided today was the day. I kicked the kickstand and hammered on the door. It looked like most of the activity of the decaying cedar shake house took place upstairs so I wrapped loud. A little, scrawny old man finally opened the door and I nervously rattled out that I liked the paintings in the window and asked if there were more. He said sure there were more and led me in.
I looked back at my bike worried about leaving it out unlocked, the neighborhood was known for thievery. He motioned me to bring it in. ‘Bring it in?’ I thought with raised eyebrows but thought what the heck and wheeled it in, it wasn’t like I was going to ruin the carpet or anything.
It was dingy, stinky, old, dirty and dark, but I was still interested in seeing a close up of the magnificent pieces in the window. As I was busy admiring the painted images I learned he had done, he was busy eyeing up my bike. Turns out he was an artist from Holland, a rather eccentric one at that, who knew bikes. Finn was his name and he motioned me to follow him down a hallway, all the while asking questions about my bike, that I answered but countered with questions about his art and training.
“Do you prefer a boys bike?”
“Not really. It was my brothers.”
“Can you reach the ground?”
“Barely. Did you go to art school?”
Tit for tat we dished each other metered questions and he led me upstairs to a full-fledged scrapyard. I bet it was months, years, if ever, since it had been cleaned. Old broken furniture, stacks of papers, magazines, and hundreds of dirty dishes and I mean hundreds. Two whole rooms were crammed full and there was a putrid smell. Curious to see beyond the outsides I accustomed myself to stench. (later I was to learn he ate garlic like apples which contributed immensely to the odor) and followed his lead. Admist all the junk, dozens of absolutely stunning paintings hung on every square inch of the wall space. Large, small, people, kids, landscapes, seascapes, framed, unframed, all magnificently mastered in painterly fashion. He was certainly an accomplished artist to the top degree but seemed to pay no mind to his talent, or his surroundings, and was more interested in this visitor’s bike downstairs.
After carefully looking at every piece, and taking in his fabulous talent, ignoring the rest, I commented on one. “One of my son’s playmate” he said. A boy aged 8 or so, crouching looking at something on the sand at the beach. Magnificent. I asked questions about himself and he answered that he came from Holland, was an artist all his life, and the display of work on the walls were visuals of his life, some professionally framed from gallery shows, other not. He was maybe 80 years old and his wife had died some years earlier. He had one son “out there.”
Finn had further questions about my bike upon walking me out: Did all the gears work? How did the brakes handle? Was the seat comfortable. Was it heavy? We passed by a closed door along the downstairs hallway and he opened it. I didn’t think I could be further shocked but I was. Before my eyes was Mt. Shasta of wrecked bikes and bike parts. Stacked to the ceiling high was pile of twisted metal and various bike components. He said my bike wasn’t very good for me and to come back the next day and he would have a better one. He proceeded to tell me he was the Dutch family’s bicycle boy when he was growing up and his job was to maintain everyone’s bicycle in the large family in Holland. He still rode himself. After I put my eyes back in their sockets, we shook hands on the pleasure of meeting, and agreed I’d be back the next day and we would go on a bike ride.
When I arrived the next morning Finn had a girls 10 speed bike cobbled together from his mountain of mangled parts. The handle bars were made of old antenna, the aluminum girls frame had a Sears logo with Free Spirit decaled on it, (for which it was forever known as and became my beloved transportation for years). The seat had a softer better contoured shape and placed at just the right angle (who knew?). I sat on it wowed and he further adjusted it. Because he was an artist he knew the anatomy intrinsically, the mechanics between men and women, and adjusted the seat impeccably, not only height but depth and angle, adjusted the height so my toes were just so. We traded bikes for good and sealed the deal with a handshake. He told he my new bicycle came with a lifetime warranty – his life, not the life of the bike. We chuckled and off we rode down to Rubble Park, around both border crossings, and along the avenue running parallel along the US border. We meadered up and down hidden streets and shaded woods, through the native lands bypassing busy streets to quieter backroads, up hills and down hills, through farmlands and fields, we rode a couple of hours. He knew the most perfect places to tool around and that would be the first of many enjoyable meanders that summer.
At first the fixer in me tried to help tidy his life in a trade to evaluated some of my art but it was a no-win situation. I was truly a Sunday dabbler painter and he was much too entrenched in his ways to be tangled with, so we happily settled for our outdoor adventures stopping at a fruit stands and park picnic tables for a break.
One particular day, when we were ending our ride down the very long subtle hill that led to home. We were clipping along pretty fast, him in front, the wind blowing through my hair, the brisk air in my lungs, I closed my eyes for the briefest moment and titled my head to the sky. When I opened them and looked ahead, Finn was at a full stop. Knowing I’d plow right into him, a few angry cusses trailed behind me before we made contact. Once untangled Finn stood up with the proudest grin ear to ear and produced a wafer thin quarter between his pointer finger and thumb. I didn’t know whether to throttle him or hug him.
But that was Finn, a free spirit, who ticked a little different.
Which some call eccentric. But I call a character.