It’s Not About the Wrenches

When people ask me why cycling occupies such a central, dare I say dominant, role in my life, I’ve taken to beginning with a somewhat cryptic reply. It’s certainly not direct, anyway.

“You say that like it’s just one thing.”

I have received nothing but baffled looks in return. What I tell people is that cycling isn’t one pursuit—it’s way more than a hobby, that’s for sure—it occupies mental real estate within a number of interests. Sure, I love riding bikes and I can make a cogent argument that road riding and mountain biking are different sports, so already that’s more than one.

If art appreciation can be considered a whole endeavor, then love of handcrafted bicycle frames qualifies as a separate interest.

Working on bikes, though, rarely garners any consideration as either a way to make money or a frustrating time suck—that term alone says it all—that takes us away from anything else. I suspect many people view it in the same realm as washing the dishes or doing laundry. You do it, because you need to do it. End of story.

But working on bikes isn’t like that for me, and I suspect it’s not like that for many people. There’s a satisfaction, a pleasure, that comes with turning wrenches. From the precision fit of a well-made tool to the purr of a well-tuned drivetrain, the act of making a bike run well carries the power to soothe the soul.

Each bubble I draw from a hydraulic line is my Sisyphean stand against entropy, an exertion that brings order to the world. If only my desk could be so thoroughly improved with a plunger.

As personal revelations go, this won’t amount to much, given the other things I’ve shared publicly, but because I’ve made it my professional lot to be nakedly honest, working on a bike can be escapism for me. It’s drift time. My brain wanders, considering writing projects, relationships, playback of old rides, often a fair smattering of old mistakes and growing list of questions about how I can better meet my sons’ needs. Such time recharges me, restoring me for all that requires me to be present.

Here’s the part that I can’t entirely explain: No matter how frustrating a particular brake may be, no matter how messy that sealant may be, no matter how stubborn that frozen bolt might be, when I put the tools away and return to the rest of my life, unfinished bike work never seems to leave me at a deficit. A frozen piston can’t cloud my mood the way a collection of plates, bowls and cups in my sons’ room can.

And that, friends, points to one of the other truths of cycling that I rarely acknowledge. Cycling produces magic. It releases neurotransmitters we’ve yet to discover, bringing me peace at each point of entry, a passport to a better life.