Sometimes a Thing is not Just a Thing

I have often heard it said that my Dad was a tough man to do something for. He didn’t ask for help much. If he really wanted something bad enough he figured out a way to get it and while my parents never had material abundance, they also almost never exhibited lack.

But my Dad served and helped a lot of people. He was the kind of person that made you feel important when he talked to you. Like there was something special about you and this wise, powerful man saw that in you and genuinely wanted to help you draw it out even more.

So, I think there were a lot of people who would have loved to be able to do something for my Dad or give him something he really loved. When people found out he liked cows, he was bombarded with cow pictures, cow mugs, cow figurines, cow shirts, etc. My Dad never set out to collect cow stuff, but the legions of people that loved him, saw an opening and flooded it.

And many amazing people figure out other ways to help my parents and give them incredible gifts over the years. Few stood out like the customized mountain bike from his friends — the beat up “Stumpjumper” that found new life as the perfect gift for my Dad.

Around 30 years ago, when my Dad got into cycling, a couple of his good friends (at least this is how I remember the story…perhaps my Mom or people who were involved that follow me will correct me), took an old bike he had and completely decked it out. Custom paint, my Dad’s favorite Bible verses printed on it, new components all round and “Stumper” written on the frame. It was, as my wife has often said, “a labor of love.” It was people who loved my Dad figuring out a way to show it to someone who didn’t always make that easy.

It meant the world to my Dad. He was honored and moved and genuinely grateful. He rode it a lot and absolutely loved the bike and everything it represented.

Then my Dad stopped riding as much and eventually stopped all together. The bike found corners of various garages, was stripped of many of its parts at various times and sort of moved from powerful token of affection to mostly forgotten relic of younger times.

Eventually, my Dad got sick and passed away. Most of his things stayed with my Mom. They were her things too. But his clothes and tents and a few other goodies were handed down to the kids. The five us of awkwardly divided up the most precious items and no one really knew what to do with the bike. I don’t think it had wheels or a seat and was in no way operable. It was just an old frame taking up space.

I think it meant something to all of us because it had meant so much to my Dad. I didn’t really picture any of us riding it, but I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it. So I volunteered to take it while I figured out what to do. Honestly I just figured I would keep it until the sting of my Dad’s death diminished enough to loosen the emotional grip his memory held on those things that reminded me of him.

I didn’t have a plan for it, but I couldn’t release it. Every time I looked at it memories of my Dad and his joy and his impact on his friends and on me overwhelmed any more practical ideas of making space or decluttering. So, I just….held on. When we sold our house last year after 18 years in the same place, we got rid of a ton of stuff. It was liberating. And the bike should have been part of that. We moved into a smaller house with less storage. Why keep an old, unrideable bike frame?

I don’t know why. I just couldn’t let it go.

Finally, when Griffin went to college last year and I spent some time helping him get a different bike all fixed up for him to take down there, I started thinking, maybe I need to see if this old frame can find life again. Maybe, it was finally time to turn this thing back into something I could use and enjoy.

But this wasn’t just a thing. It was a vessel for friendship. So God or the Universe or whatever invisible forces may connect us through time and space intervened and used the bike a second time to remind someone of the blessing of friendship. This time, that someone was me.

I was showing our new house to my good friend Robert L. Bristol. Robert is an accomplished cyclist and so when we got to the garage and he saw the bike, he actually got a little giddy. He knew my Dad, but not the story of the bike and loved everything about it. He just got it. The personalization, the emotional connection. Everything. And, he was also amazed to be looking at piece of cycling history as the frame and components are now extremely rare. When I told him I was thinking of fixing it up again, it was like I had just told a kid that this year the day after Christmas was going to be an even bigger Christmas! I think he was more excited about this bike than anyone had been since my Dad took it on its first ride.

Robert took the bike. He cleaned it up and replaced the missing pieces. He even used “retro” parts from the first bike he ever built his wife. It was, once again, a labor of love. I wanted to pay him for the parts and time and he brushed off the notion in a way that told me to force it would have been insulting. He saw what my Dad’s friends saw all those years ago: an opportunity to do something for a friend. But not just any old something. He saw a way to help me reconnect to a father I lost too soon. He saw a way for he and I to connect over something about which he is passionate. And I think he just liked the idea of working on this old bike.

Tonight. He gave it back to me. Reborn. No longer awkward emotional baggage just taking up space in my garage, now it is a fully functioning memory machine just itching to be ridden all around my new neighborhood. And just like 30 years ago, it is more than just a bike. It is a connection to my past and to my present and a tangible symbol of friendship.

I said thank you to Robert. But the words seem so small compared to how I feel about this gesture. And yet, I truly believe they were all that was needed. Robert knew this was more than a bike. He knows my thanks were more than just words. And I know I have a friend that cares enough about me to give me what few would even try.

As soon as I got home, the first thing I did was get on the bike and ride around. And maybe cried a little. And loved every turn of the pedal.

Tonight, I will go to sleep feeling particularly blessed.

Thank you Robert.