Bad Day Turns Out Good             Back to Bike Stories  //  Back to the Weeville Home Page

The Herald, Friday September 16, 1988
 
Even the worst days can turn out good
 
Long-distance bicycling is a fickle mistress.
 

A downhill run on a pretty day is just as much a part of the sport as a sliding crash on wet pavement.  Fortunately, the good stuff far outweighs the bad.
 

Such is the nature of any worthwhile adventure.  You can't enjoy the game if you don't get out and play.  Even with all this in mind, I was totally surprised when a catastrophic equipment failure turned out to be a delightful experience.  But the story actually begins months earlier.
 

My bicycle was not designed with touring in mind.  It did not come with a luggage rack, and it didn't have the eyelets commonly installed on other bikes to accept one.  My good friend at the local bike store helped out.  He devised a way to install a rear rack, hanging it on the seat stays like a monkey on a pole.  It was a neat job, and the thing worked.  I loaded the rack down and rode to the mountains, and my bags rode along without so much as a squeak on a bumpy road.  I never gave it another thought.
 

When I decided to ride to the Gulf of Mexico and back, I figured on doing a bit of camping on the way.  That would enhance the adventure, and cut costs from the price of a motel room every night.  SO, I added a tent and sleeping bag to the already heavy load I was taking.  I would estimate the weight on the rear of the bicycle was 50 pounds or more when I rode out of Rock Hill.  I mean it was a real load.  I used the tent only four times in 18 days, but there it was, along for the ride.
 
Plans go awry
 
I had made it past South Carolina, coastal Georgia, across north Florida to Panama City, through the southeast corner of Alabama, and back across central Georgia, when one morning I had a terrible experience that lasted about two seconds.  Three miles out of Forsyth, GA., I stood up out of the saddle to run from a big collie that had the angle on me and was closing fast.  I shook the bike from side to side trying to sprint, and that's when it happened.  Bang   Screech ... pop ... skid.  The bike stopped so unexpectedly, I almost fell over.
 
Through an overloaded 1,100 miles, that makeshift rack installation had performed miraculously, but it had finally absorbed enough abuse.  The steel support on the left side tore like paper and the left leg of the rack fell into the wheel under the weight of the load.  Two spokes were cut clean, and five or six more got spaghettied as the wheel swallowed the left half of the rack.  The collie retreated, leaving me in the highway to stare at the mess in utter disbelief.  This was it.  I was down.  If I was to make it home at all, it would be on a bus.
 

After calmly accepting the fact that my bike vacation had ended on a sour note, I pushed, pulled and dragged my crippled machine and all my baggage back to Forsyth.  The 3-mile struggle took the better part of two hours.
 

I asked the lady behind the desk at the Red Roof Inn if there was a bicycle shop anywhere in town.  I knew there wouldn't be.  Forsyth is not very big.  She said no, that the only person in town working on bicycles was Harold Reeves over at the Western Auto store.  She said he had been repairing bicycles for quite a while.
 
Enter Harold Reeves
 
I had no hope that anybody at the Western Auto store could help.  My rack was ruined, and my rear wheel was seriously damaged.  I stowed my cargo behind the motel desk, and keeping one eye open for the bus station, I followed the lady's directions to the store.  There I was greeted by an elderly gentleman, tall and strong-looking, despite his obvious age.  I asked for the bike mechanic, and he said he was it.  Harold Reeves at your service.
 

We went outside, where Mr. Reeves surveyed the damage.  He looked at my bike from this angle and that.  He had already taken a lot longer that I thought he would but he wasn't scowling.  He was thinking intently.
 

I was taken aback when he abruptly said, "Well, don't just stand there.  Bring it inside."  He said it as though he had been waiting for me all day.  The performance that followed was a bicycling hall of fame spectacle.  During the next two hours, the bicycle I had known was revived right in front of my eyes.  Mr.  Reeves carried on the whole time asking about my trip and talking constantly about bicycles.
 

"Yessir, I've been working on bicycles longer than you could ever imagine," he said as he replaced my wheel.  The way he said "you" made me feel like I was still wearing diapers, but I certainly didn't mind.  This man already had every last ounce of my respect welded down.
 

"Yessir, when I was just a chap, I waited and waited, and I finally got me a bicycle," he said.  "I hadn't had that thing an hour when this other kid wanted to show me how he could ride backward.  Right away, he stuck his foot through the front wheel.  I just knew I couldn't take that bike home like that.  My daddy would kick my butt.  I was so mad, I made that kid give me 50 cents for the damage.  I went and bought three spokes and a wrench, and I've been fixin' bicycles ever since!"
 

He had my bike on an antique repair stand.  "Betcha never seen a stand like this one, huh?"  He was right.  That thing was so weird, I couldn't even begin to draw a picture of it now.  I have no idea how it worked, but I'm sure Wilbur Wright had one just like it.  His wheel truing stand was the same way.  He said the little side locks on it were spare parts off a Model A.
 
Day becomes stranger
 
 
Mrs. Reeves ran the store while her husband concentrated on my bicycle.  She would chat with us.  I was astounded to learn she was a 1938 graduate of Winthrop College.  This day was becoming unreal.
 

Mr. Reeves finished my bike with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.  My rack was semi-straightened and firmly reattached to the frame.  My rear wheel sported a full dose of spokes, and was straight as an arrow.  I whipped out my wallet and laid my fingers on a couple of big bills.  "How much do I owe you?"
 

"Not a thing," Mr. Reeves snorted, trying to hustle me out the door.  I stood fast and started to protest but he cut me short.  He raised his powerful voice and said, "Go on, now!  Get on outta here ... and enjoy yourself."
 

I rode, not walked, back to the motel.  Most of the day was gone, so I stayed right there one more night.  All things considered, I've never had a better disaster in all my life.  Some things are just meant to happen.
 

Since then, I have occasionally pondered what my life might be like if I live as long as Mr. Reeves has.  I think it must take decades of practice to be that special.
 

Back to Bike Stories  //  Back to the Weeville Home Page

 

GoStats web counter
GoStats web counter