Bike Repair – Part 1: Flat Tyre on the Canal

The rain had started on the Prinsengracht at six, a fine grey drizzle that soaked through Rik's jacket and turned the cobbles to glass. By seven, his front tyre had gone flat on the bridge over the canal, with a sad little hiss and a wobble that nearly threw him into the water.

He stood on the wet bridge, hands on the handlebars, and swore in three languages.

"That's a bad tyre," said a voice behind him. "A very bad tyre. It deserves better."

Rik turned. A man was leaning against the railing, bike beside him, a canvas bag over one shoulder and a grease-streaked grin on his face. He was tall, with dark hair escaping from under a woolly hat and forearms that looked like they had spent a lot of time lifting frames.

"I'm Dani," he said. "I fix bikes in the shop on the corner. You're the one who's been riding that wreck past my window every morning, with the bell that doesn't work."

"The bell works," said Rik indignantly. "It just doesn't ring."

"That's not a bell. That's a suggestion."

Rik laughed despite himself. "Do you want to see if you can fix it?"

"I want to fix the tyre," said Dani. "The bell is a lost cause. But I'll make you a deal. You hold the torch, and I'll do the rest."

They sat on the wet stone of the bridge, under the glow of the streetlamp, while the rain drummed on the canal below and the houseboats creaked gently at their moorings. Dani pulled out a repair kit with the speed of a magician, and Rik held the torch, and for a while neither of them said anything at all.

"You've done this before," said Rik.

"Every day for ten years," said Dani, levering the tyre off the rim with a practised twist. "My father taught me. He said the best way to learn anything is to get your hands dirty and your brain wet."

"Is that a real saying?"

"It is now."

Rik grinned. The rain dripped off the end of his nose.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes."

"Do you always stop to help strangers on bridges in the rain?"

Dani glanced up, his eyes bright and steady in the torchlight. "Only the ones who look like they're about to cry," he said. "And only the ones who have a very good bike."

"You think my bike is good?"

"I think it's terrible," said Dani. "But you ride it like you mean it. That's rarer than you'd think."

Rik's throat tightened. He looked down at the torch in his hand, and found that his fingers were shaking, just slightly, from the cold, or something else.

"Dani," he said quietly. "Can I ask you something else?"

"Yes."

"Would you let me buy you a coffee when this is fixed? The café on the corner, the one with the terrible jukebox. I'd like to see if you're as honest sitting down as you are with a wrench."

Dani laughed, low and warm, and looked back down at the tyre.

"Yes," he said. "But only if you stop shaking the torch. I can't see what I'm doing."

"Sorry," said Rik, and steadied it with both hands.

"Green?" asked Dani, softly, his fingers still busy with the rim.

"Green," said Rik, and his heart gave a quick, unsteady thump as the rain began to ease over the canal. "Very green. Fix my bike, Dani. Then I want to kiss you under this lamp, if you'll let me."

"You're very forward for a man with a flat tyre," said Dani, grinning.

"I'm very honest for a man with a flat tyre," said Rik. "It's the only thing I've got left."