(Continuing in our unofficial series of not-exactly-travel-but-kinda-related-to-bikes-off-season-posts):
The early afternoon light is warmer than expected.
Sunlight beams in through the large bank of windows,
and even the dark niches are illuminated
without the help of bulbs and switches.
Shop radios, muddled by a pleasant crossing breeze,
uphold the illusion of activity.
A few tasks to accomplish, but not nearly enough;
diligence must be applied sparingly.
In shuffles Old Man, questing for an uncommon widget.
The search is a welcome respite
from dispensing tubes, tires, and advice.
Ultimately unsatisfied, he ambles along.
Refuddled, and relegated to the boardwalk,
Old Man is mocked by both chatty gulls
and a Sun-charred charter captain.
His pursuit has shifted to upstream potables.
My waning attention is derailed by a delivery.
Alerted by an intentionally ineffective muffler,
I accept treasures from the far east,
the native habitat of cardboard, packing peanuts, and zip ties.
A new arrival, unsure of its own worth;
now, bound for the repair queue.
This simple act betrays its value
to someone who has taken the time.
The woodpecker is our hardest worker,
with singular focus and the proper tools intrinsic,
she relays a message to the mindful mariner
and creates headaches for the absentee landlord.
The tiny sub-parking lot begins to fill up;
not with patrons of the pedal,
but with diners enjoying the warm evening.
They know that each one could be the last of the season.
A sharp tug on the chain; the sign flickers out.
Music is silenced; alarms activated.
The thin film of grease on my hands
reminds me that it was a good day.
