Bicycle Repair Man.

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Bicycle Repair Man.
by Angharad

Copyright© 2016 Angharad

  
Rover safety bicycle.jpg

The local carnival was nearly upon us and after much pressure, we got the organisers to allow us, that is, the cycling club, to lead the procession. How was I involved? I’m a bike nut, not one that holds the wheels on just someone who’s ridden since he was about four years old. Okay, I’m blushing, it was on my sister's old Barbie bike, but once I’d got the idea, my parents couldn’t keep me off it until it was discovered that the brakes were less effective than my pedalling speeds and I crashed into a stationary car and broke my arm. I also broke the bike and my dad refused to repair it until I promised to ride more sedately. Like I was going to...well until I had another collision, this time with a dustbin that blew over and rolled across in front of me. I got concussion that time and my mother’s convinced a brain injury as well. It kept me off bikes just long enough to get a proper one for my fifth birthday. I’ve been racing them ever since.

I was enthralled, and still am, by anything remotely connected to bicycles and with my dad’s support got very interested in playing about with them as well. He’s an engineer—he designs things—me I’m about to go to University, assuming my A level results are okay. I’m going to study chemistry, but I still like playing with bikes.

For my sixteenth birthday, dad built me a shed at the end of the drive—it was large enough to hold my burgeoning collection of velocipedes and the equipment needed to repair them—like a repair stand and truing jig (an old pair of forks on a stand). I spent and still do, hours in there playing with bikes, repairing them or rebuilding them and occasionally selling them.

My activities were noted by the cycling club when someone hit a pot hole and slightly bent a wheel—they were lucky not to have bent their head as well—and instead of them having to call for help, I turned the bike over and with a spoke spanner and the bike’s forks as my truing jig, more or less straightened the wheel. The seven other members who were standing there watching me were quite impressed. I was fourteen.

So four years later, here I am with several other bikes needing work including a Starley ‘Rover safety bicycle’ dating from eighteen ninety something. It was found in somebody’s garage loft and although dirty and a bit of superficial rust was salvageable. It’s museum stuff but it’s amazing. The new owner, is a wealthy bike rider—they do exist beyond Cavendish and Wiggins—and it was his bike wheel I repaired all those years ago, so he sees me as his personal bike engineer. He also pays me for servicing his bikes.

When he showed me the Rover I nearly passed out with excitement. He’d sent it to a specialist repairer and had it all refurbished, including having new tyres made at enormous expense because they weren’t standard wheels, and the tyres are solid. It’s a ladies bike and I have ridden it up and down the road a couple of times—it’s a horrible ride compared to one on a modern bike but better than a penny farthing—how do I know—duh—how d’you think? Did I fall off—umm? But I didn’t break anything this time.

As we had someone who owned the penny farthing and this Rover bike, plus two or three other ancient Raleighs, in the cycling club, we decided we’d offer our services to the carnival committee. They agreed if the riders wore period type costumes as well. Right. I was okay, because a handful of other lunatics were going to accompany them in our racing kit on our best bikes—hoping to attract one or two new members, plus give the public a chance to see the development of the modern bike from a ton weight of heavy steel to my best race bike, fifteen pounds of carbon fibre and worth far too much money.

One of the things riding a bike allows is a equalisation. You don’t have to be big and butch to ride a bike and stay up with or even beat some muscle bound lump. Beryl Burton, one of the heroines of British cycle racing often used to beat men for speed and endurance. I’m fairly small and learned early on, that I’d never win friends at soccer or other contact sports, they just ran through me, but I could beat most of them on a bicycle—if I wasn’t in plaster casts. All the training I do, about five hundred miles a month, also means I my body doesn’t have much fat, although it’s true that cycling does make your bum bigger if you do loads of it. My body from the hips down was a bit out of proportion to my upper body, due to the exercising of my cycling muscles more than the rest. My sister, if she really wanted to annoy me used to call me girly-bum. She’d apologise the next time she wanted me to fix her bike—one she used to get about on and she’s also taken to university with her. She’s doing biochemistry at Cambridge—she’s super bright.

The victims to ride the ancient bikes were selected about a month before the carnival was due and we left it to the ladies of the club to organise costumes—not my scene at all, wearing plus fours and tweeds. I did however, help to maintain the machines they were going to ride, including the Rover, which had no brakes on it, though the fixed wheel, did help to slow it down if you stood on the pedals. John Parish, who owned the bike appeared at my door the day before the carnival. Mum called me from the shed, I was cleaning my bike for the next day’s parade and it was absolutely sparkling.

“Jules,” began John—my name is Julian, okay? “We’ve got a problem.”

“We?” I asked, I was fine as far as I knew.

“Yeah, Joanne came off the Rover.”

“Is it damaged?” Notice I had my priorities in the correct order. Joanne is a thirty something time-triallist, actually she holds the record for the twenty five and it’s a ten seconds quicker than my PB—uh, personal best, don’t you know anything?

“What the bike?” he asked and I nodded. “Couple of scratches, I’ve touched them up so it still looks mint.”

I sighed loudly, “Phew, that’s a relief.”

“Quite—but the problem is Joanne got more than a few scratches.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that—anything I can do?” Why do we say that, it always leads to trouble—or it does for me—usually mending someone’s bike.

“Yes there is.”

“Oh what’s that?”

“Can you pop over to my place a bit later, I’m off to see Jo in hospital.”

“What Joanne?”

“Yes, she’s hurt her back and she’s waiting for tests and things. I’ve got her some fruit and stuff to cheer her up.”

“Can I come?” I never learn my lessons, do I?

He looked me up and down—“I’ll just change my shirt,” I said and ran into the house. Five minutes later I emerged pulling a Tour de France tee shirt over my head with the latest Cycling Weekly in my hand.

“Are you going to need a mag to read, Jules?”

“It’s for Joanne to read,” I huffed and he laughed.

We chattered on about nothing and I felt he was avoiding something but I couldn’t draw it from him. We saw Joanne who seemed more enthused by my contribution than John’s parcel of fruit. Time triallists tend to be somewhat single minded.

“So is Jules going to test the bike then? Make sure it’s okay?” she said to John as we were about to leave.

“Yes, we’re going to do that next, aren’t we Ju?”

“Are we? Yeah okay.”

“Well you’re the resident bike repair genius.” I felt myself both enjoying the praise and embarrassed by it. “So if anyone can say it’s safe it’s you.”

We said our goodbyes to our injured friend and drove on to John’s house. It’s large, like twice as big as ours, double garage and all that stuff. He dropped me by the garage and I went straight into it to look at Rover. He went into the house. I walked the bike up and down the drive, it looked okay and the paint was fine. I sat on it and rode it up and down the drive tucking my jeans into my socks. It was fine as long as you go slow—the lack of brakes reminded me of my experience with track racing, they don’t have brakes on them either and are usually fixies.

“It’s fine,” I remarked to John, “how did she come off, she’s a really good rider?”

“We took the skirt guard off the back wheel, one of the ties was loose.”

I looked down at the rear wheel, the guard was back and looked fine. I gave him a quizzical look.

“We sorted it since, but she caught the skirt in the wheel and landed awkwardly.”

“Ah,” I said knowingly—like I’d know what that was like.

“We need to check it’s okay.”

“How you going to do that?” Boy, some days I’m so dumb.

“That’s why I asked you.”

“I just checked it, it’s fine.”

“Uh no, with the long skirt.”

I burst out laughing, John chuckled a little but kept his stare. “You want me to ride this thing in a skirt?”

“Just to test the guard,” he assured me.

“Why me?”

“Because of your skills with bikes and if you say it’s safe, I’ll believe you.”

“That’s all?”

“Of course, what else did you think?”

“For a moment I...no okay, let’s get it over with.”

“Pam,” he called and she came trotting out with this seemingly huge piece of cloth. I forgot, Victorian ladies cycled in long skirts. She held it up against me and it was too long. I sighed a loud one.

“Oh well, of course I’d have helped if I could but I forgot Joanne’s taller than me.”

“That’s okay, Jules, we can alter the length easy enough.” I was so surprised I allowed her to pull the awful object up my legs after I’d stepped into it. Much to my astonishment it nearly fitted my slender waist. Enough for Pam to do it up if I breathed in hard enough. Then she pinned up the hem until it was resting on my trainers. “There you go, modom,” she said and John laughed loudly I just blushed.

It was certainly a different experience and the skirt kept catching on my jeans. But it was with some reluctance that I took them off and wore just the skirt. I managed a couple of laps of the drive.

“Weren’t there petticoats too?” asked John as I rode back to him and he held the bike as I clambered off in the long tweed skirt.

“One thing at a time,” she said to him which made no sense to me as I hadn’t heard his question. She led me back to the house and wore a bath towel—under protest—as she tacked up the hem of the skirt. When she produced the long petticoats I protested but she assured me it was just testing the bike and that they had someone in mind to ride it. Yeah, a real patsy.

I allowed her pull these long cotton things with frills on the bottom up my legs and she had to fold them over on the top as they like the skirt were too long. Then the skirt. It actually felt easier walking with the petticoats and I foolishly said so, then I managed to get bike and rode it up and down the drive. It was easier than with just the skirt alone and Pam and John nodded. He persuaded me to ride it down the road and back a couple of times and I began to feel a bit safer with the practice, it also looked as if the skirt guard was doing its job.

“Could I just try the jacket with the skirt?” asked Pam.

“Why?” I asked suspiciously.

“Because the alteration to the skirt can change the effect.”

“But I’m not wearing it tomorrow, am I?”

“Here, slip it on.” I found my arms being shoved into the sleeves despite my protests. My singular lack of breasts mean it didn’t sit properly and my waist was just slightly too big.

“I’m not wearing that,” I announced but somehow gave in when Pam insisted that no one would see me, John was outside polishing the bike. So she slipped the corset thing round me and pulled in my waist a couple of inches. It was a modern thing I presumed and she shoved some socks in the bra cups of the wretched garment, produced a high necked frilly blouse that buttoned up the back and before I knew it had the jacket back on.

She pulled me to the mirror and I was astonished, if you ignored my short hair and trainers poking out the bottom of the petticoats, I looked like a girl. I didn’t know what to say.

For the next hour they cajoled and coaxed and pleaded. They even told me they’d spoken to my mother and she’d said it was all right. They appealed to my higher emotions—“Look, Julian, you’ll be the hero of the event.”

“How d’you come to that conclusion?”

“You’ll have saved it, without the Rover the bike display is going to be much reduced, the others will be so upset.”

“Let them wear this lot then, because I’m not.”

“There isn’t time to alter it, you’re the nearest in size to Joanne.”

“How d’you know, I’d have thought Cassie was.”

“Cassie’s away, we tried her.”

“Uh, what about Colleen?”

“She’s too big, we asked and she’s never ridden a fixed wheel.”

I was losing the battle but I really didn’t want to wear this clobber, it was getting warm too.

“Look, Jules, what size shoe d’you take?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“There are some shoes to go with the suit, if they don’t fit, we’ll forget it.”

“Really?”

Pam nodded and glanced at John who didn’t look very pleased. “Okay. I’m a size five.” Well how was I to know I took the same size shoe as Joanne or that Pam had asked my mother what size shoe I wore? It was a stitch up and I had to admit defeat.

The next morning, I stood fuming as Pam ran stockings up my legs—to keep the corset from riding up. I was then shoved into the boots again, brown lace up things with a two and half inch heel. I’d shown I could ride the bike in them last night. But why did I have to wear panties? Because my mother insisted as well as shaving under my arms and some bits above my pubes. No one was going to see them but she put her foot down. “No daughter of mine is going to show me up with hairy armpits.”

“Muuum, I’m your son, remember?”

“Hi Julie-Ann,” teased my sister and it was only that my mother was there stopped me saying something nasty.

“You’re pretending to be a girl for this, so you’re therefore my temporary daughter.”

Jane my sister guffawed and my mother told her off.

“Why can’t ugly do it?” I nodded at Jane.

“That’s enough, you’re doing it.” So that was my start to the morning. Worse was to come, apart from the white panties and the rest of the clothes, I had to wear a wig and makeup to disguise me. Okay, by lunch time, I’d become used to walking about in the skirt and top, with the extra weight of the wig and the mascara and other yuck they’d shoved on my face and I did look like a girl.

“At least wearing a long skirt will stop you doing something stupid on the bike, like standing on the saddle.” Said my mother, I hadn’t tried that since I was twelve and it was a mountain bike not an antique.

“You don’t think being dressed up like a dog’s dinner isn’t doing something stupid?” I countered.

“Not if it’s tastefully done and you are saving the parade.”

“Whatever,” I muttered as I rode off to my fate.

Lunch at John’s house was soup and a roll, followed by a cuppa. A sudden thought that terrified me flitted into the thing that used to be a perfectly good brain until wearing skirts softened it. “What if I need a wee?”

“Just use the ladies, like the rest of us do.” Said Pam in such a matter of fact way it made my question seem irrelevant. “Look, no one but the cycling club know and they’re not going to say anything, are they? Just don’t forget to sit and do it.”

“I could hardly stand anyway, it would take me five minutes to find it under this lot,” I retorted and John nearly choked on his tea.

Three hours later and two miles further on, I gently eased the Rover past the mayor and mayoress, “And this is Julie-Ann riding a genuine 1898 Rover safety bike. The bicycle was said to have played a huge part in the emancipation of women by giving them freedom to travel, so thank you to our own beautiful, young suffragette, Julie-Ann, who’s also wearing a genuine Edwardian outfit.”

The others picked up the speed a little and I followed nearly blowing the hat which was pinned to the wig, right off my head. Yeah, my ancestors never went anywhere without a bloody hat, but then a cycling helmet would have looked just a tad out of place.

Sam Greatrex was riding his penny-farthing as I drew level, “I say, old girl,” he called down to me, “how’s about we just ride off into the sunset and...”

“Bugger off, Sam.”

“Only trying to be sociable, young lady...” I’ll kill him later.

At the end of the parade we assembled so the public could see the bikes and possibly ask about joining the club. My parents came to see and didn’t recognise me for a moment. “Jules?” said my mother and my dad snorted. I gave him a scowl and he stopped. After that it was what was it like to ride in a long skirt and so on. I was complimented by several women and asked how I kept my figure so neat. Jane heard this and ran off giggling. I knew she’d pull my leg something rotten later. All the photos that were taken would ensure that.

As for my voice, I just spoke more quietly and breathily and no one seemed to think I was anything but a girl. Then it was announced that we’d all be going to dinner at the local pub—in costume. I was about to protest but John said loudly, “I shall treat the ladies, you men can pay for your own.” Oh well, I’ll eat the dearest thing I can find.

The ladies—as in loos—was no bother, except Pam had to tidy up my lipstick after eating. I knew I’d never quite live it down, especially as my small size was already something of an issue to me and sure enough, I got called, ‘Julie-Ann’ by quite a few of my friends at the club and my sister at home, but we got five new members and one of them is a nice looking girl called Lisa and I think she quite likes me—as I really am, not in Victorian drag—so perhaps it was worth it, as she told me it was seeing a young woman in the long skirt riding and the bit about suffragettes and emancipation that made her come and speak to us. It took me a while to speak to her as she’d hoped to meet the girl from the parade, so I tended to hide when she started with us but it soon got out and she came and spoke to me asking me if it was true. I nearly died from embarrassment. “You looked really nice as a girl and pretty good as a boy, too.” So perhaps it did work for the better in the end—she’s really nice, in all the right places...

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Comments

A fixed wheel bike?

Not sure what that was, but I enjoyed the story.

It's called

Angharad's picture

a fixed gear bike over in the US, it has no freewheel facility on the back wheel.

Angharad

Sweet and Happy

littlerocksilver's picture

Thank you!

Portia

Bicycles

Melanie Brown's picture

I was expecting a story about a bunch of supermen walking around helpless with flat tires...

Melanie

what is it

Maddy Bell's picture

With bikes and crossdressing?

Nice story Ang, really would've liked more of it.

Mads


image7.1.jpg    

Madeline Anafrid Bell

Ah...

Andrea Lena's picture

Transcyclesuals?

  

To be alive is to be vulnerable. Madeleine L'Engle
Love, Andrea Lena

Could this be the emancipation...

of Jules, via the interest of Lisa. It would be nice to see the story continue. It is a very good story and I enjoyed it.

Hugs, Jessie C

Jessica E. Connors

Jessica Connors

Could this be the emancipation...

of Jules, via the interest of Lisa. It would be nice to see the story continue. It is a very good story and I enjoyed it.

Hugs, Jessie C

Jessica E. Connors

Jessica Connors

Bigger bum

Podracer's picture

I try not to measure it. But at least the cycle muscle combats sagginess ;)
Jules' little adventure in wig and hat, working for the better in the end, was nicely done, though I don't necessarily see him needing a skirt guard again.
PS intrigued by the sociable trike (of course!) in the illustration.

"Reach for the sun."

Only a girl for a day? great

Only a girl for a day? great little story.

Driect drive, the pedal sprocket has a chain that goes to the rear wheel, no coaster brake, no gears

Karen

Bicycles Changed The World

joannebarbarella's picture

Not just for Julian, who came out of this little escapade smiling, or Angharad, who writes such excellent Bike-related stories and sagas.

Bicycles opened up the wider world for ordinary people who were not wealthy enough to own horses and broadened their accessible horizons from a couple of hours' walking distance to a score or so of miles and thus initiated a social revolution, even for Victorian ladies, who had to be incredibly brave to ride in the cumbersome costumes of the day.

Riding in skirts?

That sound's lethal to me. Better once they evolved to Edwardian bloomers. I'll be glad to get back on my bike once all the surgery settles down.
Nice one Ang, and I can see a possible relationship developing in that club.
Thanks for the pleasure.
Bev.

bev_1.jpg

A very nice bicycle story

A very nice bicycle story with a sweet ending.

Nice one! ( I have a front

Nice one! ( I have a front brake on my fixie). Only tried riding in a skirt once - when nobody was looking.

JN

A nice story.

I liked it; a guy cross-dresses for a reason; no discovering he is really transgendered, no sex as a girl, just a light, fun story.

Styx

A lovely short story

Well done Angharad.

Another great short story with strong characters, bikes, cross dressing and superb writing. (well I think so, anyway)

Love to all

Anne G.

Good thing this demo race

Good thing this demo race wasn't in North Carolina, They all would be tossed in jail !!!
Now Jules can help out in drag all the time. His girl friend likes him either way.

Karen

A bit dense

Jamie Lee's picture

Jules knows bicycles but can't see a setup coming even when it stares him in the face.

And yet, he grudgingly went along with it, helped make a successful parade, and met a new friend.

But what happens to him next? Jules was complimented for hi s looks as a girl, he liked what he saw when looking in the mirror, and the new girl who complimented him dressed as a girl also thought he was a good looking boy. All of these tidbits have to lead Jules in a direction he isn't expecting. Don't they?

Others have feelings too.