I’ve got a real life “needle in a haystack” experience to recount.
It all started one Saturday morning. Susan I were having coffee in bed, and I noticed Susan scribbling furiously on a pad of paper. It was a ways off to my birthday, so I decided that this was not a shopping list of presents for me. It was actually a “to do” list. This wouldn’t generally interest me except that my name figured prominently on said list. Up until this point, my sole plans for the day comprised riding my bike hither and yon, and coming home some time later to a nice dinner and several beers, not necessarily in that order. I was allowed to go on the bike ride with dire warnings that I should be prepared to do my part of the chores upon return. My usual modus operandi on these occasions is to ride my bike to the point of exhaustion, return home a sweating, drooling mass, and to declare that I am much too wasted for any further physical exertion beyond lifting a pint glass of beer, so I will have to put off the chores until tomorrow. When the cycle is repeated. My keen intuition told me that perhaps on this occasion, that excuse wouldn’t fly. Despite my doing manly things like taking out the garbage and operating the remote, the balance scales were tipped heavily in Susan’s favor, and if I wanted to remain married, I’d probably have to do a bit more. So, I did my ride, rode much harder than I should have, and was indeed pretty wasted when I got home. But I gave my word, and reported for duty.
One of the chores Susan had in mind for me was sweeping out the garage. After a winter of sand, leaves, and other debris filtering in, the garage was in pretty rough shape. When we moved in, I remember marveling at what a clean concrete floor the garage had and that it would be a pleasure to work there. That didn’t last long. In recent years, a typical session of bike maintenance in the garage consists of unscrewing some important part, dropping it, spending the next half hour groveling around on the floor looking for it, then giving up and deciding to do something else. Lately on the average I’ve spent more time looking for parts I’ve dropped than actually working on the bike.
Most parts that I lose are easily replaceable, but every once in a while I lose something unique. I never liked the Proflex handlebars, which were these narrow wraparound things, so I decided to put regular drop bars on. Since the Proflex doesn’t have a normal down tube, I fished out an ancient set of Suntour bar end shifters. I think these were the first bar end shifters in existence (not my pair, the model). The shifter handle is held on with a long screw and nut. The tension on the lever is controlled by the tightness of the screw. The key part of this assembly is a sort of cap nut that goes on the end of the screw and maintains its tension. Without the cap nut, the screw can get loose, fall out. You can’t tighten the screw too much, or the lever won’t turn. Anyway, this little beauty is pivotal to the proper working of the levers. So, as I’m installing the levers, I drop it. After a rather long search I conclude it has gone to that place were parts go, probably close to the place where socks go.
So, I’m sweeping out the garage, which had so much debris I thought I was going to need a front end loader, and what should appear in a pile of sand but the missing cap nut. I took this as a sign from heaven to mend my ways and start being a more helpful husband. Maybe I’ll even volunteer to clean out the dryer room, who knows, maybe my socks will be reunited.
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