Meeting old friends for the first time
When one is building up an old bike, there are always a few bumps in the road - a few parts that you thought would fit the frame that don't. A few things that need jerry-rigging, or machining down, or some other kind of mechanical wizardry.
I have learned to not only accept that but to expect it - it's part of buying a bike that isn't factory-fresh and stamped out in a uniform procession (or even handmade in a uniform procession like my old Cannondale, which I bought new). It's part of getting to know your bike. Now I know, for example, that the new bike's head tube is narrower-than-standard.
In just the same way, I learned that my first vintage bike has really, really tough steel (it broke some drill bits). It might seem frustrating, on the surface, but I've come to see it as part of having a bike that is more like a person than a piece of equipment. It has a personality, and we spend time together. We are, in fact, best friends. So the fact that my new-old bike won't be ready for a few more days while the shop searches for a stem that'll fit its tiny little tubes is just part of the courtship for me.
I visited her yesterday, and saw her wheels all built up and installed, saw the unbelievably tight clearance between the rear wheel and the seat tube - a sign that she's built for speed and quick maneuvering; a sign, perhaps, that she might have been raced in a previous life. Raced by a very small Italian man, or maybe a teenager training for the venerable tracks of Europe. Drinking wine after each competition. Receiving pointers from wizened, fleet elders (who were also drinking wine).
Something like that. I do so wonder about my bikes' lives before we met. But then again, I don't think I really want to know. Not only would it take away the joy of speculating, of daydreaming, of making a Triplettes of Belleville cartoon in my head, but it might be a little too much like meeting your boyfriend's ex-lovers.
