The old man and his cart were always together. At first glance, his mountain of junk on his cart looked just that with all manner of metallic riff-raff. But there was order concealed beneath the chaos. The friend's bicycle had been through a lot patiently weathering rain, sun and fog for two years now and being in my keeping, it had seen no redemption. A rare moment of responsibility saw me take it along, tyres deflated and every joint screaming like a banshee to the aforementioned man with a cart.
He set about rescuing the ride with patience and confidence. His shambly walk and his less than fresh clothes were no longer a shadow on his abilities. He took apart the bicycle piece by piece and unlike unidirectional destructive forces, set upon healing it. The frame was turned upside down, the wheel covers were straightened, the rider seat's nuts were tightened, the chain was set free from its crusty rusty recent past. Then came the final aspect of the wheels, where he opened up the heart of the matter.
Sitting between the wheels and the chain, grim balls of steel first popped out. Some were examined and discarded while others passed the quality test to re-enter their underground home with shiny new company. The grease was ladled in among them and the cover put back over. There they would hum again, bringing long lost motion to inertia. The scruffy man with the cart smiled in a faint sliver. His job was done. The machine lived again.
