Subscription to the traveller’s belief that ‘the universe will provide’ was not helping air stay in my tire at the side of a highway in Albania. Every strategy – switching tubes, unfolding spare tires, building up layers of glue and patches on the puncture and possible others – seemed determined to foul any attempt to successfully re-inflate the tire.
And a hot sun pressing me further into the scorched bowl of dirt and debris where my bike lay, indifferent gravel truck drivers, and empty glue tubes were doing little to bolster my faith. It was clear I would need to do my own providing.
With a tire that was only somewhat inflated, I got back on my bike. It was 10 kilometres to Vlore, reputedly the northern gateway to the Albanian Riviera. Every two kilometres, I needed to stop and refill the tire, trying to keep the pumping arm and elbow out of the way of four lanes of cars hurtling past me a hairbreadth away.
It gave me hope that, with this kind of urgent comings-and-goings, there had to be a bike shop in Vlore. Albania has been changing since the fall of communism – it knew about a Westerner’s penchant for ‘soft adventure’ and tandem rides by the sea.
When my phone GPS delivers me to a small engine repair shop in Vlore, I resort to scouting for someone who can give me real directions to a non-motorized bike shop.
A café with a French name looks promising. Propping my bike by the umbrellas outside, I stride in. I assume the well-dressed, bespectacled, young man at the counter will speak English.
“My GPS told me there was a bike repair shop just next to you. Has it moved?” I wince at my lack of courtesy – I hadn’t even said hello.
My abruptness, however, isn’t the problem. It’s the nature of my question.
“A bike repair shop?” His English is perfectly inflected, as is his expression of incredulity.
“Yes, this one.” I pass him my phone.
“Oh…,” passing my phone back to me. He didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news.
I can feel my shoulders collapsing, knowing I am now truly at his mercy. I appeal to his goodness.
“I have a flat tire I can’t fix. Is there anyone who could help me?”
A moment’s pause and then he makes a phone call. I don’t understand Shqip, but all the nodding he was doing makes me feel hopeful. After the call finishes, he scrolls through his phone and shows me a map of the city, and route to where I might find someone who works on bikes.
“See this hotel? Go right across the street, and down a smaller one. He’ll be on the right side.”
The quick scrolling, the photos, the clipped directions are all assuming I have perfect eyes, ears and executive brain function. I thought that he was being very gracious considering my age must have been pretty obvious.
“Well… how do I find the hotel?” I needed this mechanic, but I didn’t need to reveal any insecurity about my cognitive functioning. It would be a betrayal to other ‘young-at-hearts.’
The images flash past again, but I need to trust that I’ve identified the key points. Right, left and then another right. The small street was kitty-corner to the hotel. Besides, if I needed to return to get the directions all over again, I know he would do it without a whiff of judgment.
Clearly the only one in town wearing spandex, and pushing a disabled loaded bike, I pick my way back up the street I had come in on, skirting shopkeepers gathering in lawnmowers and clusters of vegetables for early Saturday afternoon closing time. Chances that this bike mechanic existed and would be open diminish with every closing door.
I locate the landmark hotel. The secondary street across from it is not much more than a one-lane pathway. Buildings crowd on both sides, laundry is splayed on patios of concrete and rebar. The business district of town is clearly behind us.
I almost pass it, but a bike rim, then another, catch my eye. Turning my head, I see a plethora of rims festooned from the ceiling and walls – indeed they are the walls – of an outdoor stall. Tires, drive chains, derailleurs, bits of bike frame – the resuscitation of every piece of bike anatomy, each one darker than the next from years of use and re-use – join the bike rims in cacophonous splendour.
Through the din of metal and steel and preciously recycled parts, I can see a tiny room, likely for tools, and refuge on rainy days.
There is someone sitting on a stool outside. She hasn’t noticed me as her gaze is fixed on the potatoes she is peeling, their skins falling into the cast-iron pot at her feet.
When she does lift her head, she acknowledges my presence by summoning someone to help. A young man, in Nikes and an LA Laker basketball shirt, instantly appears. He hovers behind his mother and the pot of potato peelings, eyeing me cautiously. I take that to mean he’s open for business, and hand him the front wheel of my bike. The work wordlessly begins.
He has the tire and tube off, puncture ascertained (the tub of water close by), old patches off, newer ones incisively placed and back on the rim within minutes. I bring out my other tubes, groping for ways to tell him, “I suspect these have punctures, too, as they weren’t holding air either.”
I settle for the Greek word for ‘bad,’ as many Albanians know the language of their southern neighbours. When that fails to communicate anything, I resort to the same word in Spanish, hoping that it might be close to its Italian equivalent. All the taxi drivers in Tirana had spoken Italian. He understands and scans each tube for punctures. He finds many and seals them all quickly, expertly.
Realizing I have struck gold in the bike mechanic department, I am emboldened to ‘ask’ for one more thing. I show him my empty patch containers. He disappears into the ‘sanctum’ and returns with a handful of patches and… a large and resplendent tube of glue.
Never in my cycling life have I been able to secure a separate and respectable size tube of glue from a bike shop. Especially the well-stocked ones. Gulping with inexpressible joy and gratitude, I ask him the cost for his services. He writes it down. $2.50. I wonder if he would find a tip insulting.
To respect the gods of good fortune, I ease back on my bike tentatively, politely. I am soon in another world. The alleyway opens to broad boulevards carefully inlaid with river rock and cobblestone, lamp posts and potted trees lining the sidewalks.
Widening yet again, views of the sea open, and elegant date palms stud a sweeping boardwalk along the Adriatic. Clean white high-rises and hotels ring the boardwalk, everything carefully construed to say, ‘here be a stylish escape to the sun.’ I pass a few tourists under beach palapas, no doubt enjoying the trifling cost of their afternoon drinks.
Dodging men in their Gucci shorts and taxis speeding by for fares, I begin to pedal faster.
Somehow, I needed the speed to blot out the palm trees and shelter the memories of the universe that had provided for me just one alleyway away.
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