I believe our talents are given to us by the Creator. I was struck by lightning in 1969 in a stormy cornfield in Iowa and came through it okay. It is things like that that have given me my unusual perspective. The Bicycle Bus is a very odd thing to exist upon the earth in the United States at the tail-end of the twentieth century, if you stop and think about it. There is obviously some deep spiritual purpose going on here. Recycling bicycles -- with the earth running out of oil... Isn't the Bike Bus like a sign? A huge incredible sign? Wherever we went people loved to see the Bike Bus. They smiled. They waved. They rubbed their eyes in disbelief.
| In the picture on the right we are set up in a small Washington town fixing the local people's bikes. They would let us stay for a week or two without bothering us at all. After all, the nearest bike shop was a round trip of a hundred miles away from there. The kid's bikes needed someone to adjust the brakes and fix the flats, and repair the bearings. I came through twice a year, more or less. I bartered when people couldn't afford to pay cash. Sometimes we got fresh pies and loaves of home-made bread... Sometimes fresh Salmon or Dungeness crab... Once it was a large pot of fresh crawdads and a pound of butter... |
There's a lot of ways to get paid for life. Sometimes the guy who receives piles of money for his "work" is miserable. One thing is for sure. I was never miserable. Not only were these kids great, but their mothers and fathers were great too. Hard working people most of them. The Indian culture has retained family values that have fallen into disuse in white society. They still all gather together to eat dinner around the same table. They still respect their elders. They still enjoy doing things for themselves and knowing the thing is done well, and that they have accomplished something. I mean, you see it in the children's eyes. But watch out when they are pissed at you! The white world hasn't always been their friend... So there I was, in the thick of things you might say. Up to my ears in clashing cultures. Sometimes kids would steal my bikes, or parts. I would go out looking for them. Sometimes the kids would help me, because they knew everyone in the neighborhood and had a pretty good idea who had done it.
A kind of Northwest, Gypsy Santa clause
A long story, but worth reading.
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