Worrying the Youth

Hey, here's a piece I've been working on for school. Thought it might be fun to put down here for my 89th post. Enjoy!

I have Connor grab me one of the beers I stashed in the break room mini-fridge and we watch bike-crash compilations on the work computer. This time of year there isn’t much to do and the management goes home early most days, leaving me in charge. The boy’s a few months shy of the legal working age, but he starts drooling at the mention of bikes, so Connor’s parents met with the shop owner at the triathlon coaching facility they both attend (the modern, urban equivalent of a golf club, that opaque institution where many clandestine plans have been hatched, usually to the consternation of the proletariat) and came up with the idea to stick the boy with me so that I can apprentice him in the trade of bike repair. The boy learns a working man’s skill he can gloat about at Republican fundraisers when he’s older, the shop gets to show how much it cares about nurturing the next generation, and his mom can have a few hours to herself and the maids. This arrangement was planned and executed without my prior knowledge or consent. In private I call Connor “The ‘Lil Hitler Youth”, a name I invented after learning some of the things the boy’s been raised to believe:

Connor goes to The British School, a private K-8th that specializes in raising wealthy kids to acknowledge their extreme privilege as both divine right and natural selection. He explains to me that children who are born to hard-working parents that make money and don’t rely on handouts are more civilized than the rest, and deserve better educations and a chance to succeed without being dragged down. “Separate the chaff,” as Connor clarifies for me.

But back to work, my beer’s finished, so now it’s time to grind down some cone wrenches. When you repeatedly put pressure on a piece of metal in the same spot, over and over, it will deform, usually at the contact point where the wrench touches the nut. This is called “worrying”. Cone wrenches look like any other wrench, but they’re as thin as a stack of papers to get at the tightly spaced “cone nuts” on the wheel hub. Because they’re thin, cone wrenches worry out of shape easily. The way to fix a worried cone wrench is to grind it back into form, usually with a personal-pizza sized circular stone attached to a one-and-a-half-horsepower electric motor, bolted to a heavy steel table. This tool is called a bench grinder. Turn it on and that heavy stone wheel spins so fast the floor shakes. Put a piece of heat-treated, high-carbon, bicycle-grade steel up to it and sparks will shoot down two feet. I used to make light shows like that with my dad’s grinder as a kid. Within ten seconds a piece of steel will be so hot you can press it against your skin to give yourself (or someone else) a ritualistic scar. I’ve taken all the safety shielding off the bench grinder to make it even more intimidating, my own way of separating the chaff.

To his credit, Connor shows no fear, though from his difficulty finding the “on” switch I deduce he’s never done this before. He puts that worried cone wrench up to the stone, but the speed and friction of it knocks the metal to the ground with a clang. I laugh. Connor picks it up and tries again, this time he holds the wrench firm, but for too long. It burns his hand and he drops it again. Again, I laugh. “Here, put on some eye protection” I tell him, tossing over some plastic safety glasses. 

I’m reminded of a story about another rich, well-connected kid from the North Shore who decided to become a bike mechanic. I can’t say whether he was coddled at the shop he trained at or not, but knowing the reputation of said shop which-will-not-be-named I suspect there may have been a tone of learned indifference to the seriousness of his occupation. After working there and networking with the industry reps for a while, one day he scored a job as an international racing mechanic on a professional team. Then he lost it after mounting a tire incorrectly, resulting in the death of a rider during a fast mountain descent.

Connor finishes un-worrying the cone wrenches. They’re mutilated beyond use. I shrug; the shop will buy new ones. Not too long after that I quit the profession of bike mechanicry.