I have no idea of how long he had been coming there. I first saw him in 2001. I would talk to him the on the first day we would arrive in Italy. I would push my bike to his roadside repair shop and get my tires inflated. He always seemed happy to see me and never accepted any compensation for inflating my tires or for other minor adjustments.
His “shop” was simple. His small station wagon with the tailgate open was backed up and served as workbench and tool storage. Years before he had brought a large plastic pot and pored it full of concrete and put a pole down the middle. He had a makeshift bike holder that slid into the pole. This contraption held sick bikes at a proper working level.
On the ground, he would lay out a blanket that would never know a bed again. On the blanket he displayed an assortment of bike parts and accessories. He had fined tuned his inventory years before and he had a rapid turnover.
Daily, a man would arrive with a number of bikes that obviously had been discarded. A small sum was exchanged and what looked more like scrap was unloaded.
When he wasn’t busy tending to his customers, he would dismantle the scrap bikes and remove useable parts. Remaining pieces were put aside and pickup up within minuets buy one of the many scrap hunters that are everywhere.
His life story was simple. He had been a factory worker until forced into retirement. His retirement was around a thousand Euros and not enough to survive on. He had always like piddling with bikes, so he got the idea of repairing for some extra money. Italy has millions of illegal workers from all over and many use bicycles as their transportation. He never would reveal how much he was making. A few times I would hang around and talk with him and quickly calculated that he was making more from the repair shop than from his retirement pay.
This trip, I had to inflate my tires myself. The old repairman is nowhere to be found. I asked several people that have shops around the area and no one knows what happened to him. No one even knows his name. I even asked several of the “working girls” that cover this area and they didn’t know either. Everyday I see someone pushing their broken bike towards the area where the "shop" once operated. The concrete tub with the pole sticking out is all that remains.
His “shop” was simple. His small station wagon with the tailgate open was backed up and served as workbench and tool storage. Years before he had brought a large plastic pot and pored it full of concrete and put a pole down the middle. He had a makeshift bike holder that slid into the pole. This contraption held sick bikes at a proper working level.
On the ground, he would lay out a blanket that would never know a bed again. On the blanket he displayed an assortment of bike parts and accessories. He had fined tuned his inventory years before and he had a rapid turnover.
Daily, a man would arrive with a number of bikes that obviously had been discarded. A small sum was exchanged and what looked more like scrap was unloaded.
When he wasn’t busy tending to his customers, he would dismantle the scrap bikes and remove useable parts. Remaining pieces were put aside and pickup up within minuets buy one of the many scrap hunters that are everywhere.
His life story was simple. He had been a factory worker until forced into retirement. His retirement was around a thousand Euros and not enough to survive on. He had always like piddling with bikes, so he got the idea of repairing for some extra money. Italy has millions of illegal workers from all over and many use bicycles as their transportation. He never would reveal how much he was making. A few times I would hang around and talk with him and quickly calculated that he was making more from the repair shop than from his retirement pay.
This trip, I had to inflate my tires myself. The old repairman is nowhere to be found. I asked several people that have shops around the area and no one knows what happened to him. No one even knows his name. I even asked several of the “working girls” that cover this area and they didn’t know either. Everyday I see someone pushing their broken bike towards the area where the "shop" once operated. The concrete tub with the pole sticking out is all that remains.
©2008
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