Joey never met a bike that he didn’t want to ride
Joey never met a bike that he didn’t want to ride,
And I never met a Toby that I didn’t like.
Scotty liked all of the books that I recommended,
Even if he didn’t I wouldn’t be offended.
Kimya Dawson is probably singing of her old boyfriends in her song Tire Swing. And with her raw tinkling voice crackling in my eardrums, the hairs on my neck stand up, because I’m sure I know exactly who Joey is.
Joey is one of those people who can’t keep the feeling of the freewheel from their legs. He knows that every bicycle can glide and make you praise the wind, can shake the anger from your bones and make you lift your head skywards, close your eyes like a pilgrim, and howl.
Joey’s the boy who cranes his neck to follow every cyclist as they pedal past. He can’t help but scan the bike racks he walks by, taking in every sweet detail: the scratches; the twine wrapped on that rough edged basket; that anodised rear hub; the dialled in chain line; the placcy bag over the saddle. The things that make a bicycle a person’s own. He checks out every bike as if it will teach him about the rider’s very spirit.
He can see the beauty in everything, he knows every person has a value in scuffs and scars. Because theres a tale to tell in every dinged rim and bent saddle rail, in each sticker delicately placed and grimed over with dust or road salt or endless oil and mud. Theres a person singing out, telling poems with crank turns and skipping down to school, to work, to home. I can’t shake the feeling that he is the most open hearted man in the world.
Because Joey never met a bike that he didn’t want to ride.