Hot autumn sun drapes over my back. I try to shuffle further into the shade, but to do so I have to move the bike, gawkily poised on its bike stand. I lift it up and wonder if I’m finally getting biceps; notice, too, the grease lodged under my fingernails and the printed impression of a chain ring on my arm. But there’s no need to dwell on my physical appearance: I have a bike to fix.

For the last year, I’ve been spending my Sunday afternoons volunteering at my local community bike fixing workshop. The concept is simple: we have lots of tools and some expertise and we help people fix their bikes. We get some funding from our local board, and some through selling donated bikes that we’ve repaired and checked for safety.

I’m better than I used to be, but I’m still not very good at fixing bikes. I’m too terrified of bottom brackets to do any work on them myself, and I’ve mastered puncture repair (easy) but still get confused between brake cables and gear cables. But that doesn’t matter: partially because some of the other volunteers, now my friends, are always happy to help with the gnarly stuff, and partially because it turns out that I don’t have to be good at fixing bikes to really enjoy it.

I’ve been thinking about the idea of integrity. It links to words like integration: there are the parts of my life where what I believe is important is being expressed clearly in how I’m actually spending my time. I believe that there should be community spaces which don’t require spending money to get in. In a culture where throwing broken stuff away is the norm, I believe choosing to repair things instead is a little bit revolutionary. I believe that cycling is a beautiful and excellent way to move around cities, and more people should be doing it. I believe that it’s good to not always do things you feel confident in. Repairing bikes ticks all of these boxes, and then some.

Last week, a local family came in, wanting to repair their youngest daughter’s pink Barbie bike. The chain was old, and the tyres were worn out. Everyone wanted to be involved: the dad helped brace the bike so I could pull the wheel off. The daughter helped me rotate the inner tube through a bucket of water to find the leak. The mum followed my instructions to repair the tyre, pressing the new patch over the hole. The son ran around in circles asking if someone would play with him (we were too busy playing with the bike!). Then they wheeled it away, ready for the rest of their week.

It was a simple, small thing — but simple, small things can build a life. Or at least build a sense of integrity: a trust that, yes, I am becoming the person I think I am. I am repairing bikes. I’m watching this corner of the Kingdom unfold. I’m part of something that goes far beyond myself.

Tui Motu Magazine. Issue 280 April 2023: 26