Boasting undoubtedly the best cycling statue I'd seen in Portugal, there'd have to be a bicycle mechanic somewhere in the town. |
Spinning
unreliably and making plenty of racket, over just a few kilometres of flat
road, I quickly realised that I needed to replace the all-important part, or at
least have it looked at. I still had a long way to travel, and much of it
through the rugged mountains of southern Spain. Not having the necessary part,
tools or expertise, my only hope was to see what the town had in the way of
bicycle repairers. We’d visited its vibrant market first-hand, the odd café and
craft shop that appeared along its network of cobbled alleyways, not to mention
the remains of its three-towered Moorish castle perched on a hill, but for the
moment all that mattered was unearthing a 21st century artisan who
could fix my bike, and in a hurry.
As I roved the busy streets, frequently stopping, in
vain, to ask for help, I at least consoled myself with the thought that with a
population of almost 22,000 there’d surely be some cyclists whose bottom brackets
would need replacing every now and then. Anxious and dripping with
perspiration, it was more than an hour before I finally had my hopes confirmed.
Rather dowdy and inconveniently hidden near the end of a narrow lane, it was
nevertheless, the exact shop I needed. Behind its glass window stood a
half-naked frame and beneath it an assortment of tools and grease covered
bicycle parts. Clearly, it didn’t just sell bicicletas
but repaired them. However, it was just a matter of when. De vuelta en treinta minutos (Back in thirty minutes), said the
sign on the door.
A ferry boat transporting me across the Rio Guadiana into Spain. |
With my frustration mounting, knowing I had more than a
hundred kilometres to travel, as well as a ferry ride somewhere in between,
there was nothing more I could do but bide my time. Thirty seven long minutes
later a man opened the door from the inside and welcomed me in. Bicycle in tow
and with the morning all but gone, I simply smiled, pointed to my bottom
bracket and uttered the words o suporte
inferior.
Either
not busy or empathetic towards my plight – in all likelihood, a combination of
the two – he reassured me that he’d not only be able to replace the part but
the bicycle would be ready to pick up in two hours. Not the slightest bit
concerned about the cost, I left thinking, If
only all bicycle repairs back home could be completed so promptly.
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