One Apple A Day #28
It took me a while to understand. I kept looking around searching what was so strange in that garage.
There are plenty of motorbikes everywhere. One one side the ones waiting for their moment with the mechanics. They still have on their wheels the dirt of past roads. And the mosquitos on the screen, by the number you can understand how far the owner came from. They look like that used shirt you keep on the chair in the bedroom. The one you used once but it’s still good enough for another day. On the other side, you have the fixed ones all shiny and polished like a fresh pair of jeans. Waiting for their owner to take them for new adventures.
In the middle, there are the one under care. Open engines, gears scattered on the working tops while the mechanics work to fix them.
On the walls posters of famous riders, shelves with parts and accessories, and racks of tools. All perfectly ordered by type and size. The small office on the corner with all the folders on the desks.
Yes, it surely is a motorbike workshop. No doubts about that. There are all the signs. Yet something is not right.
Then one day, while I was waiting for my two wheels lady to be fixed, it struck me. It wasn’t anything that was there. It was what was missing.
No oil’s stain on the white floor, no smell of gasoline in the air, no grease on the hand of the mechanic shaking my hands. This space is cleaner than the kitchen of some restaurants where I regularly eat.
This is not a workshop. This is a temple. The temple where we celebrate our love for motorbikes.