The Coming of Summer

I changed a bicycle tire last week and it brought back the sentimental details of a summer slipping by. As a kid, my brother, Kevin, patched his bicycle inner tube nearly every day. He rode motocross before it was invented and he paid for his thrill by having to patch rubber after his adventure. He would wobble up the driveway on a flat tire, pumping his pedals just as fast as the sprocket would turn, then throw his bike from underneath his ten-year-old legs and scale the back step in a split second. I imagine him now: racing to the kitchen where he kept his tools, and out he’d run carrying two butter knives. I don’t remember even owning tire irons. In fact, I don’t know if they were invented yet either. All our butter knives had bent tips from his daily use out in the backyard. Kev would jab a knife in between rubber and metal and pry the wheel up and over the rim. Then a second one: jab a couple of inches from the first and run it all around the rim, popping one side of the wheel free. Yank. Into the house. Sink. Water. Slop. Tiny bubbles. Then outside again and a little glue. Rub. Hold. Then bend the knives backwards getting the tire back on. And finally: pump, pump, pump. The rubber smell still stays in my summer memorybank.