YouTube Taught Me That My Life’s Passion is Changing Bicycle Tires

I’ve been really getting into bicycle repair lately.

It’s probably my number one passion if you don’t count nagging my kids to do their homework. That one will forever be number one on the list of my favorite things, but changing bike tires is rapidly gaining. In fact, if I were to make myself a personalized version of that The Sound of Music song (don’t tempt me with a good time… I’ll do it!), repairing bicycles would go right after being annoying about homework and both would definitely be in the first verse alongside something confusingly eccentric like “toads in a rainstorm.”

The start of the school year brought with it a semi-flat tire on my daughter’s bike and a completely flat tire on mine. This was problematic because my daughter bikes to school and I typically ride my bike as well because if I walk, I get left behind like the heathens in that weird book series about the Rapture. I pumped my daughter’s tire up when I noticed it was low, and it seemed to hold, but mine was a total lost cause. So, I took to the internet to order some replacement parts and to learn how to replace a bike tire. How hard could it be?

One of the first video tutorials I found made the tire-changing process look extremely easy and the entire aesthetic of the video suggested that if I embarked on this do-it-yourself adventure, I would achieve a supreme level of contentment and coziness. I was immediately sold.

How I Change a Bicycle Tire After Watching One YouTube Video

I don a long-sleeved flannel shirt, jeans, and sensible boots, so I can get down to business in my neat, climate-controlled workshop that has an ideal set-up and layout for bike repair.

Following the video’s directions, I choose from a random selection of tools scattered about on my serious-looking workbench. I immediately find the right tool for the job, and I definitely do not spend half an hour rummaging through bags of tools on the garage floor that are covered with hay from my pet bunnies’ hay bale. After collecting the tool, I admire the bike that is perched upside down on a bike stand I just happen to have lying around. Getting the bike into that position was easy and intuitive. I give the wheel a little spin, just to test something out. While I’m admiring the spinning wheel and thinking about how perfect my life is, my partner drops off a steaming cup of black coffee for me to enjoy. I don’t need creamer to make my coffee palatable because I’ve ascended to a higher plane of existence.

From there, the tire replacement process flows naturally, like water tumbling down a picturesque waterfall. I easily undo the nuts holding the wheel in place with my wrench that fits like a glove, and I don’t pinch my finger, smash my fingernail, or scare my chihuahua by swearing very loudly. When I take the wheel off, the bike doesn’t fall over. It doesn’t make a clatter louder than Santa coming down the chimney that sends bunnies scurrying everywhere, running into walls and furniture. I smile at just how relaxing this whole process is. I consider opening my own bike shop. Not to make money, but simply to serve the community.

Now, making the new tire that was delivered all smashed up in a tiny box fit onto the rim of the wheel might seem difficult, but in fact, it’s so easy I pretty much just skip this step. All I do is blow a little air into the new inner tube, which I obviously purchased because I instinctually know bicycle tires are made up of two distinct components that are often sold separately, and it slips right into the rubber sheath of the tire like a buttered-up eel slithering into a crevice. The new tire immediately springs into the Platonic ideal of a circle and does not look anything like a heart-shaped Valentine’s Day card made by a 4-year-old. Putting the tire onto the rim is so simple I won’t waste your time describing it. I certainly do not end up bear-hugging the wheel to my chest, rotating it inch by inch while carefully coaxing the rubber onto the metal like it’s a skittish squirrel threatening to dash away to safety, only for it to fall off and drop depressingly to the floor with a hollow splat when it is literally 98% finished. I do not repeat this step for two to three more hours, and I do not threaten to murder the guy in the video who seems to be having a grand old time.

With the new tire perfectly positioned onto the wheel, I decide to switch out of my flannel shirt, not because I’m too hot from drinking the endless supply of coffee my loving partner continues to provide while the ambient air temperature is 94 degrees, but because I feel the irresistible urge to wear a freshly pressed white button-down shirt. I roll the sleeves up to show off my toned forearms and I’m feeling great because I know my shirt won’t end up looking like someone rolled a printing press across my torso. All it takes is a few turns of the wrench to get the wheel back in place and I am done.

Well, I still have to reattach the rear brake that I obviously did not forcibly pry apart with my plastic-medical-glove-clad hands early on in the disassembly process, but you hardly even need opposable thumbs to reassemble a rear brake. It takes a mere five seconds for me to clip some parts together and the brake is as good as new. I don’t come frighteningly close to losing a finger. I am not impaled by fraying metal wires. And there is no blood dripping onto my workshop floor, slowly soaking into the wood, creating what appears to be a Jackson Pollock painting. Best of all, my refurbished brakes definitely work so I don’t have to shout “WATCH OUT! NO BRAKES!” when I’m careening towards a clump of Kindergarteners and I never have to brake with my feet yabba-dabba-doo style to avoid being plowed into by a pickup truck speeding through the school zone.

I finish the bike repair so quickly that I still have hours to complete other odd jobs around the house or maybe can a few jars of homemade preserves before I go pick up the kids from school. I don’t have to throw a baseball hat on hurriedly, scrub my greasy hands ineffectually, race to the school on my bike, and explain to random children why my face is so red, my hair is so sweaty, my white shirt looks like a newspaper, and there are rivulets of blood cascading down my shins turning my crisp white socks crimson. My new rear tire doesn’t almost fall off while I’m crossing a busy street, and I don’t have to hop off and walk my bike across, holding it up on only the front wheel while the drivers in the line of stopped cars stare at me with pity and contempt in their eyes.

When we get back home, I don’t even have to nag my kids to do their homework because they retreat to their rooms and quietly complete their work on their own. They get every question correct, and then before dinner, I teach them how to change a bicycle tire so they can learn what it means to experience true happiness and self-actualization.