The touch of love

The touch of love                           Gabriel Jeroschewitz, April 9th, 2025.

“Ode to a Sprocket” poetry slam was the highlight of the Greater Bumblebrook Bicycle Enthusiasts’ calendar. Agnes Plumtree, a retired librarian with a penchant for tweed and a secret longing for romance, always attended, though she usually stuck to the role of enthusiastic audience member. Agnes believed in the power of love, not necessarily the sweaty-palmed, heart-thumping kind she read about in her romance novels, but the quiet, comforting kind that blossomed between a person and, say, a perfectly maintained vintage bicycle.

This year, however, was different. This year, Agnes had met Reginald Bottomley.

Reginald, a man whose girth strained the limits of Lycra cycling shorts, was the self-proclaimed ‘Bicycle Whisperer’ of Bumblebrook. He owned ‘Bottomley’s Bikes,’ a shop crammed with more sprockets, chains, and handlebars than seemed logically possible. Reginald’s passion for bicycles was only surpassed by his love for quoting Plato, a habit he’d picked up after accidentally ordering a complete set of the philosopher’s works instead of a shipment of puncture repair kits. His love for bicycles was so intense that he often sat in philosophical debates with his merchandise.

Their first encounter had been over a recalcitrant chain on Agnes’ beloved, but rusty, Raleigh. With his gentle hands and philosophical pronouncements on the “harmony of man and machine,” Reginald had not only fixed the chain but also, quite inadvertently, ignited a spark in Agnes’s heart.

‘At the touch of love,’ Reginald boomed, wiping grease from his brow with a surprisingly clean handkerchief, ‘everyone becomes a poet, Miss Plumtree. Plato said that, you know. Though I doubt he ever had to deal with a seized freewheel.’ His practical view of love often clashed with Agnes’s romantic notions, leading to humorous debates and misunderstandings.

Mesmerized by his pronouncements and the faint aroma of WD-40 that clung to him, Agnes found herself agreeing wholeheartedly. Suddenly, the world was full of metaphors. The bicycle chain became a symbol of interconnectedness, the handlebars a guide to navigating the complexities of life, and Reginald, well, was her muse.

And so, fueled by love and a copious amount of Earl Grey tea, Agnes wrote a poem. It wasn’t just any poem; it was an epic ballad dedicated to Reginald, bicycles, and, most importantly, sprockets.

The night of the poetry slam arrived, and the Bumblebrook Village Hall was packed. Agnes, clutching her meticulously typed manuscript, perched nervously on a folding chair. She watched competitors take to the stage, reciting verses filled with tortured metaphors about gears as broken hearts and flat tires representing the crushing weight of existential dread.

One particularly intense young man, clad entirely in cycling gear, concluded his performance by dramatically throwing his helmet onto the floor and declaring, “My love for my bicycle is a metaphor for the futility of existence!”

Agnes gulped. Perhaps her ode was a little… cheerful?

Reginald, spotting her in the crowd, beamed. “Go get ’em, Agnes!” he bellowed, nearly knocking over a table laden with bicycle-shaped cookies.

Taking a deep breath, Agnes walked to the microphone. The room fell silent. She cleared her throat and began:

“Ode to a Sprocket, and Reginald Too!”

The title alone drew gasps. Agnes pressed on, her voice gaining confidence with each line.

“Oh, Sprocket, humble cog of steel, you spin and toil, a perfect feel! Like Reginald’s heart, so strong and true, you keep my bicycle, and my love, anew!”

She continued, weaving a tale of mechanical marvel and burgeoning affection. She praised Reginald’s encyclopedic knowledge of bicycle maintenance, comparing him to a modern-day Plato dispensing wisdom from his greasy throne. She lauded the humble sprocket for its unsung heroism, its ability to transform the mundane act of pedaling into a transcendent experience.

The audience was initially stunned into silence. Then, a ripple of laughter began to spread. Agnes, initially mortified, realized they weren’t laughing at her, but with her. In its earnest absurdity, her poem was a breath of fresh air amidst the angst-ridden verses that had preceded it.

“Your teeth are so fine, your purpose clear, You conquer hills and banish fear! Like Reginald’s warm and bright gaze, you guide my wheels through day and night!”

The hall roared with laughter and applause when she reached the final verse. Even the intense young man in the helmet grudgingly nodded his head.

“So raise a glass to Sprockets grand, The unsung heroes of the land! And to Reginald, my cycling guide, I’ll gladly ride with you, my love!”

Agnes finished to a standing ovation. Reginald, beaming with pride, rushed to the stage and swept her into a bear hug, nearly crushing her ribs.

“Magnificent, Agnes, magnificent!” he roared. “Plato himself couldn’t have put it better! Though he probably would have tried.”

The judges, a panel of local dignitaries and cycling enthusiasts, unanimously declared Agnes the winner. Her prize: a lifetime supply of puncture repair kits and a framed photograph of a particularly shiny sprocket.

The win, however, wasn’t the point. As Agnes sat beside Reginald, munching on a bicycle-shaped cookie, she realized that Plato was right. Love had turned her into a poet, albeit a slightly ridiculous one. It had given her the courage to express herself, to embrace her passions, and to find the humor in the everyday.

The “Ode to a Sprocket” became a local legend. Agnes and Reginald became Bumblebrook’s most beloved couple, their romance a testament to the power of love, bicycles, and the occasional philosophical pronouncement.

They even started a poetry workshop at Bottomley’s Bikes, encouraging others to find their inner poet, even if their muse was a rusty chain or a seized freewheel. And Agnes, inspired by her newfound confidence, finally finished her romance novel, “The Bicycle Whisperer’s Kiss,” which became a surprise bestseller, proving that sometimes, the most unexpected love stories are the most beautiful.

And as for the quote that started it all, Agnes kept a miniature, framed version of Plato’s words on her desk, right next to the framed photo of the shiny sprocket. She’d often glance at it and smile, remembering the night she transformed from a shy librarian into the “Sprocket Poet Laureate” of Bumblebrook, all thanks to the touch of love and a man who believed that even a bicycle could inspire philosophical musings. After all, as she often said, quoting her beloved Reginald, “Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving. And maybe write a poem or two about it.” So very Zen.