Somebody let me into their back garden yesterday. I hadn't been craving for a look or be granted permission to enter. They just kind of engineered it. That is what happens when you try to help someone out.
I found him by the side of the road; forlorn with his head down, and dazed when he looked up. I was cycling. 'Ah ha! I thought, a victim for me to force my kindness on. His bicycle front wheel has a puncture, and I have all the tools to fix it.' People really don't like to accept help from me. You see, I have brown skin. Yessir! Brown.
'Do you need some help?' I offered.
'Uh! Yes!' his eyes found me. 'Well, well, I'm alright...You see.....'
'Puncture, huh?'
'Yes'
'I have the tools, spanners, pump, repair kit to fix it, if you want.'
'Well, er...I can get my wife to collect me.'
'Come on, let's fix it!' I insisted.
He really didn't want me to help him at all. Many people would have just thought, 'Fine, please yourself.' and rode on. But I did not. I tried my bicycle pump on his front wheel. It needed an adapter. He looked relieved. I changed the adapter on my pump and tried again. That is when things started to go wrong for me.
Neither of us could get enough air into his wheel, with any of our three pumps, that would last him any distance, so he phoned his wife.
'Would you pick me up. I have a puncture.'
The one side of the conversation I could hear told me that she was not about to come for him. He hung up. I had a similar size wheel with an inner tube in it that has no puncture. I told him I would fetch it and we can temporarily swap front wheels and he can cycle with me back to our home village. By now, he was beginning to relax a little. But I did show him my driving licence with my name and address on it.
For the next two mile to my house, I swore and swore at the headwind that always blows from the West and the heavy shopping in my rucksack.
He had pushed his bike about a mile, by the time I got back to him with my wheel. He wasn't expecting me to return, but warmed to me when he realised that I was sincere. We fiddled around with his front brake caliper, disconnecting the cable because neither of us had the right size spanner to adjust the position to fit it around my fatter tyre. That was when I tried to put a little more air into the tyre. I knew my pump worked well and the valve on my wheel, now on his bike, was compatible with my pump setup. I could not get a good seal. Somewhere, where I had first met him, I had lost the internal adapter. My trusted pump that fits into my backpack was useless. We used his pump. The air stayed inside my tyre and I used a bungee strap to tie his wheel to my bike.
Slowly, he set off; about one quarter the speed I would normally cycle at. Eventually, we got to his home back garden gate. He wanted to go into his garden. I wanted my wheel back.
'Let's just drop my wheel and I will go. If you are about to fix your puncture you won't want to put your wheel back in,' I said.
'No, let's go in. We waited for his wife to put their tiny dog inside and then she unlocked the gate for us. The conversation revolved around tomato plants and different varieties and blight. But sooner or later, we ran out of things to say. I told them about the staff at the local Coop shop, in response to them complaining about airport terminal queues.
I explained that I got bad service there and had complained. I, of course, in a self-deprecating way, allowed that my appearance may have a negative impact on their attitude towards me. The man and his wife in their garden decided that they were on my team and joined in, disparaging me.
'Yes, your hat matches your scruffy T-shirt and faded shorts.'
Eventually, though, not really understanding what had just taken place, the chap said, 'It just goes to show; you can't judge a book by its cover.' He meant that despite how I look, I am a kind fellow. That is when I felled them with my parting statement. 'I am not from Asia. I was born in England. I can trace both my parents' ancestors back to the 13th century in Diss, Norfolk, on my father's side, and the 14th century in Huntingdon, on my mother's side.
Their fair-skinned faces paled as they tried to remember if they had shown any racism towards me. They couldn't quite get their heads around how a suntan had fooled them. I could see the man struggling with his reason for initially refusing my help by the side of the road. I let it go. I am used to it.
Why I just Love teams
All my posts: https://learn1.open.ac.uk/mod/oublog/view.php?u=zw219551
[ 4 minute read ]
Why I just Love teams
Somebody let me into their back garden yesterday. I hadn't been craving for a look or be granted permission to enter. They just kind of engineered it. That is what happens when you try to help someone out.
I found him by the side of the road; forlorn with his head down, and dazed when he looked up. I was cycling. 'Ah ha! I thought, a victim for me to force my kindness on. His bicycle front wheel has a puncture, and I have all the tools to fix it.' People really don't like to accept help from me. You see, I have brown skin. Yessir! Brown.
'Do you need some help?' I offered.
'Uh! Yes!' his eyes found me. 'Well, well, I'm alright...You see.....'
'Puncture, huh?'
'Yes'
'I have the tools, spanners, pump, repair kit to fix it, if you want.'
'Well, er...I can get my wife to collect me.'
'Come on, let's fix it!' I insisted.
He really didn't want me to help him at all. Many people would have just thought, 'Fine, please yourself.' and rode on. But I did not. I tried my bicycle pump on his front wheel. It needed an adapter. He looked relieved. I changed the adapter on my pump and tried again. That is when things started to go wrong for me.
Neither of us could get enough air into his wheel, with any of our three pumps, that would last him any distance, so he phoned his wife.
'Would you pick me up. I have a puncture.'
The one side of the conversation I could hear told me that she was not about to come for him. He hung up. I had a similar size wheel with an inner tube in it that has no puncture. I told him I would fetch it and we can temporarily swap front wheels and he can cycle with me back to our home village. By now, he was beginning to relax a little. But I did show him my driving licence with my name and address on it.
For the next two mile to my house, I swore and swore at the headwind that always blows from the West and the heavy shopping in my rucksack.
He had pushed his bike about a mile, by the time I got back to him with my wheel. He wasn't expecting me to return, but warmed to me when he realised that I was sincere. We fiddled around with his front brake caliper, disconnecting the cable because neither of us had the right size spanner to adjust the position to fit it around my fatter tyre. That was when I tried to put a little more air into the tyre. I knew my pump worked well and the valve on my wheel, now on his bike, was compatible with my pump setup. I could not get a good seal. Somewhere, where I had first met him, I had lost the internal adapter. My trusted pump that fits into my backpack was useless. We used his pump. The air stayed inside my tyre and I used a bungee strap to tie his wheel to my bike.
Slowly, he set off; about one quarter the speed I would normally cycle at. Eventually, we got to his home back garden gate. He wanted to go into his garden. I wanted my wheel back.
'Let's just drop my wheel and I will go. If you are about to fix your puncture you won't want to put your wheel back in,' I said.
'No, let's go in. We waited for his wife to put their tiny dog inside and then she unlocked the gate for us. The conversation revolved around tomato plants and different varieties and blight. But sooner or later, we ran out of things to say. I told them about the staff at the local Coop shop, in response to them complaining about airport terminal queues.
I explained that I got bad service there and had complained. I, of course, in a self-deprecating way, allowed that my appearance may have a negative impact on their attitude towards me. The man and his wife in their garden decided that they were on my team and joined in, disparaging me.
'Yes, your hat matches your scruffy T-shirt and faded shorts.'
Eventually, though, not really understanding what had just taken place, the chap said, 'It just goes to show; you can't judge a book by its cover.' He meant that despite how I look, I am a kind fellow. That is when I felled them with my parting statement. 'I am not from Asia. I was born in England. I can trace both my parents' ancestors back to the 13th century in Diss, Norfolk, on my father's side, and the 14th century in Huntingdon, on my mother's side.
Their fair-skinned faces paled as they tried to remember if they had shown any racism towards me. They couldn't quite get their heads around how a suntan had fooled them. I could see the man struggling with his reason for initially refusing my help by the side of the road. I let it go. I am used to it.