For Rust – An Under-Bike Story

He had a skeleton-like frame and a chain that groaned every time you looked at it. Paint? Long gone. Gears? Frozen stiff. Hope? Let’s not even go there.

He sat in the farthest corner of McDougal’s Scrap Lot, wedged between a lawnmower missing a blade and a washing machine filled with spiderwebs and regret. A forgotten relic. a bike's outer shell. Once, long ago, he flew. Not literally, of course—he wasn’t one of those fancy drones or electric scooters. But he looked like he had wings back then, with smooth pavement beneath his tires and a breeze blowing through his spokes. Every ride was exhilarating. A dance at every turn. The years followed. The rain.

The forgetting.

He was left behind in a shed that later became a burial ground. Rust crept in—not as a thief, but as a quiet whisper: You're done.

And most days, he agreed.

Until the kid showed up.

Not the kind who kicks things just to hear the noise. This one had soft eyes, quiet hands. When he saw the bike, he just sat there beside him out of curiosity rather than resentment. “This one’s got… character,” he said, brushing away cobwebs.

McDougal looked at the child through a squint. “Five bucks. Also, perhaps a tetanus shot." The child smiled. “Deal.”

It broke the bike's heart. People had poked around before, maybe kicked a tire, then walked away. The toolbox was on this one. Also, time. Things started to get strange back at the kid's garage. Each component of the bike was gently removed one at a time. He was scrubbed. Sanded. Oiled. His bolts were loosened with care. New tubes were fitted. Also, brand-new tires—cheap but proud. The saddle was replaced, though the kid kept the cracked old one like it was a family heirloom.

“You’ve got good bones,” the kid whispered one night while tuning the brakes like a surgeon.

The bike didn’t know what that meant, but he felt something. a softness. A memory. And he liked it.

The first ride was shaky. Wobbly. The road felt foreign, like a language that had been lost. The following? Better.

The bike remembered by the third. He remembered the wind tugging at his handlebars. The hum of tires on pavement. The rhythm of spinning wheels and open roads. This was revival, not just motion. They went everywhere, the kid and the bike. to college. Through parks. over terrain that made other bicycles cry. The kid addressed him as if they were teammates. a friend. a horse. “Come on, Rusty,” he’d say. "Let's fly," Yes, he now had a name. Rusty.

One day, they entered a race for the local community. Nothing big. A casual gathering in a small town with weekend warriors and shiny bikes that cost more than some used cars was all that happened. The other riders smirked when they saw Rusty. He didn’t mind. He was used to being overlooked.

But when the race began—when his tires gripped the road like they had purpose again—Rusty didn’t care if they won. He just cared that they were riding. That they were flying.

They did, too. They didn’t win. However, they were not last. They completed. Together.

Thank you for reading.

This story is based on something real. The bike was in fact rusted out. And a youngster who saw more than just rust. The names are changed, but the heart isn’t. They did race together in a small town event. They crossed that finish line, but they did not take home the trophy.

And they finished flying.

Some things aren’t built for scrap.

Some things just need a second wind.