Greasy fingernails

My dad finished his dinner with a clutch of wire tires in his fist. We laughed at him afterward, but he hadn't realized it at the time. He'd plowed off between the omelet and the stew to fetch me these wire tires to pack for my bicycle adventure. You see: my Dad gave my bicycle a complete over-haul before this trip and packing just-in-case wire tires was the final bit.

I have to stop and think which way to turn screws; "you certainly didn't get these genes" he points out politely. "There is a better way to do that" he indicates as I'm ineffectively dancing around with a bolt.

So I'm grateful as twins that he spent a whole day with me, changing brakes ("take a break Dad" --WAT?-- I said as I handed him the brakes package), re-wrapping handlebar tape, fitting a brand new tire, gathering me tools to take. He took so much extra time to find metric screws so I didn't have to carry a second type of screwdriver. That is empathetic efficiency at its greatest I tell you.

My bike stood proud and eager, all greased and tuned, and then we dismantled her again and grunted her back into her cardboard box. I was given Bike Reassembly 101, so through a fog of jet-lag entirely across the world I might re-create a bike out of this heap of disconnected handlebars, seat, wheels, and frame.

Dear cargo handlers with Etihad air, please be gentle.

My brilliant father. (can you spot the hip waders?)

One bike box. Not my carry-on.