Never doubt a guy’s ability when it comes to using tools

Jason Offutt

The Boy had a problem with his bicycle — the brakes didn’t work.

Not the front brakes, the back brakes, and at 11 he understood what that meant.

“If I put on just the front brakes, I might flip over on my face.”

The Boy has a firm grasp of physics and the most probable result of a human face sliding across asphalt.

Good for him.

I think this healthy respect for gravity, acceleration, and the density of mass comes from a method of parenting my wife and I adopted from our forefathers, which leaves children with scars or an irrational fear of everything.

Either way, we’ve done our job.

But the point was his brakes didn’t work.

Bicycles were once a child’s symbol of independence.

That’s since been replaced by cell phones and the ability to play video games online with people from South Korea.

When I was a kid, all of us knew where our buddies were by how many bikes were dumped in a front yard. So I knew how important his bicycle was.

“There’s a place in town that fixes bicycles,” my wife said.

Huh? What?

A place in town that fixes bikes?

Can’t you see me?

I’m standing right here.

“I can fix it,” I said, apparently only in my head.

“We should take it there,” she said, looking right past me.

Here’s the problem with today’s man.

We’re not expected to know how to do anything manly.

Why should we?

There are men out there wearing plaid and beards who can do that for us, right?

Hey, honey. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but there are plaid shirts in my closet and, yes, I have a beard.

“I can fix it,” I said again.

This time she actually looked at me.

“OK,” she said. “I think the place is on 12th Street. I’ll look for the phone number.”

I teach journalism.

Before I taught journalism, I worked in journalism. That’s when my wife met me.

Journalism involves lots of talking, typing, cursing and coffee, but is short on manual labor.

What she doesn’t remember is the fact that I grew up on a farm and know how to do things like vaccinate livestock and arc weld.

The Boy looked at me and shrugged.

While the family watched TV I went to the garage.

There’s something hardwired into wives that causes them to automatically doubt the ability of their husband to do almost anything. I imagine if I were a plumber, she still wouldn’t trust me to, you know, plumb.

I came back up in 15 minutes.

“I fixed the bike,” I announced.

“You fixed it?” The words spilled out of her in disbelief.

Of course I fixed it.

It’s a freakin’ bicycle.

It’s not MacBook. It’s not the International Space Station. It’s not the Large Hadron Collider.

It’s a frame, two wheels, gears and a chain. It’s technology that has existed since 1817.

I fixed the brakes with a ratchet wrench and pair of pliers.

I am man. I can also fix a flat tire and a refrigerator door.

Just try me.