The Bicycle Shrink

Walking into Nyack Bike store in 2011 was reassuring. It was not squeaky clean, but the place had an old school, masculine charm. In the window, an antique and functional model T Ford tire pump sat proudly between bikes. A neon yellow windbreaker hung askew. Joe’s store had a straightforward simplicity that welcomed visitors. I rarely stopped on my 100-mile bike rides, and the store was not on my training agenda. But I felt dizzy and needed rest. The shop sat next door to the Hopper House, where Edward Hopper lived and painted. Eccentric locals came to chat with Joe, and I saw that he cared and comforted them, these people living on the fringes.

Upon my first visit, Joe greeted me at the door. He had a lanky body, but I felt strangely consoled by a bright clarity in his blue eyes. He asked, “Where did you ride from?”

Feeling defeated by my ever-ailing body, I said, “From the city. I usually ride up to Bear Mountain and back, but I don’t feel up to it anymore.”

“What do you do?’

“I’m a psychiatrist in Greenwich Village.”

He nodded and smiled, leaning back against the counter. “I was a psychology major at Berkeley.” I asked, “What made you come back to New York?” He rested his hand on the bikes and looked deeply into my downtrodden eyes. “When my dad became sick, I came back home to Nyack to be with him. He had me later in life. It was his second marriage. I felt that I didn’t get to spend a lot of time with him growing up. I stayed here and opened my store in 1972.”

I soon discovered that Joe knew his stuff: how to fix bikes; how to match bikes and equipment with bodies; how to make riding easier and more fun. The first ability reflected his practicality, the second his powers of observation, and the third his creative spirit. He recognized a sadness in my eyes, and I felt a connection with him. His store was a safe place to just be and rest, before

I made the 30-mile bike ride home to NYC. He exuded sincerity and an endearing street sense of wisdom. I felt at ease. He