Inner harmony of a bike shop owner

He cradles inner tubing and we wind, in library dark, through racks
of racers, mountain, city, tandem, to the back room, where mine is
upside down, surgery, on the workshop table. Smell of empty classrooms.
With weight he shows me the gripping mechanism has worn flat and there
are slow punctures in my tires; he may be talking about my life. Blue
eyes the colour of an Olympic pool and wisdom that dangles, worn like
earrings. He says I ought to wear a helmet and, glimpsing the crash
reflected in his eyes, (a freeze-frame where I float as if running,
high enough above a Volvo) I buy one. He twinkles, me thanking him,
nodding, smiling, bowing, sensei.