In my son's eyes, I am just a washed-up old man. He thinks I am senile, obsolete, and the phrase that seems to run through his mind whenever he looks at me is: "What does Dad know about this modern world?"
It is a terrible feeling. A 50-year-old man and his son are constantly in conflict due to differing perspectives and viewpoints. Perhaps this is the "generation gap" that people often talk about.
After retiring, I chose to leave the noisy city. My wife and I moved to the suburbs – where the morning begins with the sound of a babbling brook instead of car horns. Our joys are simple. Every morning, I tinker in the garage, fixing the lawnmower, oiling bike chains. Then, my wife and I ride leisurely across green fields, along the riverbank, filling our lungs with the scent of pine from the forest. That is cycling. That is enjoyment.
My son is different. It’s been too long since he visited home. He moved out, diving into the frantic pace of the big city. I have to admit, he’s good. He makes good money. But perhaps because of that, in his eyes, I’m just a senile retired old man. My advice has become the echo of an old, obsolete era. It hurts, guys. It really hurts.
He came back this weekend, not to visit me, but because he had a "Group Ride" with some local business friends. They call it an "outing," but I know it’s just disguised racing, ending with all-night partying. I tried to speak, but he brushed me off. At that moment, in his eyes, I was just annoying and troublesome.
Saturday evening, his shiny car rolled into the yard. My wife rushed out joyfully; she had been waiting for this moment for a long time. He stepped out, unloading a glossy black S-Works Carbon that cost a fortune. Of course, for someone like him, everything must keep up with the times. Equipping a bike to optimize performance is just essential.
We always clash fiercely when my son sees me doing things he considers self-torture. When he saw my grease-stained hands, the first thing he said was: "Why do you keep torturing yourself with that scrap metal? You have a pension, I send you money. Just throw that trash away, buy new things, hire help. Life is short, why suffer?"
When one is too used to using a wallet to clear obstacles, the hands gradually forget how to grasp their own strength.
He doesn't have a clue. On this side of the hill, getting covered in grease is the only way for me to feel that I am still alive. I don't do it for the money; I do it to feel useful. To know that when I wake up tomorrow, there is still a job waiting for these hands to complete. It makes sense, though. Youth often craves leisure, unaware of a cruel paradox: Absolute rest is the poison that kills the will to live. He wants me to "sit still and enjoy," but he doesn't realize: By demanding I throw away those tools, he is trying to strip away the last bit of pride of an old man like me.
Early the next morning, I saw him struggling with his bike. It seemed to have some issue. At this moment, instead of asking for my help, he called the nearest garages he found on Google Maps. After a while of taking photos and trying everything to no avail, he requested a mechanic to come out. However, you know, this place is quite far from the city and today is Sunday. They quoted a price many times higher than normal. For him, he could easily afford it. But because he felt like he was being squeezed, being taken for a "sucker," being ripped off, he refused.
I stood on the balcony, leisurely sipping my bitter coffee, looking down at the youthful figure tearing his hair out below. A ridiculous contrast. My son—the one who always prided himself on living fast, being sharp, holding the whole world in the palm of his hand—was now dead in the water because of a trivial incident. He held his smartphone, scrolling and calling in vain. He had money, he had technology, he had the arrogance of youth. But right now, none of that could make his bike move even a single inch.
The bike was designed to be light as a feather, but now it lies dead in one spot, weighed down by the heavy EGO of its owner.
I looked at him, and then I looked at my own calloused hands resting on the railing. I knew perfectly well that I could fix that bike using the very "obsolete mindset" that my son always insisted on discarding. But I chose silence. I let him flounder in his helplessness. Because I wanted him to learn a costly lesson:
"He has let the flashiness deceive his eyes, forgetting that: In the midst of a storm, one needs a rough, gnarled tree to cling to, not a beautiful but fragile flower."
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