Page 3 of Redline Baby

Rue comes through the doorway. She propels herself forward, her small sneakers squeaking sharply against the polished concrete. Her bright pink backpack is still strapped tightly to her shoulders, bobbing wildly. She entirely ignores the yellow boundary line painted on the floor that designates the active work zone.

I set the torque wrench down on a clean shop rag beside my knee, rock back on my heels, and reach out my hands just as she crosses the threshold.

“Whoa. Brake, Rue,” I say. I catch her securely by her upper arms, bringing her to a halt right in front of the workbench. Her small hands instantly go out, her fingers aiming directly for a row of freshly oiled Allen keys resting dangerously close to the steel edge.

I catch her wrists smoothly, redirecting her hands down to her sides before she can make contact. “What are the rules of the bench?”

“Don’t touch the metal unless you’re invited,” she recites, entirely unbothered by the restriction. She grins up at me, missing a front tooth, her cheeks still flushed a bright pink from the brisk autumn air outside. Her strawberry blond hair is in two ponytails on either side of her head, her brown eyes fixed on me. She’s a very energetic six-year-old. “I want to help. Can I help fix the motorcycle?”

“You can absolutely help,” I tell her, shifting my weight to stand up, my knees protesting mildly at the motion. “But we’re not touching this one today. It’s got too many sharp edges exposed. Come with me.”

I keep one broad hand resting lightly on the center of her back, guiding her safely away from the half-disassembled touring bike and back out into the main showroom. We walk past the customer, who glances over and offers a tight smile. I nod back before stopping beside a vintage standard I finished restoring two weeks ago. It sits near the cash register, positioned directly below a framed black-and-white photograph of a 1970s race bike I used to own back in the day.

I drop to one knee beside the front wheel of the display bike, patting the concrete right next to me. Rue instantly crouches down, mimicking my exact posture.

“Alright. The first thing we always do is check the air,” I say, holding the metal gauge out to her. “You remember how to hold it?”

She nods seriously, taking the gauge with both hands. She grips it like a baseball bat. I gently wrap my large fingers over hers, physically adjusting her grip until she is holding it securely in her right hand.

“Good. Now, take the cap off the valve stem,” I instruct, pointing a finger at the small black cap protruding from the rim.

She reaches out with her free hand, her small fingers twisting the cap off clumsily but effectively. She proudly holds the tiny piece of plastic up for me to see. I slip it into my pocket for safekeeping.

“Now, line the head of the gauge up straight with the stem,” I say, bringing my hands back over hers to carefully guide the motion. “You push down firmly. If it hisses loudly, you’re not pushing hard enough. Ready? Press.”

Rue pushes down. There is a brief, sharp hiss of escaping air before the rubber seal sets perfectly against the metal.

“Perfect,” I tell her, pulling our hands back. “Read the number right at the bottom edge.”

Rue squints aggressively at the tiny, embossed black numbers. “Three... zero. Thirty.”

“Thirty-two,” I correct gently. “Which means it needs a little air eventually, but it’s okay for now. You want to try it again on the back tire entirely by yourself?”

“Yes, Uncle!” she says, already scrambling up from the floor and practically running to the rear wheel.

I stand up. The side door opens again, much slower this time. Maren steps into the shop, a large canvas tote bag slung heavily over one shoulder. She looks entirely exhausted, but the warm contentment that naturally radiates from her is as present as ever. She leans casually against the doorframe, crossing her arms over her chest as she watches Rue wrestle with the back tire’s valve cap. My sister is beautiful. Her brown eyes are shining, and her curly hair is tied with a huge red bow.

“I swear, you spoil that kid rotten,” Maren says affectionately.

“Teaching a kid basic maintenance isn’t spoiling them,” I reply. I don’t look over at Maren. I keep my eyes securely focused on Rue, waiting for her to properly line up the gauge.

“It’s spoiling her because you charge grown men a hundred and fifty dollars an hour to teach them what you teach her every day for free,” Maren points out, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward the small back office where she sometimes waits.

“She has an exclusive family discount,” I note, walking toward Rue just as she successfully pops the gauge onto the back tire.

“Thirty-six!” Rue announces loudly, displaying the gauge like a trophy.

“Good job. Put the cap back on,” I instruct, waiting until she carefully threads the plastic cap back onto the metal stem. I offer her my open palm, and she proudly drops the tire gauge into it. I ruffle her hair lightly, letting her know the task is complete. “Go wash your hands in the back. Your mom brought a snack, I guarantee it.”

Rue takes off down the hallway toward the bathroom without arguing.

I slide the gauge back into my front pocket and turn toward the customer at the front window. He clears his throat, finally ready to engage.

“Is the fuel injection on this model totally rebuilt, or just tuned?” he asks, gesturing loosely toward the bobber.

“Totally rebuilt,” I answer. My tone shifts slightly. It retains the exact same calm cadence I just used with my niece, but it replaces the fatherly warmth with absolute professional authority. “New throttle bodies, matched injectors. We completely remapped the ECU to account for the aftermarket exhaust. It pulls cleanly through the entire rev range. No hesitation whatsoever.”

He nods slowly, looking suitably impressed. “I might come back this weekend to take another look.”