Aid-Station Alchemy: The Stick & The Zip-Tie
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Aid-Station Alchemy: The Stick & The Zip-Tie
I was born to hold coffee, not legend. Yet here I sit on a folding table at the most chaotic pit stop known to humankind: the Enduro race aid station. If you’ve never been to one, imagine a buffet line, a garage sale, and a battlefield triage unit all colliding on a dusty mountainside—and then add bicycles, mud, sugar, and panic. That’s my view. And it only gets better from here.
I’m Geraldine’s mug. Geraldine is the sort of person who can fix a bike with whatever’s lying on the ground and still remember to refill your water bottle. She’s got an apron with stains that are part coffee, part mystery, and a whistle that carries farther than gossip in a small town. When things go sideways, people turn to her. When she needs a little warmth, she turns to me. Together, we’ve seen a lot. But nothing like the day of the stick.
The Circus Opens
From sunrise, the racers came crawling up the hill like ants on espresso. Their goal: pedal uphill on their own time, then fling themselves downhill on the clock like gravity owed them money. By the time they reached us, they were sweaty, cross-eyed, and desperate for anything edible.
That’s when the real show began.
One rider inhaled a cupcake so fast he looked like he was trying to vacuum-seal it into his lungs. The frosting mapped itself across his face like a topographical chart of the Rockies. Another competitor grabbed gummy bears by the fistful and chanted “fuel, fuel, fuel,” as if he was reprogramming his DNA. I witnessed, with my glazed ceramic eyes, a man pour and then drink what must have been an entire gallon of pickle juice. A gallon. He claimed it was “for the cramps,” but judging by the way his face puckered into a raisin, I think it was also for the drama.
On one side of me, a teenager was handing out orange slices like communion wafers. On the other, a volunteer with a clipboard was trying to log racer numbers but kept getting answers like, “My name? Uh… Kevin? Maybe Trevor? Definitely something ending in -evor.” We were running on sugar, chaos, and hope. A perfect Enduro aid station.
The Broken Brake
Then he rolled in—number plate 29, face pale, bike wounded. His front brake lever dangled by a cable like a broken arm. He lifted it for us all to see, eyes wide with despair. Around him, racers gathered like crows sensing roadkill.
“Yep,” one announced, poking the lever. “That’s broken.”
Another, full of bravado and cola, said, “Just send it no-brake, bro.” Which is the kind of advice usually followed by an ambulance ride.
Number 29 stared down the trail ahead—steep, rooty, merciless. You could see it in his shoulders: the belief that his race was over. He muttered a word that made the clipboard volunteer’s pen wince.
That’s when Geraldine stepped forward.
Enter Geraldine, Stage Left
Geraldine is not flashy. She doesn’t wear a cape. But she has an aura, the kind of calm that says, I’ve already solved this problem in my head, and you’ll thank me later. She sized up the brake, tapped it twice, and said, “All right. We’ll need a stick.”
A stick? The crowd blinked. This was no time for firewood.
But Geraldine was already scanning the ground. With the precision of a jeweler, she chose a sturdy branch, snapped it clean, and held it like a surgeon about to perform a transplant. Then she reached into her tote and pulled out a fistful of zip ties. The crowd murmured. Everyone knew: when the zip ties came out, things were about to get interesting.
The Miracle Fix
She aligned the stick where the lever used to be. Snip, cinch, click. The sound of plastic ratcheting tight was as holy as church bells. Another tie looped over for good measure. Then another. The stick became a lever, crude but convincing, lashed into place with the confidence of a DIY deity.
Number 29 looked at it skeptically. “Will it… work?”
Geraldine gave the sort of shrug philosophers dream about. “It’ll remind you to stop. Sometimes that’s good enough.”
The racer flexed the makeshift lever. It bent but resisted, a fence post against his fingers. A murmur rippled through the crowd: admiration, disbelief, a sprinkle of fear. Someone pulled out a phone and declared, “This is going on Instagram.”
Meanwhile, at the Aid Station
While Geraldine worked her magic, life at the station continued its usual theater.
A woman with calves like granite ate three cookies in a row and declared she could now “lift a Subaru.” A man with a helmet camera gave a dramatic retelling of how a root had “personally attacked” him, complete with hand gestures. A father on a bike older than most volunteers whispered to his saddle like it was a dying pet, then ate a banana with solemn reverence.
I soaked it all in, because that’s what mugs do. We listen. We hold the warmth and the stories. But my eyes—yes, mugs have eyes, though they’re invisible to humans—stayed fixed on Geraldine and her patient. The stick had become legend before the racer even clipped back in.
The Test
“Give it a roll,” Geraldine commanded. Number 29 mounted the bike and pedaled a cautious circle. The stick-lever flexed but held. The bike squeaked its protests, but it slowed when asked. The racer’s eyes lit with hope.
The crowd erupted in applause. I would have clinked myself like a champagne glass if I could.
Geraldine tied a bright ribbon around the stick as a reminder. “Gentle. Feather it, don’t yank. Your rear brake is still your best friend. The stick is just… moral support.”
Number 29 laughed nervously, nodded, and turned toward the trail. Just before dropping in, he looked back—at Geraldine, at me—and I swear he mouthed, “Thank you.” Then he was gone, swallowed by the forest and the downhill.
Waiting
The aid station fell into a hush. For three entire seconds, there was silence. Then the next wave of riders arrived and chaos resumed. But in the background, we all listened, straining for any sign of disaster—or triumph.
The pickle-juice man returned, smelling like a haunted deli, and whispered, “It worked.” A junior racer thanked us for the orange slices like we’d saved his life. A dog on a rope sniffed every sock within reach. But behind it all, the question lingered: would Number 29 make it?
The Return
When he finally rolled back into view, it wasn’t in a blaze of glory. It was better than that. He came in smooth, controlled, whole. The stick had held. The zip ties had done their job. And the racer had done his part—riding with humility, feathering every stop like a nervous hummingbird.
He dismounted, held up the bike, and grinned. “You,” he told Geraldine, “are a wizard.”
She shrugged again, modest as ever. “I just accessorized. You did the brave part.”
He took a long drink of water, then grabbed a slice of cake so big it could be classified as a landslide. He laughed, the sound of relief. And then he did something beautiful: he pulled a marker from his pocket and wrote on his number plate: THANKS GERALDINE. Beneath it, he drew a stick with zip-tie wings. He handed the plate to her and said, “For the wall.”
Every aid station has a Wall of Lore, a sacred gallery of absurd fixes and ridiculous victories. That plate, with its doodle of the stick, went up immediately.
Closing Time
The day wore on. The sun sagged. We tidied the remains: wrappers, peels, the skeleton of what had once been a heroic cake. The racers thinned until the sweeper rolled through, calm as a monk, declaring the course clear.
Geraldine gathered the tote, the whistle, and me. The stick, now retired, joined the Wall of Lore. It leaned proudly, zip ties still snug, bark scuffed from battle. A relic, a reminder.
As for me, I ended the day with one last pour of coffee, lukewarm but triumphant. Geraldine tapped my rim twice, our private handshake. “Good work,” she said. “We kept wheels turning today.”
Aftermath
Weeks later, Number 29 returned with a new brake lever and a box of cookies. He posed for a photo with the Wall of Lore, pointing proudly at the stick. He told new riders about the miracle fix, how it carried him down when he thought he was finished. And every retelling made the stick grow taller, the zip ties stronger, Geraldine braver.
I was there for all of it, watching quietly from the corner of the table. That’s what mugs do. We hold the coffee. We hold the warmth. We hold the stories.
And if you ever find yourself at an Enduro aid station, sugar-buzzed, mud-spattered, desperate for hope—look for the stick on the Wall of Lore. Look for Geraldine. And look for me, waiting with a hot cup and an open ear. Because sometimes all it takes to keep a race alive is a little caffeine, a lot of zip ties, and the right stick at the right time.