Latest / Style Room: Style, home & everyday life / Why I Spent Weeks Fixing a Rusty Bike Instead of Buying New | Style Room
Transcript
- I found myself on my knees in the garage, grease under my fingernails, staring at a bicycle that hadn’t seen the sun since the nineties. It wasn’t just metal and rubber; it was a test of whether I could love something broken long enough to make it whole again. Let’s be real for a second. We live in a world that is aggressively obsessed with the new. Walk into any department store, scroll through your feed, or even just glance at the showroom floor at the local bike shop, and what do you see? Perfection. Everything is chrome-plated, neon-bright, and untouched by time. There is a seductive pull to that kind of pristine potential. When you buy something brand new, there are no compromises. The chain is lubricated, the tires are inflated to the exact psi recommended by some engineer three thousand miles away, and the paint has never known a scratch. It feels like a clean slate. And honestly, sometimes we all crave that feeling. After a week where everything felt slightly off—the coffee machine broke, the emails piled up, the laundry seemed to multiply overnight—buying new feels like hitting a reset button. It’s easy. It’s instant. It promises that if this one thing is perfect, maybe the rest of the day will fall into line too. But here is the thing about perfection: it’s static. It doesn’t change. It doesn’t breathe. And once you’ve unboxed it and taken it home, the magic evaporates almost instantly. You realize you didn’t buy a solution to your chaos; you just bought another object to manage. That shiny new bicycle sits in the corner, beautiful and silent, waiting for a ride that never comes because the thrill of acquisition has already faded. So why am I telling you this while sitting in a pile of rusted parts? Well, three months ago, I stumbled upon an old steel-framed bicycle leaning against the back fence of a neighbor’s house. It had been abandoned there for years, swallowed by ivy and neglect. Most people would have walked past it. They might have thought, 'That’s junk.' Or worse, they might have thought, 'I don’t have time for that.' But I saw something else. I saw the curve of the handlebars. I saw the promise of a smooth ride if only someone cared enough to turn the key. So, I took it home. And let me tell you, it was not love at first sight. It was more like a hostage situation. The chain was seized solid. The brakes were nothing but frayed wires. The seat looked like it had been used as a doorstop. I stood there in my good linen pants, which are now permanently stained with WD-40, and wondered why I had done this to myself. I’m a stylist. My job is to make things look effortless. This bike was the opposite of effortless. It was stubborn. It was heavy. It was angry. But instead of calling a tow truck or dragging it to the curb, I did something radical. I decided to listen to it. I started small. Just cleaning the frame. Just seeing if the pedals would turn. It was tedious work. There were days I wanted to quit. There were evenings I sat on the garage floor, eating takeout out of the carton, feeling incredibly foolish for investing so much energy into something that others would consider trash. But slowly, piece by piece, the resistance began to soften. There is a profound intimacy in restoring something yourself. When you buy a new product, you are a consumer. You swipe a card, you sign a receipt, and then you wait for delivery. The transaction is cold and distant. But when you restore an old bicycle, you become a participant. You learn its language. You discover that the left pedal unscrews clockwise, which always trips me up, no matter how many times I check the instructions. You learn that the brake cable needs a specific amount of tension—not too loose, or you’ll skid; not too tight, or you’ll lock up. You feel the weight of the steel in your hands. You smell the oil and the dust. These sensory details anchor you in the present moment in a way that scrolling through Amazon never will. In our podcast episode last month about designing a workspace that loves you back, we talked about creating environments that support your mental clarity. I think restoration is the physical equivalent of that. It forces you to slow down. You cannot rush a rusted bolt. If you force it, it snaps. You have to apply patience. You have to use penetrating oil and wait. You have to trust the process. This slowness is counter-cultural, yes, but it is also deeply healing. It reminds us that we are capable of fixing things. In a world where everything is disposable, choosing to repair is an act of rebellion. It says, 'I value this object enough to give it more life.' It shifts your identity from someone who consumes to someone who creates. And that shift changes how you move through the world. Now, I know what some of you are thinking. Bernadette, isn’t this inefficient? Why spend fifty hours and twenty dollars on parts when you can buy a reliable hybrid for three hundred bucks? Let’s talk about efficiency. Efficiency is important, sure. But is it the most important value? I believe comfort is king, but style is queen. And true style, the kind that lasts, is rooted in authenticity. A new bike might be efficient, but it doesn’t have a soul. It doesn’t have a story. When I finally got that old bike rolling, it wasn’t perfect. The gears still occasionally slipped when I hit a steep incline. The paint was patchy, revealing layers of green from the nineties beneath the black. But it rode beautifully. It felt alive. Every creak of the frame, every hum of the tires on the pavement, was a conversation between us. I knew exactly how it handled because I had tuned it. I knew exactly how hard to squeeze the brakes because I had adjusted them myself. This knowledge created a bond that a factory-fresh machine simply cannot replicate. It made the ride personal. And in a lifestyle that often feels standardized, having something that is uniquely yours—that reflects your effort, your patience, your choices—is a rare luxury. It’s not about being cheap. It’s about being intentional. It’s about choosing quality over quantity, longevity over trendiness. When you restore something, you are investing in a relationship with an object that will likely outlast you. That’s a different kind of wealth. Of course, I have to admit the fear. The fear that I would break it further. The fear that I would waste my weekend on a project that ended in disappointment. We are so conditioned to succeed immediately that failure feels like a moral failing. If I tried to fix the bike and couldn’t, what does that say about me? Am I not handy enough? Am I not smart enough? But here is the truth: failure is part of the process. I stripped a screw. I bent a spoke. I misaligned the derailleur twice. Each mistake taught me something. I learned to read the metal. I learned to ask for help when I needed it. I learned that it’s okay to not know everything. In fact, admitting ignorance is the first step toward mastery. This mindset applies to so much more than bicycles. Think about your wardrobe. Think about your home. How many items do you discard because they’re slightly imperfect? How many projects do you abandon because they didn’t turn out perfectly on the first try? Restoring the bike taught me to embrace the imperfections. The scratches on the frame aren’t flaws; they’re history. The slight wobble in the wheel isn’t a defect; it’s character. When we stop fighting for perfection, we start appreciating reality. And reality, messy and complex as it is, is where the magic happens. It’s where we find ourselves. It’s where we connect with the materials of our lives. So, if you’re standing in front of something broken, resisting the urge to throw it away, I encourage you to take that first step. Don’t worry about the outcome. Worry about the attempt. Because in the attempt, you will find more than just a working bike. You will find a version of yourself that is resilient, patient, and deeply capable. So, what does this mean for you? For today, for tomorrow, for the rest of your week? I want you to look around your space. Really look. Is there something that’s been gathering dust? A lamp with a frayed cord? A chair with a loose leg? A journal full of blank pages that intimidate you? See if you can make it yours. Take it apart. Clean it. Try to understand how it works. If it breaks, that’s okay. Fix it. If you can’t fix it, donate it with gratitude. The goal isn’t necessarily to save money, though that’s a nice bonus. The goal is to reclaim your agency. To remember that you are not just a passive observer of your life, but an active participant. You have hands. You have skills. You have curiosity. Use them. Let’s be real for a second: we spend so much time curating our images for others. We polish our profiles. We organize our closets for Instagram. But how often do we pause to truly inhabit the spaces and objects we own? How often do we touch them with intention? This bicycle project changed my relationship with my garage. It’s no longer just a storage unit; it’s a workshop. It’s a place of creation. And that shift in perspective ripples outward. When I ride that bike now, I don’t just feel wind in my hair. I feel pride. I feel connection. I feel grounded. Make it yours. Not just the bike, but your life. Your style. Your home. Take the time to restore what matters. The rest can wait. And when you’re ready, I’d love to hear what you’ve been fixing. What’s the one thing in your life that you’ve chosen to repair rather than replace? Tell me in the comments. I’m listening. Thank you for spending your evening with me. I hope you leave your screen and go touch something real. Until next time, keep it simple, keep it honest, and keep riding. Love you.