Latest / Style Project: Skincare, confidence & wellness / Why I Fixed My Old Bike Instead of Buying New | Style Project
Transcript
- I found myself sitting on the floor of my garage at 2 a.m., covered in grease, holding a rusted chain like it was a holy relic. It turns out that fixing something broken is the only way to truly understand what it means to be whole again. Let’s be real for a second. If you had told me six months ago that I would spend my Sunday evening elbow-deep in bicycle parts, I would have laughed in your face. And not in a kind way. I’m Emma-Louise, and my relationship with things has always been transactional. Buy it, use it, toss it, buy the new version. It’s a habit I picked up during those frantic years in fashion editing, where everything was fast, disposable, and utterly exhausting. But last weekend, I made a choice that felt strangely radical for someone who claims to value sustainability but rarely practices it beyond recycling cardboard boxes. I decided to restore an old bicycle instead of buying a new one. Not because I needed transportation—I take the subway or walk everywhere in this city anyway—but because I needed to remember how to care for something that wasn’t digital. You know, I’ve talked before about putting your phone outside the bedroom to reclaim your sleep. This felt like the physical extension of that same philosophy. Just moving from the virtual to the tangible. From the screen to the steel. So, here’s the thing about old bikes. They don’t just look good; they smell like history. When I pulled this ten-speed out of the corner of my friend’s storage unit, it was essentially a skeleton. The paint was peeling in strips that looked like sunburned skin, revealing the raw metal underneath. The tires were flat, cracked, and smelled like mildew. Most people would have walked away. They’d think, 'This is a project,' which is code for 'this is a waste of time.' But I sat there, running my hand along the cold handlebars, and I felt this strange pull. There’s a vulnerability in looking at something that has been neglected. It mirrors so much of how we treat ourselves when we’re burnt out. We let ourselves gather dust. We stop oiling the joints. We ignore the squeaks until they become screams. Fixing this bike became a metaphor I couldn’t ignore. I wasn’t just cleaning rust; I was practicing patience. I was learning that restoration requires a gentleness that consumerism never demands. You can’t force a rusted bolt loose. You have to soak it. You have to wait. You have to trust the process. There is a specific kind of meditation that happens when you are trying to align a derailleur. It’s frustrating, yes. It is deeply, maddeningly frustrating. But it is also incredibly grounding. When I’m working on this bike, I am not thinking about my inbox. I am not wondering if I posted enough stories yesterday. I am only thinking about the tension of the cable and the alignment of the gears. One millimeter off, and the chain skips. Two millimeters too tight, and it jams. It demands total presence. In my previous life, I used to think rest was doing nothing. Now I see that focused work on something tangible is a form of rest for the anxious mind. It shuts down the noise. I remember reading somewhere that manual labor releases endorphins similar to running, but without the impact on your knees. Sitting on my garage floor, wiping grease onto a rag, I felt a calm settle into my chest that I haven’t felt in years. It’s quiet. It’s simple. And it doesn’t require a subscription fee. Now, here is where it gets interesting, and where my pragmatic idealist side really kicks in. I didn’t repaint the frame. I didn’t hide the scratches. I cleaned it, polished it, and left the wear visible. There are patches of original blue paint next to bare chrome. There’s a small dent near the seat post where this bike clearly took a hit decades ago. Some might call that ugly. I call it honest. In a world obsessed with filtered images and curated feeds, showing the dents feels revolutionary. We are so afraid of being seen as damaged or old or imperfect. But this bike rides better now than it ever did because I respected its history rather than trying to erase it. It reminds me that our scars, our wrinkles, our bad days—they aren’t flaws to be corrected. They are evidence of a life lived. Glowing skin starts with accepting your face as it is, not fighting it. This bike teaches the same lesson. The beauty isn’t in the perfection; it’s in the integrity of the repair. Yesterday, I finally took it out. The chain hummed. The brakes held. The ride was smooth, silent, and effortless. As I pedaled down the street, passing shops filled with shiny new gadgets and fast fashion racks, I felt a surge of pride that no purchase could ever give me. I didn’t buy confidence; I built it. Bolt by bolt. Stroke by stroke. There’s a profound shift in identity when you create something rather than consume it. I used to define myself by what I owned. Now, I feel defined by what I maintain. By what I nurture. It’s slower. It’s harder. But it lasts. And that’s a luxury I didn’t know I was missing. So, if you’re feeling overwhelmed by the pace of modern life, try fixing something. Not on your phone. Something real. A leaky faucet. A torn hem. An old friendship. Find the rust, and start soaking it. You might just find yourself coming back to life in the process. Take it slow today. Be gentle with your hands and your heart. I’ll see you in the next one. Stay grounded, friends.