I Must Remember There'll Be Days Like This...

My wife Susan passed on May 9th of 2025, and for the first time since August of '79, I found myself living alone without my best friend. I learned that 24 hours can feel like an eternity, and I had to start finding things to do to keep myself from going down all the rabbit holes that suddenly lined my path.

Last fall, when my son Dylan needed a road bicycle to train for the PMC he was planning to ride this summer in honor of his mother, I found a bike for him on Facebook Marketplace. I spent hours working on it, and just before the benefit ride last month, he got a flat during a training ride. I knew the tires showed some wear when I bought the bike and would need to be replaced at some point, so I purchased a set of Vittorias last year and kept them at the house, ready to go.

I picked up his bike at his house in Norwood and brought it back to my makeshift bike shop in Norton, where, in addition to installing new tubes and tires, I flipped the stem to give him a more upright riding position and adjusted the rear derailleur cable tension for crisper shifting.

The woman who sold me the bike and I became kindred spirits almost immediately, sharing in our common journeys of grief that have become major parts of our inner beings. I felt it was fate that I bought her brother Steven's bicycle. He died of cancer, and Pam was his caregiver. According to her, he was diagnosed shortly after he bought the bike, and his time on it was cut short. Selling the bike was a difficult decision, but part of her own healing process. I know her brother would be happy that Dylan's first big ride was the PMC.

I had so much fun finding that bicycle and working on it that I continued browsing Facebook Marketplace. I ended up buying two other used bicycles that needed attention, and I had a great time wrenching them too. I call it "Wrench Therapy".

Even after a bout of sciatica sidelined me last winter and kept me from riding this year, I continued browsing Marketplace. I hadn't rescued any bicycles in a while.

Then I saw that the Norwood Bicycle Depot, a local landmark, was closing after 48 years in business and selling everything. Liquidating. I browsed their ads on Marketplace and found a Giant Bowery single-speed bicycle that captured my interest. I messaged an individual named Beau, who was posting the listings, and he told me about the reduced shop hours. He said when I arrived at the shop to ask for Jeannie. I decided to get out of my house (and pajamas), head over to the bike shop, and take the bike for a spin.

On the way, I started thinking the closing of an old-time bicycle shop was sad, but if it was closing because the owner had passed, it was even sadder. As I got closer to the shop, I hoped that wasn't the case...

When I walked into the shop, it looked nothing like it did in its heyday.  Although it appeared empty, it still had the unique feel and smell of an old-time bicycle shop; a smell that only grease, chain lube, fresh rubber, and sweat can produce. A woman came out from the office in back and greeted me with a smile, and when I asked, "Jeannie?" she responded with a reassuring nod.

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All the upper-level bike racks, which appeared to have been hand-built and once filled to the brim with new bicycles, were completely empty, and only a handful of used bicycles remained on the floor, with rolling stands placed under their rear wheels to keep them upright. Before I grabbed the bike for a test ride, I had to ask, "This is such a beautifully authentic old-time bicycle shop. Why are you closing?"

Jeannie didn't hesitate. "My husband and I ran the shop together, and he built and repaired all the bikes. He recently passed, so that's why I'm closing..." It had only been three months.

After I told her about my wife, she said it had been cancer that took her husband as well, and like I had been for Susan, she had been her husband's caregiver. 

I pumped up the tires and adjusted the seatpost on the Bowery, and while I was doing it, Jeannie told me the bike had been her husband's, that he had customized it for himself, and built the wheels by hand. She said it spent most of its life on a trainer, where her husband kept it well covered so the sweat wouldn't damage any parts.

I carried it out the front door, rolled it down the homemade wooden ramp to the right of the stairs, and took a short cruise up the nearest side street. 

I could definitely feel her husband's presence in the shop, and now I could feel it on the bike. 

A few years ago I could've gotten comfortable on this bike the way it was set up, but it was a little longer and lower than my aging back could handle, and I felt a little weird buying her husband's custom-built bike, given the circumstances.

Jeannie and I talked for a while. A little about bicycle shops, but more about losing a spouse. When she talked about the shop, even in the present tense, she always said "We" and "Our". Susan has been gone for 15 months, and I still do it. It'll always be "Our house..."

On the drive home, I was conflicted. Should buying a man's custom bicycle from his widow, one he built for himself, be a deterrent? It had been for me. I figured it wouldn't be for someone else, and that Jeannie would sell all her husband's personal bikes and tools before she was forced to vacate the building on October 1st when the lease was up. The shop was downstairs, and Jeannie and her husband lived upstairs.

I kept receiving messages from Beau that the price of the Bowery had been reduced, and then reduced again. I knew Jeanie needed to sell everything for a lot of reasons, so I messaged him that I would take it...

I did a 180 and decided to honor Jeannie's husband's life by buying his bicycle and taking good care of it. It was the decision I should've made a week earlier, and I felt good that I changed my perspective and did the right thing.

When I messaged Beau Sunday morning at 10 to arrange payment and pickup, he said Jeannie was having a 'bad day', and that she'd only be there till noon. I was still in my pajamas, not having a great day myself, but I told him I could be there by 11.

When I arrived at 11, despite telling Beau she was having a bad day, Jeannie appeared happy. I assumed it was just her good nature carrying her through the day. I told her that sometimes you have to give yourself permission to have a bad day. That it's okay; there will be days like this...

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Based on our discussion during my first visit, Jeannie knew the bike was a little long and low for me, and she told me to take as many new stems as I wanted from a pile she had on a shelf. She said, "They weren't selling anyway; take as many as you want." She genuinely wanted me to be comfortable on her husband's bike. 

Beau sent me the obituary, and I learned a lot about Jeannie's husband, Douglas Marshall Tyree. He was born on February 18, 1968, in London, England, and moved to the United States, where he was raised in Braintree, Massachusetts. He graduated from Braintree High School in 1987. Later, his desire for self-expression and creativity led him to enroll at the Butera Art School in Boston.

Doug was a creative guy, an accomplished artist, and it showed in everything he did. From drawing, sculpting, and painting, to building bike racks, ramps, and bicycles.

He began working at the Bike Depot in 1995, and later, he and Jeannie took full ownership of the shop in July of 2019, running it together until Doug's passing in April of 2026.

He was patient with children who came into the shop, and volunteered his time to help maintain the fleet of Police bicycles in Norwood, a community he lived in and embraced for 27 years. He volunteered at bike safety events and rodeos, and he had a great sense of humor and could chew the fat with anyone, an added benefit of stopping in at the Bike Depot.

Doug's mantra was, "If you can break it, I can fix it." And for years, at the Norwood Bicycle Depot, he did exactly that. He helped so many people get back on their bikes.

It was written that Doug "Carried himself with quiet pride, steady determination, and a genuine kindness that left a lasting impression on those around him." I can't think of higher praise.

When I got home, I put the bicycle downstairs and leaned it up against a wall. I was gonna wait till Monday to start playing around with it, but after the Red Sox lost, I headed downstairs, hoping to avoid any late afternoon rabbit holes...

I started slow. First, I wiped down the polished aluminum frame. Then I flipped the stem to get a more upright position, which also shortens the reach a bit. I put one of my favorite saddles on it and adjusted the seat post and saddle to accommodate my position. I'm pretty sure I have it dialed in, but I won't know until I actually ride it. I installed my pedals, and was gonna call it a day...

Then I looked at the two GIANT frame decals, which were wrinkled and bubbled, but on closer inspection I realized Doug had covered them with plastic to prevent them from deteriorating from sweat. It took a while and a great deal of patience, but 90 minutes later, all the plastic and adhesives were off, and the original decals, which had been well protected, were flawless.

After inspecting the tires, I noticed they were beyond worn. Doug had this bike on a trainer and worked the rear tire pretty hard. I had a new set of Vittorias I purchased on eBay a few years ago, and this was the perfect time to put them to good use.

I was so excited about this bicycle, I installed a mini aero bar and a seat bag to complete it. 

When I finally stopped admiring the bike, I realized it really wasn't my bike. It'll always be Doug's bike. I'm just the caretaker, a curator of sorts. That's when I decided to order custom decals, making sure everyone would know at a glance exactly whose kind spirit lives on in this bicycle...

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There are still good days ahead (Well, my mama told me...)

RIP, Doug Tyree. You left an indelible mark...