Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Bicycle Shop

Episode Date: May 2, 2022

Our story tonight is called The Bicycle Shop and it’s a story about a dream that finds its time and place to come true. It’s also about shiny chrome bumpers, a mug of coffee drunk in the quiet of the shop in the morning and what can happen when you stop waiting to feel ready. Order the book now! Get our ad-free and bonus episodes.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grownups, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Before we settle in tonight, I want to tell you some exciting news. For years, you've asked me for a podcast to help you start your day. Something to put you in a good frame of mind and help you feel focused and centered.

So I've used my 20 years of experience as a yoga and meditation teacher to create First This, a short meditation and mindfulness podcast. The first episode is up and waiting for you now. You can subscribe through the links in our show notes or just by searching First This through your podcast app. There will be a new episode every week, and I hope it will be useful and enjoyable for you.

Now, busy minds need a place to rest. And that's what the story I'm about to tell you is. A sort of oasis away from the rest of the world. By following along with the sound of my voice and the simple shape of the story, you'll shift your brain activity in a way that will let you sleep. And the more you do it, the stronger and more reliable that response will become.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. Now, it's time to turn off the light and set down anything you've been looking at. Get comfortable. You have done enough for today. Really, it is enough. Now it is time to rest and I'll be here taking the next watch so you can completely let go.

Let's take a deep breath in through the nose and a soft sigh through the mouth. Nice. Do that one more time. In and out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Bicycle Shop. And it's a story about a dream that finds a time and place to come true. It's also about shiny chrome bumpers, a mug of coffee drunk in the quiet of the shop in the morning. And what can happen when you stop waiting to feel ready? The bicycle shop. In the winter, I'd noticed the storefront. Across from the flower shop. I'd been buying a dozen roses,

but that's another story. I'd stepped out with them in my hand and seen the for lease sign in the window and made a beeline over to press my nose against the glass. I peered in. The day was snowy and gray, and in the dim light I could only see a dozen feet back into the space. But I could make out the wide plank wood floors. In decent shape, they might need a little work. A long counter against one wall,

and tilting my face up and squinting a bit, high tin ceilings. I rested my hand on the doorknob an old brass one that was carved and an old-fashioned oval rather than round. It felt right in my hand and I imagined unlocking this door each day and turning on the lights and making this place mine.

Does everybody have this dream? To some extent, at least. A shop on a bustling downtown street. Your sign hanging over the door. Your favorite things set out on the shelves to share with others. I'd carried this dream for years. It had started in my garage

when I'd brought home some vintage bikes from a yard sale and spent a few weeks buffing their chrome bumpers with fine steel wool and straightening their bent spokes. On sunny days, I worked with the garage doors open, and my neighbors followed along with my progress while they walked their dogs or jogged past. And when I was done, when they had new baskets and bells

and their saddles were buffed and shiny, I rolled them down the driveway and set them, propped on their kickstands, in the front yard. By the end of that day, I'd sold them and had two others brought in for repair and restoration. It had gone on like that since then. I did a few at a time, working when I could and learning a lot along the way. Some of the bikes I worked on were old. They might have been first ridden by my grandparents.

And others were newer, but had been ridden hard and needed repair. Ever since that first sail, the day with the bikes on the lawn, I carried the idea, the dream, really, of a proper shop where I could sell all sorts of bikes, new and old, take in some for repair, and maybe even teach people

how to do simple repairs for themselves. I'd even doodled some ideas for a logo in a notebook in my garage. So that day, when I stood with the roses in one hand and the brass doorknob in the other and looked into the storefront, I didn't think twice. I just had a feeling it was time. I didn't know how it would all work and I was a little nervous, yes.

But I thought of a piece of advice a friend of mine had given me a while back. Stop waiting to feel ready. I'd called about the storefront that day, and a week later I was signing the lease, making a punch list of tasks to tackle, to turn the space into what I wanted it to be. I painted and changed out light fixtures. My doodled logo was up in the front window and on cards by the register.

I'd put an ad in the paper looking for old bikes for sale, and soon I had more than I could take. There was a small but sufficient workspace in the back of my new shop, with a garage door that opened onto the alley, and I brought in my benches and tools. I spent an enjoyable day with music playing while I worked, to hang my wrenches on the new pegboards and organize my toolboxes so they were neat and ready. The front of the shop had certainly taken more than a day. But I'd enjoyed that too. I picked out my favorite bikes to put in the window,

and with some help hung lots of others from those high ceilings. I had displays of baskets and repair kits and flyers for our first do-it-yourself workshop. And as I worked, people walking by would point out the shop to each other from the sidewalk, or poke their heads in through the propped-open door to ask when we'd be opening. It was a lovely feeling to know my shop was wanted, a reason for excitement in our little village. Opening day had been a blur, lots of folks coming to look and some to buy.

I'd had the bakery make up a big tray of cookies to set by the register, which always helps. And now cookies were part of every Saturday at the shop. I kept a coffee pot by the register, too. And though I was usually the only one who partook, I had a few spare mugs, and I was happy to pour for customers who wanted to take their time as they perused. Talking about bikes and riding in my shop with a cup of coffee in my hand quickly became a favorite part of my day.

Then a customer had an idea. It seemed our village was full of bicycle enthusiasts. Why not have a spring ride? We could meet here at the shop and follow a planned route and meet new friends and if it was a hit well maybe we'd do them regularly

through the summer. I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it myself. I told each customer about it for weeks, handing out flyers and hoping for a good turnout. This morning, as I rode my bicycle from home and parked it in the rack by my door, I thought we'd picked a good day for it. Sunny and warm, but not humid.

We'd need sunglasses, but not sweaters I wasn't really opening the shop today as I'd be riding right along with all the others but I still went in and made a pot of coffee and turned on the lights. I liked watching the other shops on the street go through their own morning routines. Sandwich boards going out onto the sidewalks,

and folks chatting to each other as they swept their front steps and flipped their open signs. It was a sort of fellowship to be a shopkeeper, and I was happy to have been welcomed into it. I set my coffee on the counter and picked up my clipboard. going up and down the aisles, checking inventory and making notes. That's when I heard the bells ringing, lots of them, bicycle bells, some of which I had sold and installed myself.

As riders streamed down the street to my shop. I sat down my clipboard and stepped outside with a big smile on my face. Within a few minutes, we had nearly 50 riders. And I reached for that old brass doorknob and pulled it shut, locking the door behind me. Someone blew a whistle

as I clipped on my helmet, and we were off. The bicycle shop. In the winter, I'd noticed the storefront, across from the flower shop. I'd been buying with them in my hand and seen the for lease sign in the window and made a beeline over to press my nose against the glass. I peered in. The day was snowy and gray.

And in the dim light, I could only see a dozen feet back into the space. But I could make out the wide plank wood floors in decent shape. a long counter against one wall and tilting my face up and squinting a bit high tin ceilings I rested my hand on the doorknob an old brass one I rested my hand on the doorknob,

an old brass one that was carved, and an old-fashioned oval rather than round. It felt right in my hand. And I imagined unlocking this door each day and turning on the lights and making this place mine. Does everybody have this dream? To some extent, at least. A shop on a bustling downtown street.

Your sign hanging above the door. Your favorite things set out on the shelves to share with others. I'd carried this dream for years. It had started in my garage when I'd brought home some vintage bikes from a yard sale and spent a few weeks buffing their chrome bumpers with fine steel wool

and straightening their bent spokes. On sunny days, I worked with the garage doors open and my neighbors followed along with my progress while they walked their dogs or jogged past. And when I was done, when they had new baskets and bells and their saddles were buffed and shiny. I rolled them down the driveway and set them propped on their kickstands in the front yard. By the end of that day, I'd sold them and had two others brought in for repair and restoration. It had gone on like that since then. I did a few at a time, working when I could, and learning a lot along the way. Some of the bikes I worked on were old.

They might have been first ridden by my grandparents. And others were newer, but had been ridden hard and needed repair. Ever since that first sale, the day with the bikes on the dream, really, of a proper shop where I could sell all sorts of bikes, new and old, take in some for repair, and maybe even teach people how to do simple repairs for themselves. I'd even doodled some ideas for a logo in a notebook in my garage. So that day, when I stood with the roses in one hand and the brass doorknob in the other, and looked into the storefront, I didn't think twice. I just had a feeling. It was time. I didn't know how

it would all work. And I was a little nervous, yes, but I thought of a piece of advice a friend had given me a while back. Stop waiting to feel ready. I'd called about the storefront that day, and a later, I was signing the lease, making a punch list of tasks to tackle, to turn the space into what I wanted it to be. I painted and changed out light fixtures. My doodled logo was up in the front window and on cards by the register. I put an ad in the paper looking for old bikes for sale, and soon I had more than I could take. There was a small but sufficient workspace in the back of my new shop,

with a garage door that opened onto the alley and I brought in my benches and tools. I'd spent an enjoyable day with music playing while I worked to hang my wrenches on the new pegboards and organize my toolboxes so they were neat and ready. The front of the shop had certainly taken more than a day, but I'd enjoyed that too. I picked out my favorite bikes to put in the window, and with some help hung lots of others from those high ceilings.

I had displays of baskets and repair kits and flyers for our first do-it-yourself workshop. And as I worked worked people walking by would point out the shop to each other from the sidewalk or poke their heads in through the propped open door to ask when we'd be opening it was a lovely feeling to know my shop was wanted,

a reason for excitement in our little village. Opening day had been a blur, lots of folks coming to look Opening day had been a blur. Lots of folks coming to look, and some to buy. I'd had the bakery make up a big tray of cookies to set by the register, which always helps. And now cookies were part of every Saturday at the shop. I kept a coffee pot by the register. And though I was usually the only one who partook. I had a few spare mugs I was happy to pour for customers who wanted to take their time as they perused. Talking about bikes and riding with a cup of coffee in my hand quickly became a favorite part of my day.

Then a customer had an idea. It seemed our village was full of bicycle enthusiasts why not have a spring ride we could meet here at the shop and follow a planned route and meet new friends. And if it was a hit, well, maybe we'd do them regularly

through the summer. I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it myself I told each customer about it for weeks handing out flyers and hoping for a good turnout this morning as I rode my bicycle from home a good turnout. This morning, as I rode my bicycle from home and parked it

in the rack by the door, I thought we'd picked a good day for it. Sunny and warm, but not humid. We'd need sunglasses, but not sweaters. I wasn't really today as I'd be riding right along with all the others. But I still went in and made a pot of coffee and shops on the street go through their own morning routines. Sandwich boards going out onto the sidewalks. And folks chatting to each other as they swept their front steps and flipped their open signs. It was a sort of fellowship to be a shopkeeper,

and I was happy to have been welcomed into it. I set my coffee on the counter and picked up my clipboard, going up and down the aisles, checking inventory and making notes that's when I heard the bells ringing lots of them bicycle bells some of which I had sold

and installed myself as riders streamed which I had sold and installed myself, as riders streamed down the street to my shop. I sat down my clipboard and stepped outside with a big smile on my face. Within a few minutes, we had nearly 50 riders, and I reached for that old brass doorknob and pulled it shut and locked it behind me. Someone blew a whistle as I clipped on my helmet,

and we were off. Sweet dreams.