Bike theft, I have often postulated, should be punishable by death.  I am opposed to the death penalty and obviously this metaphor is only meant to emphasize my grande disdain for those who steal bikes.  Bikes are precious and often expensive and they are also almost never insured.  The inconvenience and sadness on a victim of bike theft’s face resembles a face of someone whom has just given up on human civilization.  The lack of humanity in the act of bike theft is massive.  All this to say, when one has a bike stolen, there is a hole in one’s soul and that’s what I had. Â
Enter Dion Owen, bearded comedian and local rapscallion of the Montreal expat community, a boisterous, cantankerous, if somewhat vaudevillian character. Â A cross between Daniel Day Louis and Mel Brooks, if you will. Â A regular stand-up, Dion also performs at Sunday Night Improv, a student of the free workshops, he is constantly grinding stage time and comedy philosophies out while helping maintain events that are a staple of our arts and comedy community.
I told my friend Mark Louch that my bike had been stolen, and he mentioned to me that “Dion hooked me up, you should talk to him.”  I began a dialogue with Dion and sure enough he listed off a million possibilities.  We set up a meeting.
Simultaneously my son was getting oppressed by society because his bike was pink, despite constant efforts on my behalf to shut down these kids who would make fun of him for riding a pink bike and my girlfriend’s insistence that we must break down the stereotyping of colours.  He came home crying a few times, but furthermore his bike was too slow and he couldn’t keep up with us so we conceded he needed a new bike. Â
Dion stepped in again, offering two bikes.  Hearing him talk about bikes is like listening to a contemporary Kerouackian hockey defensemen telling you tricks on how to get the puck of a streaking speedy left winger, an unforgettable drawl I will never forget “Oh yah I could rip up a cruiser, I got a couple beaters hanging around should be able to wrangle something up, just strip this down here til’ she’s bare then pop in a couple tie wraps for the back jack... (you get it)” And his emphasis on knowing my exact height also made me feel like I was being taken care of.  Dion’s shop is his front lawn along Melrose Street, basically a haphazard bike rack and old bikes lay strewn across the lawn as stoners and hippies and the elderly saunter around, his bombastic voice hits you as he pounds down the steps of his porch to regale you with his one-liners while explaining to you the ins and outs of his latest bike he is about to hand on to you for some wondrous price.  The bike he had for me was one he had salvaged with old parts, a pale yellow pastel frame with a beer bottle opener along the middle bar, (literally for beers), cruiser handle bars; this fixed gear bike was designed for those who do not like to rush.  It’s femininity was wondrous, I was in love.  Then my son Gustave had a gander at his new bike, and long behold it did have some pink on its frame that I hadn’t noticed.  “Je veux pas cet vélo,” he said immediately.  I convinced him to try it, and it was a bit big for him, but mostly he did not like the pink.  I began to get mad at him “Pink is awesome, I wear it all the time,” this made Gustave emotional.  I felt bad, and lamented aloud to Dion “I’m so sick of boys judging the colour pink.”  Dion put his hand on Gustave’s shoulder: “It’s not his fault, it’s society’s.  Can’t blame him.”  Dion kneeled down right at Gus.  “Hey Gus, tell you what, I’ll give you a bunch of stickers to hide the pink.  And if you don’t like this bike, bring it back and I’ll get you a new one, it’s all good bud.”  He repeated it all in a beautiful broken French and Gus was won over, nodded at Dion cautiously.  We hugged and I left his bike hovel with two new bikes.  Gustave slowly got used to the bigger frame, I spray-painted it black and had to admit the punk aesthetic created by the spray-paint was nicer than the mauve-pink colour schemata of before.  Gustave was bombing down the Lachine Canal and adored his new bike.  My cruiser was a cruiser, it zenned me out and made me a better cyclist.  Dion had made my life and family happier and in this risk of sounding like a successful self-help customer, the sublime pathos of this exchange of bikes and conversation was enough to remove the enormous stress and anxiety of our workaday world from my neurotic shoulders and re-focus my attention on the smooth beauty of a tranquil bike ride with my son.  Dion Owen Bike Repair.  If ever poems could be as powerful as a multi-million dollar ad campaign, I would pour a bunch of poems onto this crazy bike-o-phile.  Thank you Dion.
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