Things were looking grim, but one day a guardian angel showed up in the form of Tree, God of All. As you probably guessed, Tree, God of All (usually shortened to “Tree God,” or “Tree”) wasn’t his real name. His real name was Robert McKirdie, but nobody called him that. In fact, I don’t think very many people even knew that was his name. I knew Tree God from Georgetown, CO. He was at least 10 or 15 years older than I was, but we were friendly. His murky history included a stint as a railroad worker on the Rock Island Railroad, but I never knew much about his past.
Tree God showed up in San Diego, living in his van. This aging vehicle only had one seat (the driver’s seat), but he’d put a swiveling office chair, with plush upholstery, in the passenger’s spot. In the passenger’s seat, you had to brace yourself when he accelerated or braked, because the chair would roll around on the shag carpet that covered the floor.
He appeared to be on an aimless vacation, and he brought me along for his adventures to places like Mission Beach and Balboa Park, which provided much-welcomed distraction from my meager existence.
After a few weeks, Tree decided to stay in San Diego. He got a job as a truck driver for Atlas Hotels, at the bakery in the Town and Country Hotel, which was the largest hotel in San Diego at the time, and its main convention center.
Since I’d grown up working in restaurants, Tree urged me to apply for a job there as well, and he gave me a ride to their employment office. I got the job! Now I was now making $5.00 an hour working as a dinner cook at Crystal T’s Emporium at the Town and Country Hotel.
Tree was working the early morning shift. He got off work by 2:00 or 3:00 pm, and I had to be at work around 4:00 pm. For a couple weeks, every day he’d drive to the Hotel Lamont and pick me up, then take me to work, and pick me up after work. He was still living in his van, and it didn’t matter much where he parked it, but driving me to and from work was becoming a burden, so Tree suggested I get a bicycle.
We cracked open the want ads in the San Diego Union (remember want ads?) and found an early 70s Schwinn 10-speed for $10, way out in Lemon Grove. We drove there immediately and bought the bike on the spot. The tires were flat, and there was visible rust everywhere.
Tree had a tool chest full of random tools, and some grease, so I carried the bike up to my room and disassembled it as completely as I could. I didn’t have any special bike tools (chain whip, cone wrenches, freewheel tool, etc.) and I remember using a pipe wrench to remove the headset and bottom bracket.
When I got everything apart, the bearings and races were rusty and pitted. All the bearing cages had almost completely disintegrated. I cleaned everything with steel wool and gradually put everything back together. I didn’t have enough bearings, because I didn’t have the bearing cages anymore, but I just did the best I could, and slathered grease on it all. After a few days of work, everything that was supposed to move moved (more or less), and everything that wasn’t supposed to move didn’t move, so I started riding it.
And it changed my life.
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