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Gruff Guy With a Heart of Gold
By Gregory Trotter
Valley News Staff Writer

White River Junction -- On the afternoon of the first big snowfall, Bob Pickering killed the engine on the snow blower, shaking his head in disgust at the falling flakes stacking up fast.

“I've been at this … since 5:30 in the morning,” the 64-year-old grumbled.

He stomped into his bike shop in the old ProCam building at 52 Bridge St., pausing to take a pinch of tobacco from a can in his pocket, and gazed fondly at his “machines” -- about 30 bikes ranging in style, size and age -- lined up against the bare walls: American Flyers, Schwinns, Murrays, Diamondbacks, old bikes, new bikes, racing bikes and mountain bikes — most of them donated or salvaged from the dump, waiting for purchase.

Pickering seems an unlikely salesman, scowling and salting most of his statements with cuss words. His manner is not well received by some, particularly his Bridge Street neighbor at the Main Street Museum. But there are also those in the community who say Pickering provides a valuable community service by selling bikes cheap (the prices range from $30 to $100) and sometimes giving them away.

That's a point of pride for the gruff man -- a kid can get a bike for free here.

“When I was 13 or 14 years old, my neighbor gave me a bike and I loved it and took care of it,” he said, his blues eyes wide. “By the Jesus, if I can't help someone else before I'm gone, there ain’t no sense in doing it at all.”

He moved among his treasured bikes like a proud father, his tough demeanor turning to a doting chattiness. There was the tan Murray Ultra Terrain bike with new sprockets, wheels and bearings; the green 1956 American Flyer with leather seat, basket and bell; the child's wagon he painted red.

“Wait 'til you see this,” Pickering said, grinning as he lifted the wagon by the handle a few inches before dropping it back down. Blue lights fixed to the tires flashed upon impact.

“Isn't that something? Every time it goes over a bump, the lights go on.”

People bring in ruined or discarded bikes and he fixes them, matching together the working parts, Pickering said. Depending on the bike, he salvages tires, sprockets, cables, pedals -- just about anything but a bent frame or blown-out wheels.

“I'm not letting kids get hurt.”
Neighborly Discontent

Besides the bikes, there's not much in the shop -- a few tools, some extra tires hanging on the wall, a couple of camping chairs, a small stereo playing country music and plants in the window that belong to the property owner, Daniel Johnson.

When a fabric shop moved out last year, Johnson allowed Pickering to move his bikes into the large storefront.

In exchange for working out of the storefront for no rent, Pickering works as a kind of property manager -- keeping the parking lot free of snow, helping fix things, patrolling the property as a night watchman.

Pickering had a similar caretaker role under previous owners, said Johnson, who bought the property three years ago.

“I sort of inherited Bob,” said Johnson, an architect for Watershed Studio Architecture, which is also housed in the building. “I didn't see any reason to put a useful citizen out on the street.”

Before moving into the storefront, Pickering kept a few bikes and tools in a smaller space in the building's lower level.

He likely will move back there eventually, said Johnson, who is looking for a paying tenant for the space.

But Johnson said he hopes to somehow keep Pickering's bike business going, perhaps keeping bikes on display in front of the building.

“What he does is so good,” Johnson said. “I would like to keep some visibility for his bikes.”

Jim Walsh, co-owner of Paradise Sports in Windsor, has been helping Pickering with “parts and pointers” since the end of the summer.

Walsh, a Norwich resident, has also brought Pickering about six bikes he found abandoned at the Norwich transfer plant.

“What he's doing is a real service to the community, especially with prices and the amount of work he puts in. He takes bikes that were trashed and fixes them for people who couldn't otherwise afford to buy one,” Walsh said.

Not everyone is a fan. David Fairbanks Ford, owner and curator of the Main Street Museum, has been a vocal detractor.

Ford has kept a written list of numerous alleged incidents, beginning in 2003, ranging from Pickering hectoring museum-goers who were using the parking lot to Pickering hurling racist and anti-gay slurs at museum patrons and employees.

In November 2008, Ford filed “Notice of Trespassing” papers against Pickering with the Hartford Police Department. But still he feels no resolution of his problem, he said.

“I'm all for blue collar,” Ford said. “But his behavior interferes with my business in a serious way.”

Hartford Police Chief Glenn Cutting confirmed the trespassing papers were filed but said there have been no charges or issues at Pickering's shop.

“We're well aware of Mr. Pickering and his shop,” Cutting said. “There's no indication that he's doing anything that’s not on the up and up.”

Pickering flatly denies all of Ford's accusations.

Johnson characterized Ford's list of incidents as subjective and inaccurate, but he also acknowledged the possibility of Pickering making inappropriate remarks to minorities.

“He's had a rough life,” Johnson said. “He's not high on social skills. But we're working on that.

“We talk about White River being a diverse place. That has to include accepting people … who come from different social backgrounds.”
‘A Huge Heart'

Word of Pickering's bike shop is spreading.

Jay Whitehair, a Norwich resident and Hanover firefighter, has also salvaged bikes from the transfer station for Pickering after hearing about him from a friend. Before taking his 11-year-old son to the shop, though, Whitehair warned him of Pickering's swearing.

“That's just part of the deal,” he said, chuckling. “He seems to have a huge heart though.”

Liz Sunde, a Wilder resident, has taken a shine to Pickering, too. Her husband, Paul Sunde, works at Dartmouth College and the couple hopes to arrange for some of the bikes abandoned by students every year to go to Pickering's shop.

“He can be very intimidating,” Liz Sunde said. “But I'm from Maine, I'm used to the whole ‘what the hell do you want’ demeanor, followed by the heart of gold.”

She's also planning to help Pickering organize his business, cataloging his inventory and advertising, if he's OK with that, she said.

“Frankly, I think he just needs a little love,” she said.

On the day of the first big snowfall, the Pickerings offered glimpses of a challenging life.

Bob Pickering hails from Plymouth, N.H.; his wife, Elizabeth, is from Lafayette, Ind. They've been married about 20 years and are inseparable.

She helps him with the shop; they call each other “Lovey.”

Elizabeth Pickering remembered when first he showed up outside the Hotel Coolidge, where she used to work, looking for her and wearing a suit.

“I almost fell out of the window!” she said, giddily laughing, sitting in one of the camping chairs in the shop.

Not making much money, they mostly get by off of Pickering's government disability checks, he said.

He has metal rods and pins in his legs and a tube in his stomach, among other health issues. Pickering refused to discuss the cause of his disabilities.

He worked for a tree service company in Plymouth earlier in his life. More recently, he repaired small engines in White River Junction.

It is clear that the bike shop is a high point for both of them, though, and that the Pickerings take great pride in the idea of giving to the less fortunate.

Since moving into the storefront, Pickering estimates he's given away about 75 bikes.

Asked how he knows if someone really doesn't have the money for a bike, he answered pragmatically.

“If they pull in the parking lot in a rickety car, come in here wearing raggedy clothes, I know damn well to give them a bike,” he said.

His machines were all pulled inside to keep dry. Usually a few are displayed out front, the only outward indication it's a bike shop at all beyond the small handwritten sign in the window.

In the hour since he stopped snowblowing, the empty parking lot had become a thick, white carpet.

After a while, he began pacing restlessly, staring out of the store window.

And suddenly, without any goodbye or conclusion to the conversation, he bustled back out into the unrelenting snow, muttering disdain, and set back to his task.