It's my job. It's not a hobby, it's how I put food on the table

Host:
The night hung low over the city, a grey drizzle coating the empty streets in liquid silver. Inside a dimly lit garage, the buzz of a fluorescent light flickered against metal walls. Oil stains painted the floor like the memories of hard labor. A single bike leaned against the concrete, its frame sleek, its wheels still spinning softly, as if it too was breathing.

Jack stood by the workbench, his hands blackened with grease, his eyes cold and focused. Jeeny sat on an overturned crate, her hair damp from the rain, her fingers curled around a chipped mug of coffee. The air between them was thick, not with anger, but with something heavier — truth.

Jeeny:
“You keep fixing that bike like it’s a living thing.”

Jack:
“It is. It’s my job. My ride, my bread, my life. Without it, there’s no home, no food, no tomorrow.”

Jeeny:
“But do you ever stop to think what it means, Jack? You sound like a man chained to his own machine.”

Jack:
“Maybe that’s what being alive means, Jeeny — to be chained to something that keeps you moving. Like Mark Cavendish said, ‘It’s not a hobby. It’s how I put food on the table for my family. I have to be on a bike.’ He wasn’t talking about freedom; he was talking about survival.”

Host:
The light above them hummed and buzzed, throwing shadows across Jack’s face, carving lines of weariness. The sound of rain deepened outside, tapping on the metal roof like a heartbeat.

Jeeny:
“You call it survival, but I call it sacrifice. What’s the point of putting food on the table if you never sit down to eat it with the people you love?”

Jack:
“You think it’s that easy? You think we all have the luxury to choose what we love? Some of us just do what we must. When Cavendish rides, it’s not passion — it’s duty. That’s what most people forget. He rides because if he doesn’t, someone at home goes hungry.”

Jeeny:
“But that’s the tragedy, Jack. When work becomes the only thing that defines a person, they start to vanish inside it. You remember my father? He worked at the steel plant for thirty years. He said the same thing — ‘It’s my job, not my choice.’ And when he retired, he didn’t know who he was anymore.”

Host:
Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly. The steam from her coffee curled up into the light, a fragile thread of warmth dissolving into the cold air. Jack’s jaw tightened, and his hands stilled over the bike chain.

Jack:
“Your father didn’t have the world chasing him down the road. Cavendish rides because if he stops, the world forgets him. You think that’s slavery? I think it’s the price of greatness.”

Jeeny:
“Or the illusion of it. You think greatness is worth losing your soul for? Look at how many have burned out chasing it — athletes, artists, workers. You’ve read about those delivery riders, haven’t you? The ones working through the night, risking their lives for a few dollars, because if they stop pedaling, they don’t eat. That’s not greatness, Jack. That’s the machine eating its own creators.”

Host:
The rain outside grew heavier, blurring the streetlights into haloed orbs. The garage door rattled in the wind, echoing like a heartbeat in the hollow room. Jack took a long breath, his eyes narrowing in thought.

Jack:
“Maybe you’re right about the machine. But tell me, Jeeny — what’s the alternative? To dream? To wait for the world to change? We’ve been told since we were kids that work gives us dignity. That it’s how you earn your place. You think Cavendish wants to be on that bike every morning? No. But he rides because his family depends on him. And maybe that’s not slavery — maybe that’s love.”

Jeeny:
“Love shouldn’t hurt like that, Jack. Love shouldn’t demand that you bleed for it every day. You talk about dignity, but what’s dignified about a system that forces a man to measure his worth by how exhausted he is?”

Jack:
“It’s not the system that gives it meaning. It’s the choice to endure it. The moment you stop enduring, you give up the right to call yourself alive.”

Host:
A sudden silence filled the garage, deep and thick. The drizzle softened, replaced by the faint hum of the city outside. Jeeny’s eyes glistened under the dim light, reflecting both anger and sorrow.

Jeeny:
“You sound like those miners from the old documentaries — the ones who said they were proud to die in the pits because it meant their kids could live better. But Jack, don’t you see? They were dying so their children wouldn’t have to make the same choice. You’re defending a world that’s built on broken backs.”

Jack:
“And what would you have us do, Jeeny? Tear down the whole thing? You think we can just stop working, start dreaming, and the bills will pay themselves? You think Mark Cavendish can just throw away his bike and the world will clap for him? He knows the truth — the world only remembers those who keep moving.”

Jeeny:
“But that’s not memory, Jack. That’s consumption. The world doesn’t remember him — it consumes him. Just like it consumes you. Every time you stay late in this garage, every time you call exhaustion a virtue.”

Host:
Jack’s fist clenched, and the wrench in his hand fell to the floor with a sharp metallic clang. The sound cut through the room like a blade, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

Jack:
“You think I like this? You think I don’t know what I’m losing? Every night I stay here, I see her face — my little girl, asleep before I even get home. You think I don’t feel that? I do. But feeling doesn’t pay for her school, or her medicine, or her dreams. My love has to wear a uniform, Jeeny — a uniform of oil and sweat. That’s my bike. That’s my way.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “Then maybe the world’s broken, Jack. If a man like you — honest, strong — has to choose between love and survival. Maybe the bike isn’t the problem. Maybe the table you’re putting food on is crooked.”

Host:
A long pause followed her words. Jack’s shoulders slumped, and the anger in his eyes softened into something heavier — acceptance. The rain had stopped, leaving only the faint drip of water from the roof.

Jack:
“You always talk like the world can be fixed. Like there’s some version of life where work doesn’t hurt.”

Jeeny:
“I don’t believe in perfection, Jack. But I believe in balance. I believe that if we forget why we work — if we forget the people, the moments, the small joys — then all this, every drop of sweat, becomes meaningless. Cavendish rides for his family, yes. But I hope he also remembers to come home to them.”

Jack:
“Maybe that’s the trick, huh? To remember the home even when you’re still on the road.”

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly) “Yes. To ride for something more than survival. To ride for love.”

Host:
The light above them flickered once more, then steadied. Jack reached for the bike, his fingers brushing over the handlebars with a kind of tenderness, not as a worker, but as a father. Jeeny rose from her crate, walked to the door, and opened it. The street outside glowed faintly under the new moonlight.

Jack stepped beside her. For a brief moment, they both stood there — two silhouettes against a wet street, watching as the city breathed again.

The bike stood silent behind them, a symbol of both burden and purpose.

Host:
And as the night wind brushed past, carrying the scent of rain and oil, they understood something quiet and profound:
that work and love, though often at war, were born of the same root — the human need to care, to endure, to create meaning out of the motion of life.

The garage door slowly closed, the light inside dimming to a final golden glow, and in that stillness, the world felt briefly balanced — as if, for one breath, both the rider and the road had made peace.