I have now owned my bike for more than half my life. That's some kind of achievement, isn't it? It's been something of a constant companion over the years, some kind of glasnost-era Tamagotchi. Now it's sitting downstairs, waiting patiently for me to take it out for a run again.
It was my 15th birthday present from my parents, and I got to go to Halfords in Cardiff to pick it out for myself. It proved handy to travel around the village and air base where we lived at the time. In the summer, I would go onto the base on my own, waving my pass at the guard, to visit the base cinema for the Thursday night show, before coming home well into the evening while it was still light.
When we moved to another base in Oxfordshire, it was my first means of commuter transport, getting me to work on the base as a dogsbody for a landscape maintaince firm in under 10 minutes. I started to feel like a grown-up, going out to work for the first time, popping home again for a quick lunch, even if I spent most of the day picking up fag ends and using an outdoor hoover.
After I moved to London, it only got an intermittent airing from my parents' garden shed until I decided to bring it up to help keep fit and save money. My initial plan was to take it back after Christmas, since I'd be travelling back in the daytime and had never had any lights, but with the amount of luggage I'd have on my back I was talked out of it. Eventually, I brought it back on a Sunday evening after Midsummer's weekend. There was a five-mile journey to the railway station and a furthe two miles through Central London at the other end, the whole thing racing against the sunset, like an episode of Top Gear at the end of the series when they've run out of money. I made it, of course, but my complaints on Facebook about the state of my arse drew some raised eyebrows.
I started off going for a circuit of the surrounding area a few times a week, but was eventually persuaded by a colleague to commute. This started, naturally, in mid-winter - the best time to start anything. Wary of the major routes, I worked out a path through backalleys and residential streets which increased my journey time by nearly a third. With practice, I became more confident and took the A-route, hiding in the bus lane. I even started using it for general journeys, saving my Oyster card for poor weather, poor health or laziness.
I've had a few accidents on it, sure, but the cyclist ploughing into me on the zebra crossing and the pedestrian shoving me over were hardly my fault. Stopping at a traffic light and missing the kerb with foot managed to be more serious than either, creating challenges out of lying down and breathing. But you'll still see me, helmet on, reflectors gleaming, lights sputtering in the dark. I've been lucky enough to find a shop that does cheap repairs, since Decathlon managed not to notice some fraying brake cabling the last time I visited. Much of the bike is still as it was on the shopfloor, with only the rear tyre, inner tubes and brake cabling wearing out.
I've stated to think of my bike as a low-maintenance pet. It goes where I go. It does what I need it to, as long as I look after it. If I'm careful with it, it'll carry on lasting me far into the future. It leaves stains on the living room floor. Even though parts of it are starting to show its age, like some sagging marmalade cloth cat, I wouldn't want it any other way. I love my old bike.
However, I haven't taken the final step into anthropomorphosis. I'm not talking about that guy who was arrested for an indiscretion - did the bike phone the police? How did they know? - but that, unlike some faithful old vehicles, my bike doesn't have a name. So here's a challenge.
Suggest a name for my bike, either by comment or email, by 10pm next Tuesday. The best suggestion will win a prize. Yes, a REAL prize. Thinking trousers on.
No comments:
Post a Comment