For years I was the proud owner of not one but two rather distinguished bi-peds. The first a 1920s' Joycean jobbie rescued from abandonment down the docklands on a Post Picnic session and dragged home for a fix up. The other, an inheritance from my cousin who was no doubt as well-served as I. She was probably a good thirty years old, spent more time with her chain off than on and didn't handle bumps well but if you knew how to treat her, she was never a chore. Both were tragically taken from me in their prime, I say prime because I don't think bikes ever really get too old for use, only moving on to their next life when they fall victim of theft, which is exactly what happened my lovely pair.
My new bike though beautiful, was a purchase, even though she came from an amazing home (rothar.ie) her lack of personal heritage and the fact that her presence serves a constant reminder of the untimely departure of her predecessors make her a bit of a sore point. I know this is terrible and I feel awful for even thinking it, I know if she could read this.. and had feelings she would be pretty hurt so I do feel guilty but can’t help my feelings.
I started writing this post as a tribute to my faithful departed, remembering the good times… the ride out to Seapoint for a swim, the mad dash from the Kraftwerk gig an hour earlier than needed due to botched 24hr clock reading (on my part), the constant record ferrying and the many backers. Instead in an unexpected turn all this reminiscing has started me thinking about the good times that lie ahead with my new steed. What capers will we get up to? Who will grace the backbar? How many punctures are in-store? That truly was unexpected and now I feel that perhaps the therapeutic writing of this coupled with the recent addition of a Kryptonite to the relationship will see a steadfast bond, in more ways than one.