Yesterday, we attempted a bike ride, Boy, Number One and I. The bike ride was fine. Boy only fell off spectacularly once.( He fell out of the back door yesterday, and into the ditch the day before. It was hilarious and sad and infuriating all at the same time, hence why bike rides make me nervous.)
The weather was good for our ride – if a little chilly. We set out too late, though. And so the mission to ride along the old railway to the next village was aborted half way. We will try again next week.
We passed a few people – at a safe distance of course, nodded hello to most of them, and carried on our way. The terrain was ok, mostly, until I decided we’d cut across the fields and home, so as to avoid retracing our steps. Oh, how I hate retracing steps!
But, dear friends, there was a problem. An ongoing problem: the quality of our bikes. There is a reason why I’d always rather run than cycle. Our bike fleet (large though it may be) consists of all the rejected, broken two-wheeled offerings Big Seymour gleans from the local scrap yard. He returns periodically from work, having been to the “scrappy” on the way home, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he unveils his latest find from the depths of his enormous van.
Some of these bikes look snazzy – don’t get me wrong. They sport jazzy colours and magic hanging suspension. They have gears and everything! One or two even have a working brake each.
But it is hard work cycling across fields and bumpy paths even with working gears and fully-aerated tyres. Imagine trying this with one low gear, a wibbly-wobbly wheel and seats that feel like broken bricks up your arse… not easy.
On the home straight, up a grassy field where all three of us had given up and were pushing, I said to Boy Seymour how nice it would be to try this adventure with a really expensive, state-of-the-art bicycle. He, of course, knows exactly the type of bike he’d have: it is called an E-bike apparently. Semi motorised, light as a feather and with a seat like gossamer. Ten grand, they cost.
But there are advantages to a cheap old metal steed. If I had spent actual money on one, I certainly wouldn’t want to chuck it over metal farm gates and lug it up and down steps on bridges over the River Adur. These old bikes are up for a bit of abuse.
And whilst I dread Big Seymour arriving home and telling me he’s got something in the van (in the past he’s had mobility scooters, potted bay trees, stained glass windows, and my favourite – the odd tumble dryer in there, all of which need storing somewhere), there is something about the child-like glee on his face that is rather heartwarming. I had a bike that I adored as a kid – it was my pseudo pony. I expect Big Seymour did too, and free bikes were unheard of when we were kids. But it does not mean that he needs to collect every rejected heap of shite he comes across; they were probably scrapped for a reason.
So today I’m off to have a bike amnesty and offer some of them up for free, as isolation refurbishment projects, from a safe social distance, of course. Any takers?
Don’t all rush at once.
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