I set out for a marathon walk today, resolved that I would not return by foot. My pockets, emptied of any loose change meant that hailing a taxi or hopping on a city bus were not options. I definitely can’t balance a skateboard and would be gambling my front teeth on inline skates in a hilly town like Notts. Since blueprints for a pair of carbon fibre stilts are still in the works, my only resort is to depart from land, and the last time I could fly was in a dream I had after watching Peter Pan on VHS. I’m a little rusty.This leaves me with only one reasonable alternative.
On this epic journey, my purpose was to pedal home.
There is no inanimate being that I miss more since my arrival in the UK than my bike.
Made inanimate only by my absence, I am certain my Cannondale – my baby – with the affectionate squeak of its hub and telling wounds from various clumsy tippings (which scar its olive skin), misses me too.
But alas, I must move on. By the end of the day I will have married my calves to a different suitor.
With a stretch of the legs and that ritual sprinter-slap of the slow-twitch sinews, I was off.
Determined, I took a beeline route to the opposite end of the city, headed west-bound toward the town of Beeston. Along the way, I stopped at Aladdin Bikes, a small shop on Ilkeston Road, where I found two mechanics, hard at work, with overalls suggesting they most definitely had the Midas Touch, only theirs would leave a fingerprint stain of grease.
I got the up and down from one of the workers who pointed out my long femurs then suggested a men’s hybrid. They always notice the femurs. I’m sure they notice the orang-utan arms too, but don’t bother to mention their primitive length. They had nothing else to offer a girl my shape and size.
Eventually they pointed me in the direction of a few other shops and I continued along a few miles, through Radford, down Derby (pronounced DArby…how annoying), into Lenton, stopping only to test ride this and that, here and there. Nothing turned my crank.
Tiring and quickly losing momentum, I began to wonder whether embarking on this epic bike hunt without a camel back and a pack of Sharkies was a good idea in the first place.
It was at this very moment of doubt that found myself on Lace Road in an area south west of the city called Dunkirk. Lace Road…this rings a bell. A buddy at uni had mentioned that the owner of a post office here sells second hand bikes out of his shop.
I made my way to the post office where I set my longing eyes on a 1995 Trek 370. Royal Blue. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on the handle bars, both sealed with the vintage Sakae Cutom kiss. Shimano RSX shifters, predecessor to the system on my beloved Cannondale warmed my heart to the stranger bike. So, I took it for a spin - and was sold. Well almost. I managed to barter the price down to 80 quid from a hundred. Then it was surely a deal.
Indeed, it was a steal, as I found out a little later in the day. My feet off the ground, I turned toward the city centre concluding my epic journey. Along the way, I stopped at Aladdin’s once again to pick up a bike lock and get their appraisal of my new ride.
Jaws dropped. The Midas men confessed that I landed a gem. In its day, the blue beauty was Trek’s top racing bike. Like boys tend to do, they started tinkering with their newest toy. Free tune up, I figured. The gears were shifting smooth, the frame was still in tact, the wheels were in line, and with a top up of air in the tires they waved me off from the front step of their shop.
I think they were near ready to pay me for letting them adore my bike for a while.
I promised to return for a mid-season tune up.
I admit, I do miss my Cannondale, clipless pedals and all. The shoe straps on my new ride are almost harder to get in and out. But I have yet to tip over, and despite the swift unbuckling of my shoe from the pedal strap, I am nevertheless feeling very attached to my Trek.
