It sounded like a good idea at the time. Well, it was my idea. So it must have been good. Yes? Lets go and have a look at the Moulton. For the first time. The trashed-by-a-truck Moulton. The Moulton that's been moldering in my aunt's shed for over a year.
The same Moulton that careered through the Andes and down into the Amazon basin. That tossed its rider onto the gravel on the steepest downhill track in Ecuador. That whisked along off-road tracks on its little slicks. The perky wee blue thing that raised eyebrows and a smile wherever it went. That stopped strangers in the street. That made its rider friends for life. That wasn't allowed on the London Underground. That was hooted at by smiling waving taxi drivers. Whose suspension was a godsend for anyone with a fear of White Finger.
That went over the Picos with a Thorn that continued on through Africa and is now soldiering on through the Americas. That was inadvertently offloaded from a train in York and almost didn't make it to Cuba. But did. Performing for every street musician and drumming crowd. That was scraped and dented and rarely got a puncture. That flew over the cobbled streets of Edinburgh and was dead staunch when facing off buses in Glasgow. That was allowed inside banks and museums, art galleries and cafes, and even the ESPC on the hunt for a new flat. That had pride of place in the tenement stair - resisting theft at every turn.
And whose final journey was unceremonious, violent and filthy. A dirty junction on a dirtier road. On a light grey day. The day of the Scottish Transport Awards. Oh the irony. An inconceivable end for a glorious piece of engineering. Handbuilt by master craftsmen in England. Top dollar.
I'm not sure what I was expecting. Less damage I guess. Hadn't anticipated the enormous forces that corkscrewed the frame. A folded Moulton. But the experts amongst you will know that Moultons don't fold. Well not normally. The front wheel seems true. And the seat OK. My hands shake a little as I pull it out into the daylight. Dusty and rusted. Suspension ripped apart. Gaping holes in the steel. And here's the rub. The bike is steel. And I am not. How come the bike is fucked? And I'm not?
On the return home on the bypass we sit for sometime behind an ambulance. I curse my bravado. But its done now. And in a few weeks the bits that can't be salvaged by The Bike Station will go to the great metal scrapheap in the sky. There will be no formal ceremony. Its just a bike after all. But there will be a quiet salute - and a gentle whispering of those famous lines:
A fond kiss, and then we sever;
A farewell, alas, forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!
The same Moulton that careered through the Andes and down into the Amazon basin. That tossed its rider onto the gravel on the steepest downhill track in Ecuador. That whisked along off-road tracks on its little slicks. The perky wee blue thing that raised eyebrows and a smile wherever it went. That stopped strangers in the street. That made its rider friends for life. That wasn't allowed on the London Underground. That was hooted at by smiling waving taxi drivers. Whose suspension was a godsend for anyone with a fear of White Finger.
That went over the Picos with a Thorn that continued on through Africa and is now soldiering on through the Americas. That was inadvertently offloaded from a train in York and almost didn't make it to Cuba. But did. Performing for every street musician and drumming crowd. That was scraped and dented and rarely got a puncture. That flew over the cobbled streets of Edinburgh and was dead staunch when facing off buses in Glasgow. That was allowed inside banks and museums, art galleries and cafes, and even the ESPC on the hunt for a new flat. That had pride of place in the tenement stair - resisting theft at every turn.
And whose final journey was unceremonious, violent and filthy. A dirty junction on a dirtier road. On a light grey day. The day of the Scottish Transport Awards. Oh the irony. An inconceivable end for a glorious piece of engineering. Handbuilt by master craftsmen in England. Top dollar.
I'm not sure what I was expecting. Less damage I guess. Hadn't anticipated the enormous forces that corkscrewed the frame. A folded Moulton. But the experts amongst you will know that Moultons don't fold. Well not normally. The front wheel seems true. And the seat OK. My hands shake a little as I pull it out into the daylight. Dusty and rusted. Suspension ripped apart. Gaping holes in the steel. And here's the rub. The bike is steel. And I am not. How come the bike is fucked? And I'm not?
On the return home on the bypass we sit for sometime behind an ambulance. I curse my bravado. But its done now. And in a few weeks the bits that can't be salvaged by The Bike Station will go to the great metal scrapheap in the sky. There will be no formal ceremony. Its just a bike after all. But there will be a quiet salute - and a gentle whispering of those famous lines:
A fond kiss, and then we sever;
A farewell, alas, forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!
1 comment:
A lovely obituary.
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