It's funny how things work out but the theft of my mountain bike has been a miracle in itself.
I was, and still am, very angry at the person or persons who forced open the garage doors and grabbed my Claud Butler Cape Wrath overnight now some four weeks ago.The anger has slowly emerged after the initial dumfounded shock at being the victim of an intrusion and a whiff of smoke type disappearance.
The bike was not by any means anything of merit but it was mine and I had travelled many miles on it. I had experienced great variations in emotions from reaching the top of a steep climb to the euphoria of a white knuckle descent of the by-pass flyover.
I had also suffered many aches,pains , trials and tribulations whilst in the saddle or sat on my backside on the road or verge mending a puncture or cobbling together a mecahnical repair of sorts if only to get home.
It was actually on its way out after eight years and I had recently spent hard earned cash on keeping it on the road with a new axle and before long it will have required a major strip down and overhaul.
The funny thing is that I would find it very difficult to prove that it was mine if I came across someone riding about on it in the neighbourhood.
I was never organised enough to get it stamped with my postcode in one of those initiatives that from time to time bring the police into contact with the general public. There are some quirky aspects such as the non matching pedals, different bolts securing that problematic axle, pitifully inadequate tyres which largely accounted for my frequent stops and puncture repairs . If the inner tubes were exposed they would show an array of classic rubber patches of various shapes and colours and some high tech ones of a bright yellow elliptical shape. Perhaps those guys and gals on CSI New York could take swabs off the tubing which would contain DNA from various bodily fluids evacuated from my pores from physical exertion. That would be pretty conclusive if pretty revolting.
Apart from that, I cannot recall any particularly distinguishing features.
It was a bit abused, for example being put away after a wet muddy ride without being cleaned down. The rear gear cluster was caked up with dried soil and vegetation so that only a handful of the cogs could engage with the chain, which was also loose, rusty red and often suffered from stiff and immoveable links.
Out of an original 27 speeds I estimate that 5 were serviceable. The front changer had to be coaxed into any downward movement between the triple chainrings with a deft application of the heel of my right shoe. Any upward changing was a matter of wrestling with the handlebar mounted lever until something happened.
When out on a track, bridleway or one of those mixed pedestrian and bike paths I had no problem in alerting other users to my imminent arrival as the bike advertised my approach with a combined creaking, rattling and chafing sound. I received many shocked and dismayed looks from other cyclists at the sounds and sight of my own bike. If there had been an Esther Rantzen equivalent for mistreated bicycles I would surely have ben reported on multiple occasions.
The saddest reaction to my cacophany was from babies and young children who regularly burst into tears out of a primevil sense of self preservation.
Dogs were also, apparently, acutely sensitive to the pitch and tone of the noises emanating from the machine and would panic on the leash or just bolt off into the nearest cover.
I appreciate that I have not given a glowing endorsement of the bike on a technical level but it was just about ideal for me in my return to regular cycling after it took a back seat for me to concentrate on family and business.
I am convinced that the thief saw me out on the bike, resplendent in my team replica kit and automatically assumed that such a fit, lithe and muscley individual can only have attained that level of all round athleticism on a top of the range, multi thousand pound, all singing and all dancing model straight from the Pro Shop.
He cannot have really known much about makes and calibres of bicycles but may just have been seduced, as I had, some eight years before at its purchase by the brushed aluminium oversized tubing, sharp nosed saddle, snaking cables on the top tube and the large evocative decals.
I can only guess at his great disappointment in the early morning light of realising what he had acquired by his stealth. Secretly, I half expect to find it returned to my front garden with a damning note about not looking after it. My fantasy includes a roll of tenners or handful of Halfords Vouchers tied to the seat post to contribute towards its refurbishment .
The alternative dark dream is the delivery of a formal letter from an Accident Lawyer citing me for negligence after their Client, the malfeasant, suffered injury from the detachment of a crank which caused an involuntary dismount into the cemetery railings as he rode away into the night.
No comments:
Post a Comment