Boys and their toys

I bought a new bike on Saturday.  I'd been planning to for ages.  My commuting bike of the last 12 years finally gave up the ghost a few weeks ago, so I had a bike-shaped hole in my collection.  I did think (briefly) about not replacing it.  The Mrs and I had a purge of our belongings during the summer.  We also rejigged the furniture, which made the old homestead feel rangy and splendid.  Whilst I was caught up in hysteria this engendered, I thought it might be nice to thin out the number of velocipedes cluttering the downstairs.  The mood passed, however.

In fairness, I do (I suppose) need two bikes.  Should one develop a mechanical, then I always have another at my disposal, which is reassuring.  They are tools, rather than playthings for me.

The funny thing about making major purchases like this is that it doesn't excite me anymore.  When I was younger, I used to sweat cheddar finding the money for guitars and stuff.  I'd salt away tiny amounts of cash whenever I could.  I remember I used to walk down to my building society branch late at night and stare at the balance on the cash point machine, just to give myself a little frisson; my dream was getting nearer.  And on the day of the purchase itself, I'd spring out of bed hours before the shops were open and spend the morning pacing the up and down like an expectant father.

I remember in particular the joy I felt when I bought my first good guitar, a 1974 Fender Stratocaster.  After getting it home, I would sit and stare at it for hours, such was my love for it.  This was in 1986.  About four years ago, nearly a quarter of a century after that initial guitar purchase, I had occasion to buy another good guitar.  I was playing in a band with friends at the time and needed to upgrade my machine.  This experience was the polar opposite of that mid-eighties one.  I had tons of money, so I trundled up the Denmark St, tried out a few guitars, found the one I wanted, slapped down the money and simply waltzed home with it.

Even as I minced up the Charing Cross Road with it en route to the tube station, I was aware of the disappointing contrast with my teenage self walking back to Mum and Dad's with that strat.  Age and money had made me unshockable.  I could buy any production guitar in the world without feeling the financial impact, and that was the difference.  Also, the later guitar wasn't charged with future possibility and aspiration.  It was simply a rather nice object that allowed me to indulge a much-loved hobby, just like my new bike.  Sigh...

Flogging and National Service - a lesson from history

I had the saddle of my commuting bicycle stolen yesterday.  This is a first for me.  I usually escape petty bicycle theft because I carefully choose equipment that, while attractive to the aficionado, would not appeal to the casual slag and/or rotter.  It seems I was wrong about that.

The saddle was a honey-coloured Brooks B17.  That's a leather, rather old-skool lookin' beast, for those of you not au fait with bike couture.  It cost me £70, so the material loss stung a little, but worse still is the fact that leather saddles take a lot of painful miles to break in.  It takes my arse about 1,500 miles to (literally) make a dent in a new Brooks.  Until such time, it's like sitting on a house brick.  This one had 2,000 miles on the clock, so it was perfect: broken in but not yet broken down.

What surprised me most about the episode was why people (if I might use that term in this case) would start stealing Brooks saddles.  As I say, it's not cutting edge technology.  I blame the popularity of cycling, which means that ruffians now know the price of most bit and pieces.  A quick £70 saddle is now an easy score.  But it has no resale value.  People who buy expensive, leather saddles do not buy knock-off gear.  It would be like trying to fence dodgy Archers omnibus cds in a pub; your target audience doesn't exist.  And a broken in Brooks is of little use to a cyclist, unless his backside is a clone of my own.  So, no-one wins.

Another bummer (so-to-speak) about its disappearance was the fact that I had then to ride home (7 miles) sans siege.  I should point out at this point that I ride a fixed-wheel bike; this means I am unable to coast.  If the bike moves, so do the pedals.  I had to "honk", therefore, (standing-up on the pedals) all the way home, with the raucous laughter of chirpy cockneys ringing in my ears all the way.  And take it from me: riding a fixed like this is like treading grapes in a room with a four foot high ceiling.  Not fun.