My Bike is My Horse

I saw this very funny column in the Sunday Times on err.. well, Sunday.

The fact is, when I got my first bike (a red Vindec roadster with rattling metal mudguards, I’ve tried to trace one like it online, no luck) I was seven, and I used to imagine my bike was a horse too.

I had that bike until I was eleven or twelve. I used to love riding round in a sort of hunched up cowboyish position with one hand by my side and the fingertips of the other hand just lightly touching the handlebars by the stem. The bike was guiding itself, picking the best route down the bridal path to Cowage Brook in Hilmarton. Then a little rest and a sharp, muddy climb up the other side of the little valley, emerging filthy and gasping onto the road by Whitcomb Farm. Dodging the Nelson’s dogs running all over the road, past the decaying farmhouse of Parrot’s Farm with it’s collapsing roof and crumbling walled garden (all now fully renovated and sold on), right at the crossroads by Highway Common and mosey on back to the ranch down lanes where it was a surprise to see anything other than a tractor.

Published in: on July 16, 2007 at 10:58 pm  Leave a Comment  

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