A few weeks ago I noticed that Hercules, my faithful rust bucket bike, was missing from his home outside the rubbish bin. He really was on his last wheels; nonetheless, he was my freedom ticket out of the village, not being a car driver or owner. And now someone had pinched him. I don't know what goes through a thief's head at the best of times, but surely it's obvious that a bike like this is owned by someone who can't afford a better one? Apparently not. A week later I found him dumped by the bike rack outside the village Post Office, wrecked. I gave a strangled shout of 'Hercules' and rushed home to cry in Andy's arms. To some people it may seem silly to get worked up over *just a bike*. But he was more than that - he was 12 years of happy memories. A kind of diary on wheels.
Andy collected the poor old boy and after taking him apart announced that it would be too expensive to repair him, considering his age and condition. Apart from still feeling rubbish from my prolonged cold and exhaustion, this was the last straw - but I didn't realise just how miserable I was without a bike. Life went on and last Thursday we took a little picnic out to nearby Farmington, on a glorious sunny day.
To say I was lost for words would not even touch the tip of the iceberg of my surprise. I cried again - for different reasons. I've never had a new bike before and this was not just any old bike, this was a Dawes. In a slight stage of shock I remembered the liquifying nicebutveryexpensive ice cream and dolloped it out into suitably posh bowls.
The cappuccino ice cream was gorgeous and my swanky new bike - in British Racing Green - was assembled in our untidy back garden. (Excuse the washing).
And there she was, a shiny green Goddess of a bicycle; I could barely believe that she was mine. The observant will notice that she's a man's bike - I always ride a man's bike, just another one of my many unfeminine traits, along with the tattoos and army boots. (Sorry if that has destroyed my dainty image for anyone).
Being a Dawes bike, she had to be called Marjorie, after the nursery rhyme. She is the first bike that fits my 6ft properly and she is a tall girl: I can just about scramble up on her. We sailed off - wobbling slightly - on our maiden voyage round the lanes, my heart bursting with joy at having pedals again. And freedom.
Unlike dear old Hercules, she lives in the backyard under a cover, where nasty bike thieves will have to trample through the cottage over my cold, dead body before they get their grubby paws on her. As for Hercules - we have stored his frame and he is having a well earned rest. One day - we will rebuild him.
Happier days
Andy collected the poor old boy and after taking him apart announced that it would be too expensive to repair him, considering his age and condition. Apart from still feeling rubbish from my prolonged cold and exhaustion, this was the last straw - but I didn't realise just how miserable I was without a bike. Life went on and last Thursday we took a little picnic out to nearby Farmington, on a glorious sunny day.
On the way home, we picked up a carton of local/freerange/Fairtrade/allroundgoodstuff ice cream from the Cotswold Ice cream Company. I felt a lot better and we tootled home, me clutching the tub of rapidly melting ice cream. When we arrived, there was a large, flattish box waiting in the outhouse. I wondered what it was. "It's your surprise bike" answered Andy, grinning. He had noticed how miserable I was without one.
To say I was lost for words would not even touch the tip of the iceberg of my surprise. I cried again - for different reasons. I've never had a new bike before and this was not just any old bike, this was a Dawes. In a slight stage of shock I remembered the liquifying nicebutveryexpensive ice cream and dolloped it out into suitably posh bowls.
The cappuccino ice cream was gorgeous and my swanky new bike - in British Racing Green - was assembled in our untidy back garden. (Excuse the washing).
And there she was, a shiny green Goddess of a bicycle; I could barely believe that she was mine. The observant will notice that she's a man's bike - I always ride a man's bike, just another one of my many unfeminine traits, along with the tattoos and army boots. (Sorry if that has destroyed my dainty image for anyone).
Being a Dawes bike, she had to be called Marjorie, after the nursery rhyme. She is the first bike that fits my 6ft properly and she is a tall girl: I can just about scramble up on her. We sailed off - wobbling slightly - on our maiden voyage round the lanes, my heart bursting with joy at having pedals again. And freedom.
Unlike dear old Hercules, she lives in the backyard under a cover, where nasty bike thieves will have to trample through the cottage over my cold, dead body before they get their grubby paws on her. As for Hercules - we have stored his frame and he is having a well earned rest. One day - we will rebuild him.
