Today, I attended a lecture. An adventurer by the name of Alistair Humphrey’s.
My two allies had met in a bustling coffee shop. As I approached their table, tucked into the corner, set back from the rickety well-trodden stairs, it occurred to me that this was to be a wholesome evening of sophistication, stories and sobriety.
6pm, the working day done, we sat sipping back hot drinks, gesticulating over the promise of a heroic tale.
Hours later, as midnight chimed, sobriety short lived, the evening had descended into alcohol fuelled adrenaline, as we cascaded the intimacies of our imminent adventures.
My companions departed. Two wheels, wobbling as they went.
A mile and many minutes past.
I arrived at my place of work. A large steely door, behind which lay my chariot home; a limping, worn out cycle, desperate for the love of a workshop, but destined for harder times.
There loomed the stupor of a man still relishing in the discovery that fine local ale and coffee can coexist under the same happy roof.
There was a problem. The electronic pad of the electronic door required an electronic key. Four digits. The source, an email sent hours before. The message, ‘content not downloaded in full’.
Urgency. A feeling associated with the strategic expectation of relieving oneself only to be left without a key, midriff crushed by pressure, hobbling aimlessly in one direction like a fugitive wounded and on the run. The nearest pub 200 metres; a jazz bar, crowded with hustlers, hipsters and hang ons.
Back on track, ‘content downloaded’, access granted, feeling relieved, the new me grabs his steed.
Charging into the night, a feeling of invincibility swept over; impervious to anything the world could throw my way. As I approached the light, newly red, I passed a long winder bus, people weary, dozing heads rested against misty windows. A memory of a scene from a film watched the night before.
A film in which cyclists did tricks and cyclists survived.
Front wheelie.
Should I
Could I
I could
Do it
Do it now!
The trick that had escaped me as a child, ripe and ready for defeat; 20 years past.
Like William the conqueror, I charged into battle. Front brake tweaked, the back wheel lifts.
All is to plan.
Now roll. Roll 5 metres or more. Rock this wheelie. Rock it like a rocking horse. Eddie Van Halen’s rocking horse.
Roll. Roll on the floor. Failing to release the brake. Hit it too fast. Hit it too hard. A flying lesson. Flung as far as a grown man of 6ft 2 and middling years can be flung. Over the handlebars. Arms outstretched. Is tonight the night I’m to meet my mortal maker?
The hour is late. Though not so late as for no one to oversee the felling of this large, lambasted lump of lolloping lard. People stare from streets and vehicles, gasping, pointing, chortling. Some concerned; some confused, many amused.
I gather self and bike in an instant, wounded but unsure as to the extent. Numbed by alcohol, eager to depart. The bus overtakes. People stare. Moments later, the bus slows once again. We both stop. The lights do not change.
Three long minutes pass. A three minute silence. The death of my dignity.