bikes matter

Given that I've been a cycling nut for the better part of two decades, it might come as a surprise that I haven't owned more than six bicycles. It started in primary school when I got a compact blue single-speed that was foldable. I never folded it, but I rode it everywhere in the environs of our town and took it with me when I went away for high-school. There, it disappeared.

That didn't matter because I had already got a proper cycle, a single-speed again, but larger. Continually upgraded, the bike morphed into a tourer that took me to Hungary one summer and to the western edge of France the next. When I left for college, it disappeared.

That didn't matter because I had splurged on a proper road bike, a budget-price Cannondale with more drool than the tag justified: Clipless pedals, oversized aluminum frame, integrated shifters. I rode it in the hills around college and discovered the Tour on TV. When I crossed an ocean to go to grad school, I had to leave it behind.

That didn't matter because Utah was made for off-roading. I bought a proper mountain bike, another stellar bargain, and went head first down the Roller Coaster and the Bobsled. A year later I had swallowed so much dust that I brought my road bike to Utah for more civilized fun and promptly had it stolen outside Orson Spencer Hall.

That didn't matter because I found a replacement that exceeded the original in all aspects save the label on the frame (which was the same) at a bike swap a few months later. For the next five years I ripped myself to pieces with these two rides. When I went to Grenoble, they came with me despite the hassle, but the mountain bike was quickly stolen from my basement.

That didn't matter because in Grenoble the road bike ruled supreme, conquering the steeps up and down. For riding around town I got a vomit-green Motobecane that was older than me and in worse shape. Its feeble breaks promised prospective thieves certain death at the next intersection. The bike was so fragile that I abandoned it in front of the train station when I left for London.

That didn't matter because by that time the second Cannondale had neared the end of its life. It couldn't serve a higher purpose than commuter beater and took me to work almost daily, with a creaking bottom bracket and a whining chain. Battered from years of faithful service, it wasn't not a looker anymore.

It wouldn't matter if the bike died on me because there are Boris bikes all over town, sturdy cycles that are rentable by the hour upon insertion of a electronic key, perfect for a quick hop. The convenience is priceless and renting free if the bike is returned within the first half hour. I've been making good use of them already.

The other day, I found my account suspended. The telephone wallah told me of an incomplete journey. My last bike return hadn't registered. The bike was missing, and now it counted stolen. I was concerned about the financial ramifications. After all, I had responsibility for the bike.

"That doesn't matter", I was assured. "There are still a few problems with the system and we believe you didn't take the bike. We'll reenable your account and let you continue as before. We want users to benefit from the system and enjoy the bikes."

As I rode home from work today, my head bent forward to get the horizontal sun of a late afternoon out of my face, I contemplated the odd collection of bikes in my life. There was no rhyme and only the faintest reason, a succession powered by chance. Over the years, there was only one thing that never changed: When I have a bike, not much else matters.