Goodbye, my faithful friend

13 April 2012

IT HAPPENS to every bike eventually: even if they're not actually falling apart, they get replaced. And the trusty aluminium horse that has carried me to work every day for the past four years plus was certainly falling apart.

Not only had the rear axle broken, for the second time, but when I got that fixed, my steed showed signs of persistent murkier problems. There was a horrible scrunching sound somewhere in the bottom bracket. One of the rear fork dropouts was bent (OK, so I may have made that worse when I tried to replace the mended rear wheel one night after a couple of glasses too many). And two bike shops assured me that the back block and chain were both so worn that they'd need replacing in which case I'd probably have to replace the chainring, too.

London's potholes and my negligence had taken their toll. I was looking at £120 plus about what the bike had cost in the first place.

Deciding to buy a new bike was the easy bit: within hours, Herne Hill Bicycles had checked, tuned and equipped a sleek, lighter machine, I'd handed over my credit card, and minutes later I was marvelling at its smooth gear changes. I'd like to say I haven't looked back since but for the forlorn shape of my old bike in the back yard.

I'd stripped it of mudguards, rack, wing mirror and other re-usable parts. But what to do with the rest? Putting it out for the trash just seemed an act of betrayal too far. I was uneasy about giving it away on Freecycle or to one of the charities that refurbish bikes, not wanting a worthy recipient to end up with a dangerous bike (and it hadn't felt at all good the last time I rode it).

Fortunately, London offers a much more convenient recycling option, especially rapid in our streets south of the river: you just leave the bike unlocked and wait for the neighbourhood lowlife to do the rest.

Could I do it? I felt bad but surely it would be an even more ignominious end for the bike to be standing for months or years by the garden shed. I wheeled it down my street. Goodbye, old friend, I thought, standing it against the fence at the corner of Herne Hill. And then - don't be bloody silly, it's only a chunk of metal.

I stopped off to buy food for lunch and the papers; 15 minutes later I turned back into my street. The bike was gone, cleaned up as surely and swiftly as a buffalo carcass on the savannah by the local vultures. I hope they're proficient mechanics.

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