Bike number 1 was called Leonart. He was my first love in the Netherlands but unfortunately he was also purchased at an off-the-back-of-a-lorry market stall and it was only a matter of weeks until his wheels threatened to crumble with each and every push of the pedals. Plus, he had the handlebars of a mountain bike and was bullied by all the other Dutch bikes, so off he went for a better life at a bike farm far away where he could happily cycle through fields of tulips forevermore.
Bike number 2 was Heathcliffe. Appropriately named as he immediately became the bane of my life as soon as he was mine. Purchased second hand off a seemingly sweet Portuguese man, Heathcliff fell apart within the week. But, like his namesake, he of course chose to leave a path of destruction in his wake, and decided his breaking should centre around his pedals. Enormous issue when you have a bike that brakes with backwards pedalling and you're heading down a hill (read 'slight slope' outside the Netherlands). Cue feet dragging along the floor, legs hitting against said stuck pedals, and delicious bruised shins for the next few days. But did our Portuguese correspondent know this was going to occur? That remains unknown.
Number 3 was Lexi, and the one that still draws twangs of pain from my heartstrings when I think back. Lexi was black and shiny, she had a basket on her front and clever, wee friction-powered lights. She was the perfect height for me and had a bell with an attitude. All the other bikes would stare when we rode past, she was a heart-breaker. But apparently too much so, as one night she was unlawfully taken from me, padlock and all, from outside a friends place as I unknowingly tucked into my first Thanksgiving dinner inside. There's surely some kind of irony in there.
So now we're on number 4. Or 'It', as I like to call it, to keep emotional attachment at bay. Number 4 has lived a dark and exciting life, brought up amongst the back streets and dodgy dealings of the city. It is a free spirit and despite only having one brake and requiring a Jumbo carrier bag over the seat at all times to protect me from the dubious gel oozing out of the seat, we've turned out to be quite the match. That is until It had far too many tequilas on New Years Eve and decided to throw me off a handful of times on our way home from work. Always keeping me on my toes, well, my bum. But we made it home, regardless of a missing handle and of course, my further decorated shins..
Turns out when you're half-cut, cycling is very much something you can and will forget how to do. Nonetheless, the Dutchies have promised me that practise makes perfect when it comes to drinking and cycling, and with the snow that's just started falling, expect further dramatic and no doubt embarrassing accounts of the trials and tribulations of my bike and I imminently.
