If I think of an object that I no longer have but that continues to accompany me in my memories and thoughts, I immediately think of that bicycle... Not a mountain bike, but a classic men’s bike from the ’60s and ’70s, light blue in color with lettering faded by the years and a rickety bell but of the really old kind. What made it special is that it belonged to my grandfather. I originally had a mountain bike as a kid, then it was stolen by some vile bastard and from that moment I never wanted any new bikes again, at that point my grandfather gave me his since he was too old by then to ride it around.
In elementary school and middle school it was my world. I went to and from school with it, time to have lunch and do homework and I went straight out. I pedaled to the park where we classmates always met, the usual troublemakers, strictly all on bikes. I remember the improvised races to the streetlight at the end of the road, the contests to see who could ride around without hands on the handlebars, the falls, hide and seek starting off in a rush on the saddle. That bike was heavy, not very functional and not even that great but it was mine and I was attached to it.
In high school it maintained its unfailing presence, the distance traveled increased since the school was farther away but not the substance. I used it to go back and forth, and then to play soccer on the field in the neighboring town, by then we were too old for children’s games. Sometimes there were three or four of us pedaling in a line, fooling around, shouting, classic teenage stupidity. And here too I was almost always in the saddle.
At university it became a practical choice. Even though I had a license using the car was a disaster between traffic and nonexistent parking. So the only reasonable choice was to end up in the slaughterhouse of packed buses or take it again and pedal. The saddle had to be replaced as well as the brakes but it carried me back and forth and did its job.
Then in the end it had to give up, the years were really taking their toll on the materials and the frame and by then fixing it and putting everything in order was too expensive, it would have been cheaper to buy a new one. Almost fifty years of honorable service between my grandfather and me.
It was not just a bike, it represented the freedom of afternoons, being able to go wherever you wanted even though you were too young to have a car, the passing of years and of life in its various stages. And even if it is no longer in my garage, inside me I always carry it with me.
Random photo taken this weekend
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