Shed A Quiet Tear

The loss of a bike is always a sad thing. Whether it be through theft, neglect, vandalism or a crash, it hurts to see a bike you once loved and rode suddenly removed from your life. Sure, it may still sit in the garage or the shed as a reminder of the good times shared but it’s never quite the same again. I’ve seen it happen to others, with cracked frames being quietly ridden home, or brought into the shop for that second opinion and sad confirmation. There’s been tales of frames bent by drunken strangers, wheels kicked in by yobbos, surprise hits from cars and headlong runs into trees.

I always hoped it would never happen to me. It’s about to.

But this is no split second trashing, no tearing away from unprepared hands. This is a parting I know is coming, that I know has to come, for my own safety and for the good of all involved.

Two years ago I walked into Cyclingo (prior to working there) and asked John if he knew of any track bikes or parts that might be available. His initial answer was ‘no’, but at the last minute he remembered an old frame he had lying about at home. The next day I took a look at it, and walked away with what was to be my first fixed gear bike. It was an absolute beauty. Initial plans to sand and paint whatever frame I got were scrapped, due to the beautiful silver-blue paint, hand pinstriped and lettered. Big, strong red lettering declared it a KEN SELF. Fine lugs, Campagnolo track ends and fork tips, and paper-thin Ishiwata tubing ranked it amongst some of the nicest vintage frames around. When it was finally built after months of trawling Ebay, local bike shops and well known internet sites it came into its own. The angles were awesome. It was fast and responsive, perfect for playing in traffic. You could stomp on the pedals and rocket out of the lights, leaving cars behind and opening a clear street ahead. It would duck and weave like a dancer, and wet nights always ended up in skids half a block long. It’s been my favourite bike to ride, and has taken me across the city (and to the pub) more times than I can count.

Alas, all such things must end. The road was the wrong place for it. It should have been left on the track, elbowing its way through a pack and taking out the sprint finish in style. It should have been built lighter and faster, with the best components around, and taken to glory. The mud, rain and dirty streets probably wasn’t the best place for it. A rider filled with beer was always going to be just a little careless. The recklessness of alleycats did not bode well.

But it soldiered on and punched hard every time. For every near miss and close call there was the resulting adrenaline rush and stupid grin. For every 65 inches rolled with each rotation of the pedals, it held its own and gave me everything it had. Until one fateful post-alleycat booze ride brought it to an end.

It was an abrupt stop, and everything seemed fine. There was hardly even any blood. Everyone walked away laughing. A flat tyre, a few bent spokes and a quick check of the fork. She’ll be right, no damage, didn’t even scratch the paint! Denial’s a prick. I didn’t want to look closer. I knew something was a little wrong, but a closer examination didn’t seem desirable. Everything was fine until it went into the work stand this evening. A glance at the front of the bike from an angle slightly different to usual and it all became apparent. There it was, the bulge in the down tube, the kink in the top tube. Stand back and double check, yep, still there. Run a finger along the tubing, confirm it all.The frame’s bent.

It was too good to last, and I knew it all along. Ever since getting that bike I’ve been telling myself that it was meant to be hung on a wall or taken to the board. It felt so perfect for the street, but it was always on a fine wire.

The worst part is knowing that I can still ride it. That I have been riding it. It hasn’t ruined the fun of the bike at all. But when the tubing’s so thin, it doesn’t take much of a tap for things to get worse, fast. The truth was, the salad days were over.

So it’s with regret that the Ken Self is to be finally laid aside. I wish it could have been done without cause. It would have been nice if it was a voluntary retirement. Hell, I’ve even got a new frame on the way. But it wasn’t meant to be. So the new bike’s on the fast track, and the faithful steed will ease its way into retirement with some commutes to work and slow strolls into town. From then it will take its place on the wall, to forever watch and remember.

Good bye bike, you’ve been the best I’ve had! I’ll pour a bidon on the footpath in memory.