Buddy

I've always felt that people who treat inanimate objects as though they were live beings with thoughts and feelings ought to be put on some kind of medication. You know the kind. Loners who think only their stuffed toy really understands them. Sad souls who say 'good morning' to the coffee machine. But having spent so much time with no one but my bicycle for company I'm beginning to see what makes them tick. We are social creatures. We need someone to talk to, a sympathetic ear. And if there happens to be nobody around anything will do, even a chromoly frame on wheels. Tough days on the road become a bit more bearable when I tell myself that my bike is suffering as much as I am. And after a nice long ride I like to pat it on the saddle and say: 'Well done'. To which my bike replies: 'Well, I'd never have made it without you'.

Actually, it's a miracle how well we get on. When I first walked into my local bike shop two years ago I knew next to nothing about bicycles, though I thought I did, having spent a week or two browsing online bike forums for bits of relevant information. The conversation I had with one of the technical chaps who worked there went something like this. Technical chap: 'You know, those Edelux headlights are really nice, but you'd be better off buying a battery-powered headlight and investing your hard-earned cash in a Chris King headset.' (A headset is the set of bearings just above the fork.) Me, repeating what I had just read in Stephen Lord's excellent Adventure Cycle-Touring Handbook: 'A headset is a headset. I'd rather have a decent light on my bike so I won't get killed in one of those unlit tunnels they have in Italy.' Technical chap, shrugging: 'Very well, have it your way.' Two years later, I still don't know what the added benefit of a Chris King headset would be. But I do know that obscene floodlight of mine managed to convince oncoming cars in many a pitch-black tunnel to stick to their own lane. Then again, my midrange headset could snap tomorrow and send me straight off a cliff.

And that's exactly what it is

What I'm trying to say is that, even though it was a nitwit like me who picked each and every component, the team at Van Herwerden managed to build a bike that turned out to be just right. There really isn't anything I would like to change, and for someone as finnicky as I am that's quite a statement. I love the way it becomes part of my body when I click my cleats into the pedals. I love the way it darts off when the traffic light turns green. I love the way it seems to suggest the right gear when the road suddenly tilts up or down. And I love the many faces it has. When it sits against a wall, basking in the sun, there is something unmistakably feminine about its curved handlebars, the delicate geometry of its frame, the dimples in the saddle. Sometimes it behaves like a grumpy old man who can't keep quiet about his ailments. Dry-dry-dry, it groans with every stroke whenever I've neglected to grease the chain. And when I turn it upside down to fix a puncture it's like a child holding up a bloody knee, patiently waiting for me to come up with a patch.

There is only one thing that worries me slightly. Unlike me, it doesn't seem to wear out. So far, I've only replaced the rear tire, the chain and a couple of brake pads. In fact, save for a few scratches on the paintwork it still looks new. If it weren't for me it could easily keep going for another two years, and probably much longer. I haven't yet broken the news to my buddy that we're reaching the end of our journey, that I'll have to disassemble it, put it in a box and ship it home. I'm afraid it will never forgive me.