Bikes

I can't work out why unattended bicycles swindle into oblivion and decay. It has happened to me with two of my favourite bikes; I left the countries I lived, ground and cycled at, and they slowly lost their sheen and broke and altered their frames, gears and props, as if not wanting to continue, to fight anymore. Their tyres flat, their locks missing, their lights broken as if they'd exploded from the inside out.

They weren't pretty, but their time on the road had turned them solid and fierce, and their basic shapes and styles had become suave and accomplished. We were endangered together and freed at last, and the rain and the reflection of the sky and clouds on the road at night gave us an extra charge of freshness and longing. 

 I still don't get it. I came back to the cities where I'd left them, London and Amsterdam, and there they lied: indoors, outdoors, it didn't matter, they had slowly churned and exhausted themselves. They were bereft of their stickers, metallic coating and identity; pieces were missing, questions unanswered. Their spirits broken, their boldness curtailed and spiked. 

I parted and didn't turn back for a last look, a good-bye of appreciation for old times, for good times. Just like that.