On your bike, love.

I’ve fallen in love with an inanimate object. It’s been coming on for a while now, but yesterday it hit me.

Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not a weird fetishistic thing like those women who smear themselves with the grease from Ferris Wheels or gyrate on picket fences. Creeeepy! And it’s not an idealistic love where the mere idea of it appeals to me. No, the love I hold for my bike is not only aesthetic but entirely practical.

I never thought I could feel this way about anything that requires manual labour. My childhood death trap rusted to oblivion in my parents’ shed: a faint impression of shivering paper-runs and aching knees. Plus the thought of exercise sends me crawling (slowly) under my blankets, the traumatic experience of raw throats and burning limbs taunting me from a dark corner of the room.

The only thing I've loved enough to put a filter on
The only thing I’ve loved enough to put a filter on

So why, you may well ask, did I buy such a mechanism in the first place? Auckland is not a city where you can go for leisurely rides: it’s littered with volcanoes! Over populated by obstructive cast-offs of a bygone era where it’s impossible to bike anywhere without working up a sweat. Answer: I was spurred on by my greater hatred of the bus service and my dragon-like need to hoard what little excess cash I possess. And now I’m trapped!

It was raining yesterday so I left my bike at home. Big mistake. I was like a mother without her baby, constantly reminding myself that it would be there safe and sound when I got home. Counting down the hours until work finished and I could impatiently sit in the steaming, humid bus; narrowing the distance between myself and my precious child.

And as I returned to my pride and joy I was wondering why I haven’t given it a name. My sister and I name everything, including the road cone that sits in my living room (Coney, or even briefly Coney 2012). And you know what? I realised that if I named this trusty iron steed, then there would be no reason for me to refer to it as “My Bike”… and I love the scarily possessive sound of that!

Obsessed? Maybe. In love? Definitely. Excited to ride home this evening? Absolutely!


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