My long suffering bike passes life on the racks outside college, packed tightly with his peers. Brutally exposed to the elements and careless kicks from passing drunks, I cannot blame him for his moods. Little of his original body remains, now a Frankenstein’s monster of replacement components and industrial-strength tape. I rarely have him serviced and have not oiled him in a long while, so it is not surprising he shows his age. Nonetheless, he is my faithful conveyance for every journey, and I tenderly dig him from the inevitable mess of bikes, joining the stream of cyclists passing college.
Plugged into my walkman, hat pulled low and scarf wrapped high, little impinges on my world except the occasional suicidal Japanese tourist. I have a tendency toward day-dream and reverie, and cycling is the perfect time. Imagine if England won the World Cup. Or what if fusion power could replace fossil fuels entirely? “I’d like to dedicate this Oscar to my parents, who always believed in me.” And of course that standard musing, what will I do with my lottery winnings?
You know you’ve spent too long in Cambridge when the first purchase with your lottery jackpot would be a new a bike.