Around The Block, Around The World

An ode: to why everyone should ride a bike – everywhere, all the time – and never stop, no matter where you go…

- Telford Vice

My bicycle saves my life every day. It’s my only bike, and my only vehicle. Gears? They’re for people who want too much to think about. Hills? Bring it; I know them well. Hipster? I am hip (at least, I like to think so) and I have hips – that will need replacing from too much running and riding, if I don’t do more yoga – but I’m too bloody old by half to fake hipsterhood.

My bicycle is a roadster the colour of freshly oxygenated blood. A thing of brilliance called a VanMoof Bambooman carrier is fixed to its North Road handlebars, by the hack job of two bits of a leather belt, plus nuts, bolts and cable ties. A Brooks – which cost me more than the bike – is where my bum goes.

I love my bicycle. If some meteorological madness were to hit my home, it would be the only thing I would save on my way out. And save it I would.

What brand is my bike? Haven’t a clue. Once, someone who knows about these things took a look at the brazing and said it might be an old Raleigh. I think of it as an old bastard, like me: my father was a drug dealer, my mother a fortune teller. They were too busy trying (and failing) to stay out of trouble to get hitched.

My bike was rescued from a fate worse than rust by Emile Kotze – then of Starling & Hero in Woodstock, now of Whippet in Joburg – and resurrected and trucked to Jozi, where I used to live. Three-and-a-half years ago I moved to Cape Town. My bike was happy to go home. It told me so.

My bike has never felt the luridness of lycra. At least, never in our relationship. Cleats? I’ve had a pair since I was a kid. But they’re the kind you wear to play the gods’ own game: baseball.