At one with the bike.
My bike is called Alan. It is a Specialized Allez and so it is Alan. It’s close enough to be relevant and different enough not to be predictable. Most people call their bikes by girl’s names, but I have a bit of a problem with that. You see, me and my bike have a special relationship. A relationship that I don’t want to get awkward and definitely not one that I want to get in the way of my relationship with my wife. So me and my bike are mates - not lovers.
Alan and I go everywhere together. Some good times, some bad times. And he treats me well when I take care of him. It’s a reciprocated relationship. There’s probably too much focus on contact with intimate areas for it to be completely healthy, but we seem to have ironed out the kinks there after investing in a wonderful mediator (Heart Sports Bibshorts will improve any relationship between bottom and bike!).
This morning I was reminded about how I should never take Alan for granted. It was wet this morning. Not damp. Not soggy. It was biblical in its scale. The garden is still underwater after staying dry for the rest of the day!
I was pedalling the 20 mile commute in the downpour of all downpours when; whammy! My wheel hit the square edge of a pothole that was disguised as a puddle! “I’m sorry Alan!”, but Alan was having none of it. Oi! He shouted, ghost-shifting into a higher gear. “I said I’m sorry!” was my pathetic, half-drowned response. Alan just clicked, clacked and grumbled for a few seconds before getting back into the correct gear. “Thanks.”