Life’s Magic Cycle….With Added Prestige.
Over the two preceding years, I had sampled an acutely polarised spectrum of riding disciplines and the vastly varying virtues of each.
A carbon concerto known as the “Giant Defy Advanced 1” had my chosen steed to confront the horrific realities of hard-core road cycling and had fearlessly galloped through a bleak winter of tortuous mob mentality, arcane etiquette, hailstorms, gales, Gamins and several “club socials”, the last of which had set off 12 members strong and concluded in three being dropped, two peeling off due to a dispute over the average pace, the ride leader taking a short cut, the stand-in ride leader colliding with another rider and the rest transforming the remainder of a supposedly convivial Sunday cruise into a savage pilgrimage of interval training before bidding a breathless farewell with not a millisecond to muse over a macchiato.
If the participants in such relentless masochism could legitimately claim it to embody cycling’s fathomless benefits, theirs’ was a fearful world I desired no part of. In desperation to rebel against the Velominati’s tyranny, decimate its insidious ideology and convince myself that progress without pain could evoke equal euphoria, I had defiantly turned to tradition.
A Steely symphony derived from Pashley’s pedigree was to reacquaint me with the pastoral pleasures a bicycle could bestow. Nobly and with casual assuredness, this quintessential marvel of English engineering had cruised its native coast, deftly danced over the south downs, weaved wily paths around flint peppered walls and through the coiling character of countrified purity.
All who glimpsed its rich burgundy frame, laudably and lovingly forged from Reynolds 531 tubing had been willed to smile as it purred passed bus stops, rolled down valleys, gracefully glided beneath windswept cliffs, whose glowing chalky visages enhanced the Sun’s infectious sparkle, illuminating a cornucopia of chrome trimmings.
Though its 12.5kg mass would cause every eye in peloton to narrow disapprovingly as a dozen critical tongues composed a persuasive preaching of titanium temptation, no Lycra laden roadie on a fleeting suffer sabbatical, sipping an espresso and feverishly fawning over his Strava feed could refrain from sneaking a furtive glance at this sensually sculpted homage to refined rural beauty, proudly posing against a dry stone wall, its polished alloy wheels winking, its handle bars swaddled in weathered leather and its Brooks saddle craving the day’s closing score of miles into a crimson westerly horizon.
However, even as such an bewitching metallic ensemble lit up faces lining the streets of sleepy suburbs and its robust tubes echoed with Elgar’s enigmatic melodies, all too suddenly, the steering would soften as the front tyre submitted to a gravely interrogation. The rear mudguard mount would fracture under abuse from thousand brutal potholes, the chain would falter in the finale of a crucial climb, and the snap of a solitary spoke would sully an otherwise spiritual experience, leaving an untrue rim to rub its rueful and humbling journey home.
After divulging these tiresome sagas to a handful of admirably sympathetic friends, congenial nutters from every biking bloodline and a variety of proactive bespoke builders from as far afield as the Netherlands. One message had been loud and unanimous. The merits of a bone shaker tailored to the accuracy of a Saville Row tuxedo were worth all the money, minutes and measurements an impatient impulse buyer could possibly conceive. Ever since, the mere prospect had evolved from an intriguing notion into a brooding obsession.
I coveted a creation that would vividly represent every era of my cyclical history, that would amalgamate the Pashley’s rustic romance, the Giant’s agility and the rugged reliability of my stable’s third and eldest stallion. A bold, battle-scarred and devoted Dawes commuter that were it blessed with a voice, could recount a fifteen year pilgrimage of Wagnerian proportions.