I saw my bike today.
A homeless man with steel wool for hair was wheeling it along the footpath in Boronia Square.
I loved that bike, it was the best bike ever. Red Shogun hybrid bicycle with Shimano gears – I miss you still.
I know it was my bike because of the aftermarket additions. A little mirror mounted on the handlebars, to see what’s coming behind me. And a black wire basket on the back that was slightly broken but still worked fine.
I’d recognise that broken basket anywhere. My neighbour and friend had put it in the communal bins when he left the country. He took his bike but left behind the partly broken basket. And my partly broken heart.
I was only going to keep it until I found another one like it, but didn’t ever find one. Only those wicker type things that go on the front of the bicycle, which is not the same at all.
That basket was so handy. So many trips to the shops, to a friends, yoga class or a picnic to the park. Everything could go in the basket. Cycling home from Uni, my backpack and books didn’t have to be on my back. So much more freedom! But wow, did that basket seem to piss off other cyclists. In my street clothes, a woman no less, and with a broken basket stuffed with books and veggies, I didn’t look like a real cyclist at all. They would always have to come up behind me, these men with dropped handlebars and lycra, and pass me. But by the end of the trip, they weren’t any further ahead! They just had to be ahead of me and my broken basket.
My red bicycle was a good friend to have during my single years. It was crucial in facilitating impromptu catch ups. There was the pop in because I just happen to be riding past. Or the meet up because I need a destination to ride to. And it could also help me avoid people.
For a while it was a case of where I went the bike went. It came on the plane with me when I went home to Tassie for Christmas. In many ways they were special times sharing the beautiful old lighthouse keepers house at Low Head with my extended family. But there’s only so many family competitions you can feign interest in. The bike gave me independence and a means to escape. I’d say I was riding to Georgetown to get a cup of coffee. Truth is, the coffee in Georgetown in those days was only mildly better than warm swamp water. The real reason for these sorties was my Mother’s inability to understand my grief and give me space, following the breakdown of my marriage. The repetitive, blood pumping, fresh sea air gasping exercise would reinvigorate me, enabling me to return to another round of Rock of the Day.
Then in happier times it came to Brisbane with me when I moved there with my new boyfriend. And four years later was to follow us back to Melbourne, in the removal truck. But I never saw it again. My bike, along with some of our furniture, wasn’t delivered. Missing in transit. So many calls to the delivery company and then when I’d given up on them ever finding any of it, and had bought replacement of essential items like an office chair, it turns up. It being the missing stuff, minus my red Shogun hybrid bicycle with Shimano gears, and a partly broken basket on the back.
And then I see it. Fifteen years later. It still looks good. I still want it. But the homeless man probably needs it more than I do. The basket is crammed full with stuff in striped bags from the cheap-store. I’d love to know how my bike came into his possession. But I never will. Only the bike will know. The bike knows many secrets. The bike doesn’t tell.I
If you’d like to read more from this author go to Amanda Gambas.
If this story has reminded you of how much you love cycling you can go to https://www.visitvictoria.com/see-and-do/outdoor-and-adventure/cycling/cycling-trails to discover many wonderful bike trails in Victoria.