Two shillings was the cost of the first bike I rode on. Ten pence in our modern coinage. I was taught harmfully by my two elder brothers, who had acquired the bike from a third party, probably illegally. Harmfully in the way my brothers would propel me down a hill, though after gashing my head, hands and legs – and needing many plasters – I managed to stay on. Thus began the romance of being able to go almost anywhere within a 30-mile radius of our block of council flats in Fulham and our neighbouring park.
The romance was interrupted when I was 14 and accused of stealing bikes; my plea that I was riding abandoned property cut no ice with the magistrate. But incarceration did not end the romance, it simply postponed it for a while.
Bikes also became a means of making money. As a 10-year-old butcher’s boy, a new cycler, I traversed Fulham from the River Thames to Putney Bridge at speed and with daring. And I could make 10 shillings a week for 10 hours of labour. A shilling an hour was better, as my mother said, than a “poke in the eye with a burnt stick”.
Then later it was delivering vegetables around posh Kensington houses; and later still, wines and whiskies and soda fountains to the seriously rich in Knightsbridge. What a cacophony of experiences as I set out on a heavy bike with a big basket.
A few accidents along the way caused near-death experiences. A bike I bought from a Yorkshire miner when I lived up there gave up one day when I applied the brakes and I was thrown forward to land on the bonnet of a moving car. But now I stick to bike paths, yet to be invented in my youth, and quiet roads and have lights flashing when dimity hits.
It’s rain though, when well-clothed for the elements, that excites me. So my trip last week to the shops, refusing a lift from a neighbour, was like a potion of motion. Drenched, I returned with my laughable papers – I mean you can’t call most of it news – and my bread and bananas happily, to a dry towel and
a large glass of filtered water.
On and off for years I have been writing occasionally about the joys of walking and cycling. Of going to free places. Museums to dip into art and artefacts and not pay a penny along the way. Take a Thermos flask and drink tea you made at home. Save money and make your time more healthy. In an ideal world I’d make my own cheese and onion sandwiches and wrap them in reusable greaseproof paper as did Matt Millay, who I worked with when I was a boy fresh out of nick. With his daily flask and sandwiches he could live on the paltry wages provided by the local council we worked for. His two pints of Guinness with his similarly unmarried brother on a Saturday night sufficed for enjoyment. Certainly he took his work seriously as we cut grass, repaired vandalised fences, cleaned up dog shit and kept the borough’s parks clean for the ratepayers.
Matt had a bike and rode it steadily at all times. So did many working men desirous of saving on fares and walking. The economy of it all was incredible to behold for a young chap like me who had yet to convert to the quiet life. Now I see their wisdom, for their carbon footprint would have been hardly visible from space; or wherever the footprint is measured from.
Reusing and reaffirming our physical need for moving by the simplest and least damaging means is a joy to reflect on. Seeing children walking recently, as if a walking bus, was hitting all the right points at one and the same time. Exercise, carbon footprint awareness, sociability – it’s all there. And thank you to the readers who upbraided me for my plane journey. It got me thinking about bikes. The love affair continues. On yer bike!
John Bird is the founder and editor in chief of The Big Issue. Read more of his words here
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