Bike Jacked
It was a sunny Sunday morning in late summer and I was riding a new bicycle. When I say new, that is not strictly true. It was new to me. My dad had spent spare time and effort over the preceding weeks, stripping, painting, renovating my first grown up bicycle, I can remember it well, it was a metallic blue frame Claud Butler, with a Brooks saddle, a fixed wheel and one gear, no guards, new brake (rear wheel only), it looked the business and of course since my dad had had anything to do with it, it rode like a brand new hand built bike.
Anyway, I was riding slowly back from the local paper shop, Sunday Mirror for the old man under my arm, I was loving the gift my dad had built for me. Turning into the road where I lived, I was 100 yards in when I heard someone calling me from the turn behind me, I stopped and looked back to see a short, stocky runner, in a dark blue tracksuit pegging it up toward me.
He caught up in seconds and was quite breathless when he asked me to hold up a second.
"Pal... Can you help me?... is this the way to Willesden Junction?" he said.
As he asked the question he got hold of the bike frame just under the saddle with his left hand then punched me right in the face with his right. I fell off the bike, more in shock than imbalance, scrabbled to my feet to see him on the bike and peddling off up the road, toward my house. I was up and chasing after him although I had no idea what would happen if I caught up, I would like to think that I would have pushed him off the bike and recaptured it, but we will never know.
About 400 yards further down the road, (now about 200 yards ahead of me), he was just passing my house and I could just see my dad in the garden digging the borders. I shouted out to him although I was pretty breathless. He didn't hear me, it wasn't until I was almost outside the house that my dad looked up and listened while I spurted out:
"That man just took the bike from me dad, I couldn't stop him"
My old man stepped up, he threw down the spade he was digging with, and ran out of our garden and up the road, now my fear was what would happen if my dad caught up, would he kill this fella? would the thief do for him?
Mr Smith, our neighbour who worked at Renault in Park Royal came running out of his house and jumped in his little monkey-shit-brown Renault 16 (damn ugly car, it looked like a lampshade on wheels) and whizzed off to pick my dad up who was already nearly out of sight further up the road toward Willesden Junction.
To this day I don't know how it went down, they both came back about 20 minutes later, no bike in evidence, my dad was annoyed I could tell, Mr Smith disappeared indoors without a word. I asked dad what had happened but he remained tight lipped and he never mentioned it again. Maybe they lost the git, I don't know.
I had learned another couple of painful little lessons in life, about attachment and injustice I think. I walked around with a blooming great spanner in my pocket for a few weeks after, fantasising about seeing the thief again, I never did. Maybe he was in the canal, with my bike.
Photo: A still from the Italian film: Ladri di Biciclette (The Bicycle Thief)
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