It's All About the Bike Read Free Page B

the bike out of the workshop, past three couriers sharing a can of Tennent’s Extra. The old crank, a lump of aluminium, was strapped to my handlebar with a round of tape.
    â€˜What’s that for?’ I said, pointing at the old crank. I looked at the mechanic who looked at the couriers, who looked at the mechanic, who looked at me. Clearly I was supposed to know what it was for, even if I was standing there in a grey pinstripe suit. After a long pause, the middle courier looked at me with wild eyes and said: ‘You . . . stick . . . it . . . through . . . the . . . windscreen . . . of . . . a . . . fucking . . . car!’
    Moving to the Brecon Beacons in Wales seven years ago was another eye-opener in the cultural perception of the bicycle. In the city, there was at least, by then, a growing body of people who acknowledged the health and transport benefits of riding a bicycle. In the countryside, you only rode a bike if you’d lost your driving licence. For a Welsh hill farmer there could be no other reason. Period. The locals watched me pedal in and out of Abergavenny every day, and wondered.
    Five months after moving in, I was in the local pub, high up on a hillside, on a Friday night. An old boy I knew only by the name of his farm, cupped my elbow and led me gently to a corner of the bar. He fixed me with a stern gaze: ‘I see yor on the bike,’ he said. ‘How long you lost your licence for then, boy?’ I explained that I hadn’t lost my licence; that I chose to ride a bicycle every day because, well, I just loved it. He winked at me and tapped a gnarled finger on his wind-dried nose. A year later, the farmer again took me aside in the pub, on a Friday night. This time the gaze was even sterner. ‘I see yor on the bike still, boy,’ he said. ‘A long time to be banned now, see. You can tell me . . . did you daw something tehr-ribble in a car? Did you kill a child?’
    The very best artisan frame-builders have more in common with the craftsmen who make Patek Philippe watches, Monteleone guitars or Borelli shirts than with the mass manufacturers who churn out carbon and aluminium frames from factories in the Far East. Not long ago, much of what we owned was alive with the skill, and even the idealism, of the people who made it — the blacksmith who forged our tools, the cobbler, the wood-turner, the carpenter, the wheelwright, and the seamstress and tailor who made the clothes we wore. We retain possessions that are well made; over time, they grow in value to us, and enrich our lives when we use them. The frame is the soul of the bicycle. The frame of my bike will only be made once, from steel.
    The bike will look like a racing bike, but it will be finely tuned to meet my cycling needs. If you like, it will be a ‘riding’ bike. I’m not going to race, but I’ll ride this bike regularly and I’ll ride it fast. I’ll ride it round the Brecon Beacons and across Britain. I’ll ride ‘centuries’ with my friends and cyclosportives. I’ll ride it the length of the Pyrenees, over the Col du Galibier, up Mont Ventoux and down the Pacific Coast Highway. When I’m feelingblue, I’ll ride it to work. And when I’m 70, no doubt I’ll ride it to the pub.
    The components — the handlebar, stem, forks, headset, hubs, rims, spokes, bottom bracket, freewheel, chainwheel, sprockets, chain, derailleurs, cranks, brakes, pedals and saddle — will be chosen to match the frame. They won’t be the lightest or the sexiest components on the market. They’ll simply be the best made. The wheels will be built by hand. I’ll visit workshops and factories in Italy, America, Germany and Britain to see all the components I want on my bike being made. Individually, each component will be something special; collectively, they’ll make my dream bike.
    The bicycle saves my life every day. If you’ve ever experienced a