So as you know, bikes are the major form of transport here in the Dam. About 600,000 they reckon. I don’t know if that number counts in the biking graveyards that you see at train stations and against old fences and barriers here.
Bikes that got a flat or a wheel dent, the owner gave up on them, left them chained up to rust and rot by the side of a canal. I don’t know exactly how this works but they kind of gather together to form a four or five strong party of bicycle undead that are there to take the best parking spots and trip you up as you walk.
They even occasionally trawl the canal bottoms to get all the rubbish out of them that fall in over time. Bike carcasses are the chief catch of the day. Fresh from the water, covered in black gunk. Looks like something Damien Hirst might have come up with.
Anyway, so bikes.
The other day Thijs and I are riding our bikes home from the office. This in itself is no great event but the funny thing was that we were talking about our upcoming weekends as we rode along.
Do you remember the last time you rode a bike and talked about the weekend at the same time? That’s right, you were 8 years old and ripping on the teachers at school.
It was unexpected and warm with nostalgia; I felt like I was a kid again in Sydney, riding around on my chopper with a Trans-Am decal T-shirt on. And that would be the whole point of the day, riding your bikes around. Not anywhere in particular, just around. To the shops for a drink, maybe to the national park to swim, maybe to the movies. You know, just around.
Even the sun setting in the background was kind of perfect and reminded me of the way it used to look on the leg home, because at that age, everyone has to be home before dark.
In the mad racing to work and ringing of bells and negotiating of traffic that I do on two wheels, a simple ride with Thijs brought back memories of when my biggest worry in the world was convincing my parents to let me stay up late to watch Battlestar Galactica. The original one.