During one of those post-lunch walks I got a chance to bump into a bicycle showroom. The store boys were considerably active for that time of the day. They were selling Specialized brand of these.. er..manually-powered two-wheeled vehicles called as bicycles once upon a time in India, and being fashionably but deceptively addressed as bikes now. In whatever way we may wish to call these things, even now it is us, who have to pedal these machines to make them ambulate over the surface of the road. (Too technical?) In the showroom, if my memory serves me right this time, there was no single model of such vehicles that was priced below Rs.10,000, inclusive of all taxes and the two, pre-fitted tires. There was a rainbow of accessories ranging from chic tool kits to water bottles to fuzzy helmets to designer gloves. Generally, as we grow old, we tend to talk less of the future and more and more of the past. It is for the reasons ranging from the obvious ones like you are racing faster towards your end and your battery does not have much life left, to the more complex or misconceived reasons like you feel your longer existence on this planet has by itself bestowed certain level of authority and credibility to whatever you say, and people listen to you in awe. I was remembering the first time (as accessible from my memory) I rode a bicycle on my own - without my father or anyone holding it and running along with me. During those days there used to be bicycle repair shops. Those guys there made lots of money from punctured tyres (not tires) and seat cover replacements and new dynamos and bells and carriers. They also gained much from renting out assorted bicycles of varying colours and heights to little kids and teenage girls, who were eager to tame these interesting vehicles. Many years back, I too was one of those kids (obviously). It was a tiny 2 or 3-footer, and my Eureka! moment was when I came down a slope accidentally. The first bicycle selfie (riding a bicycle on one's own, without any parental guidance) brings immense joy, as it meant you are a part of that elite, independent, laterally mobile group that was empowered to roam freely. It also meant that you need not ride monkey-pedal anymore.
I am not sure how it is in these days of unisex saloons, but during my times the main frame (not to be mixed up with gigantic computers that need a lot of cooling) of the bicycles were distinct for the boys' and the girls' models. Probably it had something to do with the cultural setting, the girls' model did not have the top, horizontal tube of the triangular frame that ran across the seat and the handle bar. And even when there is no other option but to use a bicycle, the boys preferred walking to riding those girls' bicycles. It gave a feeling similar to, say, how a boy feels when forced to wear a salwar. I would rather walk down to the ration shop than going there on a girls' bicycle, even it meant coming home carrying a few kilos of sugar. Bicycles also provided enough training, that would prove to be very useful during the hostel life, in breaking locks. Though there was always enough enthusiasm and sometimes tough competition to have the best key chains for one's bicycle keys, invariably one lost the key at least once in his bicycle career. (It is always "his"). Then you go around searching for that sturdy brick or robust stone to usher in freedom to your bicycle. For hostel rooms locks, during the later part of your life, you always had access to a hammer or those expert students, who derived immense satisfaction from breaking open these orphaned locks. We had a black Hercules at home that was bought close to fifty years back from this day. Of course he was not very old then. During our teens that black man should have been in his mid-twenties. My father recalls, it came with the number (like the unique, chasis number of motor cars) HG 2013, for a price of Rs.208; the extra accessories were stand, seat cover, bell, carrier, chain guard and the dynamo set. The year was 1967.
My affair with my metallic red BSA-SLR (not to be confused with Self Loading Rifle) continued till I graduated to a geared moped during my higher secondary days. Though by then we had a BSA-Mach (with ten gears) at home, ours was essentially a bicyclers' club that included the big boys like Hercules/Atlas and the trendy, just introduced ones like Hercules-MTB (Mountain Terrain Bike?). Generally the morning rides to the school were frenetic to avoid getting late and ending up standing outside the school gates, but the return trips were like those lazy strolls in parks, filled with gossips and cricket plans. There were occasional races too and in the place where I grew up, the winds are fierce during the monsoons, and its direction mattered a lot during such races. Depending on what you were up to, rains added more fun or created more hassle during such bicycle rides.
Cycling also brought its share of joys like riding without holding the handle bar or having slow cycling races and memorable troubles like having a worn out valve tube or a conked out chain. In spite of funky gadgets like carbon fibre helmets and fluorescent jerseys, I think one can have such petty fun and sweet troubles even while riding a Specialized bike.
I am not sure how it is in these days of unisex saloons, but during my times the main frame (not to be mixed up with gigantic computers that need a lot of cooling) of the bicycles were distinct for the boys' and the girls' models. Probably it had something to do with the cultural setting, the girls' model did not have the top, horizontal tube of the triangular frame that ran across the seat and the handle bar. And even when there is no other option but to use a bicycle, the boys preferred walking to riding those girls' bicycles. It gave a feeling similar to, say, how a boy feels when forced to wear a salwar. I would rather walk down to the ration shop than going there on a girls' bicycle, even it meant coming home carrying a few kilos of sugar. Bicycles also provided enough training, that would prove to be very useful during the hostel life, in breaking locks. Though there was always enough enthusiasm and sometimes tough competition to have the best key chains for one's bicycle keys, invariably one lost the key at least once in his bicycle career. (It is always "his"). Then you go around searching for that sturdy brick or robust stone to usher in freedom to your bicycle. For hostel rooms locks, during the later part of your life, you always had access to a hammer or those expert students, who derived immense satisfaction from breaking open these orphaned locks. We had a black Hercules at home that was bought close to fifty years back from this day. Of course he was not very old then. During our teens that black man should have been in his mid-twenties. My father recalls, it came with the number (like the unique, chasis number of motor cars) HG 2013, for a price of Rs.208; the extra accessories were stand, seat cover, bell, carrier, chain guard and the dynamo set. The year was 1967.
Cycling also brought its share of joys like riding without holding the handle bar or having slow cycling races and memorable troubles like having a worn out valve tube or a conked out chain. In spite of funky gadgets like carbon fibre helmets and fluorescent jerseys, I think one can have such petty fun and sweet troubles even while riding a Specialized bike.
