Barclay’s Bikes – Made Stutchbery

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

CatherineDeveny_Gunnas_MadeStutchberyWhen I was younger, maybe 21 or so, I had this brilliant blue bike. It was such a fabulous bike. Cost me only £10 and I bought it from a dope dealer down by Camden Lock. The wheels were slightly out of alignment and the brakes squealed whenever I squeezed them. But it only took a couple of hours of labour and three bottles of stout shared between me and my flatmate to mend it, and then that bike was mine.

Each morning I would rise an hour or so earlier than needed and every day I would take the long way around to college. Scything down Knightsbridge and past the tight roundabouts that chewed up traffic in a spidery mess before spitting them out again. Past Harrods, with the great golden facade and those little guardsmen, all dressed in their green, delicate velveteen uniforms. I would sail past the traffic lights and enter Hyde Park. As I reached the gates I would stop, and take my helmet off, shaking loose my long red curls before putting my helmet in the front basket of the bike and pushing on.

One day I fell off that bike. I took a corner too hard and too fast and I flew off, up and over the handlebars before crashing down to earth. Stop. Silence. The wind that had been whistling in my ears was gone, and I could smell dirt and crushed grass and the iron in my blood. Everything was still, except the front wheel of my blue bike gently clicking over, still spinning of its own accord.

A passing jogger stopped a few yards from me, pulling her headphones out from her ears and treading up and down, up and down on the spot before meandering over to me, slowing to a walk. I looked down, averting my eyes, gazing down at my scuffed and bloody knees. Because of that, or perhaps despite the humility I felt in that little downwards glance, the jogging woman squatted down beside me, and put her hand under my chin and tilted my face up. I was now eye to eye with this brightly dressed stranger, music still streaming tinnily from her headphones that dangled against her chest. And because of that, because of this gentle little display, this foreign touch that said so little and yet said so much, I began to cry.

I no longer felt strong. No longer felt the city air being flushed from my lungs leaving me bright, so bright and emotionally vibrant. I felt so stupid and alone and so very far from home. I cried, and the jogging lady rubbed my back silently until finally, after what felt a hundred long years of gasping and sobbing and wrenching breaths and sniffles I stopped crying, stopping just as the wheel of my little blue bike stopped spinning and fell silent.

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