Cycling + > Freewheeling

God's Bianchi

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Lazlo Shunt:
Stacks, crashes, spills, slams, tippers, tumbles, le chute, prangs, topples and bombs. Whatever you call it, succumbing to Mr Gravity when you're tapping about on your push-iron is literally zero banters. It hurts, it's time consuming and more often than not leads to a draughty A & E department where your injuries will be met with both impatience and eye-rolling, and maybe even a thinly veiled insult or two, right right right?

So, my brothers, after several impact-free years as a bike courier in London, it really came as no surprise to me one cold Clapham morning to find myself hovering in mid-air, weightless as all heck, with a dark blue BMW to my right, the slate-grey LDN sky below me and my prized Bianchi Pista skidding haplessly towards the kerb. My brain, still waking up that morning, immediately accepted what was happening even if my body was being a total slave to physics. After a brief sleep on the frozen tarmac I was awoken by a nervous Frenchman who said very little and his beautiful wife, who said rather a lot and at quite some volume. From what I understood of her passionate rant I had completely ruined their morning and should not ride a bicycle at the speed at which I had been going. Lighting a cigarette, nodding in agreement and trying to remember where I was, I noticed that she was wearing a really great Casio watch. I mentioned this to her (in French), but she either didn't hear me or was just acting cool and pretended not to notice.

Moments later the three of us were approached by an Australian girl who had witnessed the entire sorry event and seemed willing to defend me to the stunning French whirlwind standing over me. This breezy visitor from that there Australia was already on the telephone to the relevant people, and evidently an ambulance had been ordered. The French couple panicked, jumped back into the BMW and promptly scarpered. The Australian girl snatched my cigarette away and I began repeatedly asking her where my Bianchi was, terrified at what two and eight I was going to find it in. At this point it was fairly evident from the chronic pain that I had broken several bones, and was spilling blood from my boat race onto the tarmac at what seemed like an alarming rate at the time. Someone started taking photos with their phone and someone else offered to fetch me a hot drink. The police appeared and scolded me, then an ambulance arrived and scooped me up. As they were strapping me in and feeding me some lovely gas, the Australian girl lifted my (miraculously) undamaged Bianchi into the back of the ambulance for me. I never got her name and I never saw her again, but I owe her bigtime for that.

The rest, as some people say, is history really. I was off work for eight weeks with a broken collarbone, snapped wrist, busted ankle and a shattered foot. I have photographs from that day that look like I have been tussling with Leeds fans outside The Den at the end of a dismal Millwall performance. The Bianchi, thankfully, was unharmed.

Three months later I had my Bianchi blessed by a nun and I have not had a single accident since. I gave up the courier life and moved to Amsterdam with the payout I received from the French couple, who had fled to France to avoid the hassles of a courtcase.

I still ride the Bianchi to this day, only now it has God's blessing.

david:
Sir - Am I to infer that God, in His infinite and various jams, rides a FIXIE???

Yours faithfully,
Well disgusted in Tunbridge

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