TIM BELFORD

Old Wobbly has a new bike

For my ninth birthday I got an IOU.

It wasn't that my parents couldn't afford a present; it was a matter of circumstances.

My brothers, my mother, and I were living temporarily with my grandparents in Woodstock, Ontario.

My father was living with his mother in Port Dalhousie.

It wasn't a broken home syndrome. We were building a new house in Stamford, which wasn't quite completed, and our old home had already been sold.

The IOU was redeemable as soon as the new house was completed and was good for one blue bicycle.

Well, the bicycle turned out to be red but that didn't matter. I was instantly in love.

A bicycle meant freedom. It meant speed. It meant excitement.

In the evenings, after dinner, I would ride it back and forth on the dirt road where we lived.

Each time I passed the front porch where my mother was sitting reading the newspaper I would yell, "Look at this!"

I would then make my pass standing on the cross bar or with my feet hanging over the handle bars.

In one particular feat of daring-do I went by standing on one pedal facing backwards.

My mother, who had three sons, took it all in stride. Although I'm sure she expected the inevitable.

I later graduated to a three-speed which was the envy of my friends and a joy to behold.

Apart from the gears that set it above the more functional bikes of my friends, it had a pump, a pristine white carrying bag, and a tool kit.

My love affair with bikes culminated in a 1500-mile tour from the Isle of Wight in Britain to the Orkney Islands and back one glorious summer.

I did this on a one-speed village bike that I rented for ten pounds.

It had a wicker basket in front and weighed approximately a quarter of a ton.

Now, I mention this in passing because thirty years later I've just purchased another bike.

Since I've recently moved, I figured it would be a good idea to cycle to work; save gas, wear and tear on the car, protect the environment, that sort of thing.

But there's a difference.

In the intervening three decades things have changed.

I now have twenty-one gears, of which I use about three. The tires are about the same width as one of those monster trucks. It has a derailer and I can lift the whole thing with one finger.

But the biggest difference is the seat.

I don't know if it's just my memory failing me but I don't recall it being so hard.

This one was obviously designed by the Torquemada cycle shop since nothing short of the Spanish inquisition could have created anything so uncomfortable.

After three days of travelling to and from work I have developed a certain empathy with the cowboys who road the old Chisolm trail for months at a time.

No matter how I shift my fifty-four year-old butt, there is no relief.

The youngsters with whom I work say it will get better in time -- oblivious to the fact that I likely don't have that much time left.

So, a word to the wise.

If you're driving in Quebec city and come across a cyclist riding in a vaguely nineteenth century side-saddle manner, give him a wide berth. He tends to wobble.