My bike has been doing some crazy things for two years now, leaving me confused.
This month, I realised why. It has turned 16. My bike is in the prime of its teenage years. So what exactly did my bike do?
One day I found a magazine in its small cargo hold. It had pictures of nude female bikes. Shocked, I stashed it back in before anyone saw me. It took me a while to recover.
Whenever I parked in my building, I left my bike with its neck turned left. But the next day, it would be facing right, in the direction of a slender young moped preening nearby. This happened a few times.
My bike had started to get vain. That was another change I noticed. Somehow, it had managed to twist the rearview mirrors around and down so that it could admire its face in them.
On its fifteenth birthday, my bike demanded that I gift it a couple of denim seat covers. It said it would only wear denim. Correction. It said that I should only fund the denim. Not choose it. “You won’t know the current styles,” it told me.
My bike would scrape or clang against even a small bump on the road. I didn’t get it. One day I pulled over by the side and looked under it. Its Adam’s apple had gotten bigger.
The other day I decided it was time for a man-to-man chat about life and temptations and the need to enjoy yet not be reckless. I put my arm around the bike and said, “You are 16 now and I was thinking maybe we should talk about a few things.” It was chatting up the slender moped and was part upset, part embarrassed by my presence. “There’s no need, I know everything,” it said, blowing smoke rings through the exhaust pipe.