|
|
OUR MAN IN ENGLAND: IT’S ALWAYS NICE TO VISIT
Austin Curwen
February 27, 2009
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
Thomas Wolfe is the author of the seminal novel, You Can’t Go Home Again. In many ways, the title encapsulates the desires of the post-war’s generation to move out and move on. This is also a concept that I have discussed with a number of peers, and the notion of ‘going home’ is loaded with ambiguity, and one’s answer can be quite telling.
All of that said, I recently returned from a quick visit to New England (from old England) to renew acquaintances with family and friends and look at a few possible projects. While there, I spent some time with my dear and aging parents in the house where I grew up. Was I going home? No. I currently live in the UK and for right now, that is home. Was I going to a former home (an old haunt- as my dad would say)? Absolutely- and happily so.
One of the things I always find fascinating about visits to my parents is poking around the house, both for what has changed, but also what remains absolutely the same. For example, my former bedroom bears almost no trace as its former self as my inner sanctuary. It has been thoroughly converted into an office/mini lounge for my father. However, if I venture into the basement, with the exception of a few more boxes, and a few things slightly repositioned, it is largely a time capsule of my childhood including cartons of empty jelly jars and the shelves of canned goods under the stairs.
Whenever I visit my parents, aside from catching up on the goings on of children, siblings, and extended family and friends, there are also the inevitable questions about what to do with the remaining vestiges of my stuff that still inhabits a few nooks and crannies of the house. Lately this has centered on the garage and my old bikes.
Hanging in the garage are my old steeds, in their various configurations, and these days, states of operation. The oldest is my first multi-speed bicycle, a mid-70’s Schwinn Collegiate Sport (5 Speed). This was a birthday present when I was around 10 or 12. This came on the heels of my older siblings receiving similar bikes at that age. They were very sturdy gas-pipe steel framed bikes with one-piece cranks, 26” wheels, stem shifters, and as far as I can remember, not a lick of aluminum anywhere. In short, a sturdy ride that I’m sure appealed to my father’s Yankee sensibilities of being inexpensive and indestructible. Those who know me well are aware of my shameless inability not to upgrade any bike I own. (My beloved will often ask why I continually tinker with a perfectly good bike…alas - if you have to ask…) Gazing up at my old Schwinn, the evidence of my old handiwork is still there. The clamp-on straps for my old water bottle cage are still there, as are my Pleistocene toe clips (the kind without straps- easier for the not terribly coordinated teenager to get in and out of). My favorite upgrade was the rear bike rack, to which I lashed my old Realistic (yes- the old house brand for Radio Shack) tape deck. It was far heavier than an iPod, but the end result was the same.
Next to the Schwinn is my red bike. This is a sort of drop-bar rat bike. When a friend moved in across the street, along with him came his older brother’s collection of bikes and bike parts. Since the brother was off at college, we were given the green light to scavenge and salvage to our hearts’ content. The red bike was the end result, and a significant upgrade from the Schwinn. It was a 10 speed with center-pull brakes and sleek racing saddle. This too underwent various modifications. The attempt to cut away the chair protector from the big ring didn’t go as cleanly as anticipated. In addition, moving the shift levers from the stem to the seat post wasn’t more aero and created a rather weird tangle of cables across the frame (but the bike did shift). The final thing that remained was my first re-taping job. In those days, it wasn’t unusual to see handlebars wrapped with everything from the stock clear vinyl tape to the black tape used to wrap hockey sticks. I decided to splurge on the good stuff, and the baby blue padded tape remains to this day.
The final relic from my past is the blue Peugeot frame hanging from the wall. This was until a few years ago complete, but now consists of a frame, fork and bottom bracket. I bought this bike in my late teens. At the time I needed a bike for basic transportation, and as I had a bit of cash squirreled away from odd jobs, I figured that I would pick up a decent bike. This bike did yeoman’s service shuttling me back and forth between my apartment and campus while attending college. This was in central New York where it was winter a majority of the time. Like the postal service, the bike carried me through rain, sleet and snow, usually the latter two. After college, it was consigned to the garage where it hung forlornly until a few years ago.
One spring, after reading too much Sheldon Brown, I decided that my Peugeot was a perfect candidate to conversion to a single-speed. I hadn’t laid eyes on it in years, but I thought the frame might be the right size; I thought- strip off the bad, screw on a single cog, and away I go. Arriving at my parents, I went to the garage, pulled down my old bike and began chipping away at the various layers. My dim recollections of quality parts (Suntour, old Campy, etc.) were completely off the mark. What remained was garbage, made worse by the fact that several winters of salt, snow and little in terms of maintenance was welded many parts to the frame. In addition, there was the mighty 102 tubing (a Peugeot specialty I’m sure). Despite this not being a vintage PX-10, it was still my old bike, complete with many fond memories.
None of these bikes have seen the road in a while, and none of them will light eBay on fire, yet I like to hold onto them. Will I ever ride them again? I have no idea, but I like the thought of one of my own kids (when they get big enough) bugging me to resurrect one of the old war-horses for their own use. And being the closeted Yankee that I am, they still fit the bill, inexpensive, indestructible, and of course, a lot of fun.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|