broke bike mountain, or, i am on foot once more

The latest victim:

i don't have a good record with bikes since i entered my adult cycling years. adult cycling is not any kind of smutty activity its just different to child cycling where you zoom around to your friends houses and leave your bike in a dusty heap on their front driveway until you have to whizz home and go to bed until you get up again for summer holidays kids telly in the morning and then off you go again. Adult cycling is 15 more minutes in bed in the morning, fitting errands like going to the bank or buying birthday presents into your lunchbreak that you might not get done in time on foot. And beating taxi queues and nitelinks home -cycling on footpaths where possible) when you have had no more than 3 drinks over a long period of time. (that is my self-imposed limit).

my safety record is okay. i wear a helmet, a reflective thingy, some lights, i use signals and only break lights carefully. but the poor bikes that end up beneath me bum, with each passing one the tale of calamity jills bike related failures grows.

The Lizard:

The Raleigh Lizard. Aged 12 I bought it with my confirmation money, it wasn't my first bike but I had grown out of the one i bought with my communion money. Note to self: if ever there was a reason to baptise hypothetical children, there is 2 right there. Happily or not, I am an average, or possibly short arse height person, and had no sudden vertical growth spurts whatsoever. This bike saw me right into my twenties. I didn't cycle when i was in college. I ate 2 packets of salt & vinegar Hunky Dorys every day and thought 5km was a long way. So it enjoyed a few years retirement gathering dust in the sometimes raided Dunphy garage. It had a spell in the leafy confines of Clonskeagh & Donnybrook, then moved with me to the Liberties. It survived living in 1 Meath Terrace, something only hardy folk & vehicles could do. It made the trip to Portobello, where it had to fend for itself nightly locked to a railing in front of our flat, with only the aroma of the Bretzel Bakery for company (we lived opposite the cartoon side door in that piccy). I had gotten cocky. One fine summers day in return for hard work, and being overstaffed I got to leave at 3pm to enjoy the sunshine. I sailed home on the lizard, and propped him up against the rail. Distracted by the still trading bakery, i decided deserved a treat. My head was turned by the sweet smells and, to this day i cannot be sure if i locked the lizard or not. I trotted in home past it grubby fist gripping a muffiny delight - who knew if it creaky emmissions as i brushed by were simply the impact of the light breeze on the 12 year old chain or a cry for help from the ancient 2-wheeler?

2 hours later I emerged into the evening, helmet in hand, to go and meet my good friend Fiona. There was no lizard. And thus began my unfortunate history...