[THE OLD GROANER] Leaning toward four wheels

Before we had the pickup, we had the donkey and before that we had our own personal bikes. I went for the racing style with drop handlebars, and Die Frau had a pink affair which favored the Dutch-student design. I have to say that as a pair we looked a little silly, but solo we both looked very impressive indeed. Now, here's the rub.

We were by no means the first in the valley to own bicycles, but we were the first to have the ability to mend anything on a bike, including punctures, and indeed the first to own a pump. Hardly a day went by without a child turning up with his mount and demanding a repair. Now, some were no more difficult than re-railing a de-railed chain either on a single-gear machine or the admittedly more difficult derailleur-geared wheel. At that time, the only puncture repair kits available here were not as we have known them in Europe for the last half-century; they involved setting fire to the patch and, I suppose, vulcanizing something or other, often my hand. I think it was only a year or so before we replaced the bikes with the donkey.

Mabel was no less dangerous than the bikes, but the big advantage was that the few donkey owners in our valley knew far more about the maintenance and repair of donkeys than we did, and we were never pestered by them. The bicycle owning kids came less and less, and we were eventually free of them until...

Despite their infrequent use we found that we had to replace the tourist bikes every couple of years. So it is, that counting our own bikes and two tourist bikes every couple of years, we have so far given away a total of about 10. Here then is the current problem: it seems that when you give away a bike in this valley you are liable for the maintenance of it for the remainder of its life!

I suspect that there is a society of ex-Old Groaner bicycle owners (OGBOS?) which has made it clear to the few kids who own “private” bikes (“wildcat” bikes? “pirate” bikes?) that they are not entitled to free maintenance. Free maintenance is a privilege for ex-OG machines only.

Can you imagine a young man of 15 not being able to repair a puncture in Europe? Hey, before the widespread use of the derailleur gear, there was not a kid within a mile of our city block who was not able to dismantle, repair and reassemble a Sturmey-Archer gear hub; blindfolded, if required! Cable brakes? A doddle. Hub brakes, back-pedal brakes, fixed wheels, double-clangers? All of them; blindfolded and with one hand tied behind our backs. (We had few televisions in those days.) The current situation in Turkey is a disgrace; they should bring back... something.

OK. Times have changed, and I'm going to have to concede that the average 15-year-old Turkish boy is now able to hack his way into the Pentagon's computer and can operate perfectly on Facebook or Twitter, whatever they are. I also acknowledge that whereas I was still messing around with my Sturmey-Archer at the age of 17, the young men of that age in this valley are busy exploring nylon, lace and silk. Those materials were unknown to me until several years later; steel was my chosen medium.

Thank goodness I skipped the motorcycle phase! I actually did own a BSA Bantam for a year or so, but thankfully it was before I discovered the twin diversions of alcohol and the nylon, lace and silk thing. I was not a good rider in any case and remain to this day the worst possible pillion rider. Leaning into a corner seems to me to be completely contrary to the laws of physics, so I try to make things right by leaning out in the opposite direction. When I say leaning out, it is actually much more dramatic than that. I would be a very good side-car rider; I lie right out in almost a horizontal attitude with my shoulder and knee brushing the road. I have been told that although what I do is very dangerous, it looks most spectacular. The exercise to my stomach muscles during my youth also no doubt helped make me a very good dinghy sailor. By the time I was 30, few helmsmen could match me in a Fireball or 470.

In the last 30 years or so, I have only ridden pillion half a dozen times, each time avoiding death, but each time making the rider very angry. Until about 10 years ago, there was a Jawa-taxi station in our nearest town. For half the price of a four-wheeled yellow taxi, I could jump on the back of a stinking and noisy Jawa of the first generation and be borne to my home in the valley. The road zigzags steeply uphill for about three miles, then downhill for a further one or two. The worst corners are virtually 360 degrees, and we always took those corners in the manner described above and with myself loudly screaming in English and the rider likewise in Turkish.

I am now strictly a four-wheel man. Four hoofs, if hard pressed.