Educating The Baker Street Irregulars
I couldn’t believe it tonight - yet another smegging flat! This only seems to happen when I’m in a real hurry, and in this case it was to pick up Daughter from some after school thing. I’d been riding hard to make up time against a freezing headwind, when still ten miles from home I had to pull over, phone Wife to get her to make the rendezvous, and get busy with tyre levers.
Almost as soon as I pulled my windstopper on, turned the bike over and got the tools out, a small crowd of Blyth’s street urchins appeared.
They were fascinated with . . . my bike (only one gear!), it’s tyres (dead skinny!), the pedals (look under his shoes!), my high speed ripping the punctured tube out (f*** mister!), the Brooks saddle (you mean you paid extra for that one?!). A constant babble of questions in fact, which I answered, while giving a commentary on how to fix a flat. They asked me about racing, so I told them a bit about that and training and stuff.
They asked if I had a six-pack (WTF?), so I lied a little and told them that the only way to get that sort of tough, taught body was not to drive a car, because cars make you fat. Actually, now that I think about it, that wasn’t a lie at all - cars DO make you fat.
And as I finished, they drifted off, and I rode the rest of the way home. I think I’ve made a bond with the local scamps, and when I next need them to help investigate some crime or other, they’ll be there when I need them, and all for just a shilling a day plus expenses. I wonder how they’ll cope with my more usual tweeds rather than today’s Lycra though?