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Graham Rippon

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My Pink Bicycle

Dad hand-towed it home from the market,
one hand on his own handlebar,
the other pulling the scrap he’d bought.
Propping it up by pedal on the kerb,
he called me out of the back yard
where I was giving my skates a scrub
and oiling their squeaky bearings.

Saddleless, rust-patched dull black,
the chrome peeling off in places,
white-wall tyres soft and cracked,
the bike was quite underwhelming.
For three weeks we sanded and scraped,
fitted new mudguards, a bell and sound brakes,
then, whilst fitting a brown saddle, my father said
“Paint it any colour you like”.
But the only colour we had was Pink.

For three years that bright cycle carried me
over most of known East Anglia -
to Sandringham, Walpole, Welney,
Sutton Bridge, Ely, Eye, Gedney,
and many, many places beyond.
Until, with strawberry field money,
I purchased a new, blue and silver Raleigh
With drop handles and ten-speed gears:
twice as fast and sleek, but only half as heavy
and with much less character.

 

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