A few years ago, I penned a silly eulogy to a rear derailleur. One of my riding partners reminded me of that the other day when he forwarded the following article, written by the Mayor of London, Boris Johnson:
At first, I couldn’t believe it. No, I said when they told me of the death of my bike. Get away, I said; and then they made me look at the appalling wound, and it was only when I had run my fingers round the almost invisible injury that the news sank in. And then I felt like some relative coming to terms with the loss of a loved one.
Think of Alexander grieving for his favourite mount Bucephalus, or Wellington mourning the death of the great Copenhagen. After eight years of uncomplaining service, the venerable steed had charged his last. This was the bike that had taken me every day to distant parts of London, carried me into battle in two elections, heard my agony as I cursed up hills and listened in reassuring silence to my whispered rehearsals for the speech I would have to make when I arrived.
Read the rest of his eulogy by clicking here. I’ve got to say that Boris outdid me…his eulogy is eloquent and heartfelt. It’s worth a read!