Born in ‘92 and died 2004:

12 years of leg ache and raw saddle sore.

With a black plastic saddle, I would constantly flinch

With every pedal, that saddle would pinch.

Yet it was no real pain, and I would never refrain,

from taking the saddle in sunshine or rain.

The most reliable, likeable and sturdy of steeds,

Eating the miles whether in pleasure or need.

But now you’ve gone, stolen from me,

Never to cycle in haste or in glee.

Recollect the downhill sprints,

the rolling Links,

Racing cars as the traffic light blinks,

Remember the woods,

dodging trees in wet leaves

Bumping over roots, in immaculate boots.

Recall when we would no-handedly weave,

Slalom the walkers, who could barely conceive

That wearing his headphones, lap-tapping to tones,

He shouldn’t fall off and shatter his bones.

Who was the bastard with the sneaky long fingers,

In badly lit places he maliciously lingers,

I would snap those fingers with the spokes of my bike,

Through social conscience and a smidgeon of spite,

But he lurks in the shadows, swigging drink bought from Haddows,

Plotting another cruel robbery.

So to it I must resign, thief nor bike I shall find,

But hope he finds the saddle unkind.

Fare thee well my sweet bicycle, my memories are fond

I hope I never find you at the bottom of a pond.