It feels pretty ironic that the week I decide to finally start writing the bike blog I've had buzzing round my head for months is the same week I barely get to cycle at all. The sad news is, the steed is back in the shop. Riding home from a very lovely party in Bloomsbury last night, halfway up the very long and steep Pentonville Road, the derailer..... derailed. Again. Cue crunching, sparks and some very puzzled poking.
Luckily, this time the wheels still spun so I was able to push the steed up the rest of the hill and pop in on some friends having birthday drinks in Angel while I worked out what to do. Turns out, buses won't let you take bikes on, and neither will most black cabs. I asked very politely and got curt shakes of the head and a facefull of exhaust. It was 1 o'clock and it is a looong walk home and so I threw my feminist principles out of the window and pulled the 'damsel in distress' routine. Wobbly voice, fake tears, big eyes and hints at fears for my personal safety. It worked an absolute treat. I tell myself I did it for the steed- the alternative to the walk was leaving him locked up in Islington overnight on a Saturday. No bike of mine.
FYI, the steed is pretty big so I think most would fit in the back of a standard black cab, if you're ever stranded. I did have to sit on the floor in an unlady- like position with a pedal in my back, but still. It got me and steed home safety.
So tonight a thousand thanks to my taxi-driver in shining armour, from my (currently pretty untrusty) wheels and me.