Tinkering (1)

Like most cyclists, I’m an inveterate tinkerer. I’ve spent countless hours out in the garage making footling adjustments to gears, brakes, seatposts and stem bolts, to the exasperation of my wife, and the glee of my local bike shop, who reap princely sums from my unconquerable cack-handedness. Occasionally, though, I score a small but significant triumph, which is all the sweeter for its rarity and unexpectedness. This little poem concerns the traditional leather saddle fitted to my beloved, but now sadly departed, Pashley Guv’nor.

BROOKS

All it took
Was a one-eighth
(maybe even a one-sixteenth)
Anticlockwise turn
Of the tensioning bolt
And the creaks
That for weeks
Just drove me crazy
Were gone from the old B17.

One tiny twist
Of an Allen key (six-mil)
And all the frustration and hullabaloo
Had quit
The place where I sit.

Would that life
Were more like
The bike.

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