Out in the shed with the old, in the house with the new

March 3, 2011

Last Friday I received a very exciting phone call. My new bike was ready.

I hurtled out of work and picked up an extraordinary machine with custom bits and pieces selected just for me. Her name’s Shirley and she’s gorgeous. When I’m riding her, I’m grinning and when I’m not, I have to keep visiting her to check she’s real and mine and still there.

My old bike – trusty old Ferris who I’ve been riding since first-year uni, named because Ferris Bueller’s Day Off was on telly on the night I got him, for whom I paid a fortune when I was a dishpigging student, who has been my co-conspirator through innumerable adventures and spare parts and been my freedom machine – was forgotten in the excitement. I left him at the bike shop and rode the new bike home.

Tonight I went back for Ferris and rode him home. He looked so shabby. He felt heavy. He felt small. But after a few blocks, we were flying. My brain is programmed to know every one of his quirks and we’ve been a great team.

Ferris will live in the shed in semi-retirement; he’ll still be my steed when I pootle out to the pub or want to ride something inconspicuous. It’s silly to be so emotional about a pile of rusting steel but my life would not have been nearly so interesting for the past 13 years if I hadn’t had him.



  1. Awwww, I know how you feel. I get all sentimental about bits of metal all the time.

    Yay for new bikesy!

  2. Props to Ferris – a true trooper, who pushed on in the wet on the Lillydale-Warburton, survived (and revived after) multiple scrapes.

    • Here, here. Battlescarred and proud.

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