As Woody Allen once famously said, to rationalise running off with his wife’s daughter, “the heart wants, what the heart wants.” Okay, so that is disturbing. Suppose though, Woody he was not wanting his step daughter, but his mate’s push-bike. Ah, so you do understand! (When it comes to matters of the heart, I know most of us gents struggle less with the whole notion of “feelings”, if we stick to the subject of bikes. Not since we could to win them in sword fights, have we allowed ourselves to feel so strongly for women—as Woody does, plainly.)
I have now learned that my ol’ buddy Scoop has, for the past year, been harbouring a deep deep jealously, for my black bike, dating from the day I loaned it to him for our last linen run. Though he read with interest your suggestions that he buy a Globe Daily 3, or a Creme Cafe Racer, I should have known he was secretly preparing to blow me out of the pond.
What hurts most, is that Scoop has known all along, my secret shame, how with my very first post as a bike blogger, in 2009, I vowed to buy a cross-frame, or “priest bike”, but somewhere along the line settled instead for an Opa (grandpa) bike.
Well hats off to you, my ol’ buddy Scoop, for biting the bullet and ordering your very own priest bike. I hope it brings you many years of self-satisfaction and one-up-manship, over me, your friend since the 80s, who would always do anything for you.
The tables of jealously have been turned back on me, even more than Scoop could really know. Unlike me, he hasn’t spent weeks riding around Copenhagen, to know how even the most seasoned bike-watcher still gets a jolt by the sight of a cross-frame, usually when they think they have seen everything, just because 10 or so Pedersens have just passed them by.
Upon catching the eye, the priest’s bike next works on arousing its victim, by drawing their gaze to a steel rod emanating—or so it does seem—from directly under the seat. Don’t believe standard histories about this frame being conceived to give priests more stand-over height when wearing their robes. The stand-over height is no better on a priests bike, than any other. The designer’s aim (and he must have been sick) was to get that top tube right up there baby, as though it were poking out of your trousers. The name “priest bike” was actually bestowed in jest, when the Vatican banned priests from riding these things. They were causing bouts of hysteria, or what was then termed “enthusiasm”, among too many nuns.
And if all that isn’t sexy enough, here is the clanger: my friend’s new bike will arrive with a Brooks Saddle, a kind of saddle we know bears the imprint of each rider’s own ischium, so accurately, that Dutch women need to put covers on their saddles when they leave them outside, or risk returning to find perverts transfixed by their imprints.