When I lived in London I had a customized 400 euro bike with 20 speeds and 3 different kinds of suspension. Nowadays, I rattle along on a single-speed Diamant from 1989. When I'm rolling over the cobblestone streets that comprise our local infrastructure, I can hear squeaks and creaks springing from 25 different places on its frame, like a bullet-riddled boat taking on water. I'm waiting for the day when the vibrations from the rough terrain finally shatter my bike, throwing me to the ground amid a hail of flattened screws, rusty spokes and bent fenders.
But for all the noise my bike makes, it feels too solid to ever break. Something stronger than metal binds it together- willpower maybe, or love...? I love the way that my bike matches the garish geometric patterns painted on the sides of the local plattenbauten, making me feel like a figurine riding through Lego City. It transports me to an undemanding toy world where A always leads to B and there are no variables or worries.
My bike is as basic as they come and flaunts it, in an acid orange paint-job. It's content to do without any bells or whistles. Basically, it's a lot like its owner.