Raleigh Burner - The Test Drive (Part 2)

Much to my delight the Raleigh Burner fit like a glove -You should get one, Ronnie.
Charlotte beamed in childish delight as she cut a figure of eight in the street, her teeth gleaming, drawing an unusual similarity to the Sun Pat kid as she skidded to a stop outside the front gate.

The next few days were spent with me tip toeing down the stairs, not wanting to concede defeat in the rising probings about the present not being an entirely selfless act. This lead to me failing in finding suitable examples, such as " Well if that was the case....erm....well wotshisname would never have given...you know, her.....that... and that wouldn't of happened."
I also kept getting caught out- having to respond with guilty cries of, "Nothing...Just checking the front door's locked..."-my response too quick, and the echo of the hall doing nothing to hide my guilt, as I admired the bike in the hall in the darkness.

It was with great pleasure I was rung the following morning with what I would normally consider the definition of mundane, boredom at its most intense. I was asked the kind of question which paralyses my jaw, and makes me want to slowly slur to a jolty standstill, and drop the phone. I was asked to reunite my friends with his keys he had left round here before he went to work. Resisting the urge to ask if he had dropped them before, after, or even at the same time as vomiting on my carpet the previous weekend, I agreed.

It was at last a genuine reason. As I guided her out the front door I watched the gleaming white wheels catch the sun. Aware I couldn't sit down on the Raleigh Burner and cruise, I figured everyone looks big on a BMX, besides everyone will be too busy looking at the beautiful, hypnotic, polo-white alloys to notice me.

As I left the front gate swinging, clinging to its post looking like distressed Mechano, I peddled off down Graham Road, whistling as I glided under the railway bridge. Feeling a picture of youth, I imagined Ribena pumping through my veins, those black and red Filas on the peddles (maybe original F13s?) that Mum took back to the shop because they turned my socks blacks when it rained( despite my desperate pleas, and mid-tantrum declaration of allegiance to black socks) . I imagined myself rockin' those black baggy jeans, with the red or green backpockets that every older brother had in the nineties.

I glided past the chip shop where a lovely Indian couple work tirelessly in stove like conditions, amid mobile ring tones, and kids who view the shop as there stronghold. I cycled past, reaching the corner by the Spurstowe pub, and peddling in slow motion so I could hear the old Jamaican dude who leans on the rail of the estate opposite. His strong accent creating sticky, syrupy tones , talking to no one in particular and answering his own questions by laughing contentedly every few minutes.

Then to my delight, as I peddled through the gloomy post war estates, built after this side of London Fields was heavily bombed during the war, I had my Rocky moment. Kids playing in the gulley's of the estate blocks began to run beside me to the end of their block. I hopped off the kerb excitedly, swaying awkwardly on landing, forgetting just how small the bike actually was.

Picking up pace once more I turned into the cycle path that leads to London Fields. Suddenly, for the first time, I was in traffic. It was only then that it dawned on me. My panting grin being wiped from my face instantly, this was the worst kind of traffic. Elegant foreign exchange students, mostly Scandinavian and beautiful, all riding bikes that would be found in a Disney produced Dickensian London.

My fantasy had been shattered, I looked, well ridiculous. I suddenly felt like an elephant on a unicycle at the zoo, as I balanced on top of the tiny BMX, having to pedal furiously to stay vertical. I could feel the bemusement I caused each passing cyclist, as they looked down on me (literally) from their sophisticated, adult bikes.

I dropped off the keys, and then sheepishly cycled home, still I'm pleased to say in awe of the Burner, but embarrassed when faced with company. Just as I reached the home stretch, I saw a small Afro Caribbean girl up ahead, no taller than the arm of a chair, leaning on her elbows and tummy on the wall of her front garden. She watched me approach, and with perfect timing as I passed , she pointed at me and laughed, shouting, "MY Gosh! You too big for DAT bike!."