and calorie-counters. State-of-the-art. Made in America. And expensive, compared to similar machines made in China, Korea, Hong Kong, Japan. ‘But much better everything.’ Hargreave wanted much better everything. For Olga? No – for himself. About time he spent some money on himself. He arranged to have it delivered to his apartment, and he was about to go back to his chambers when he spied the mountain bicycles.
They were impressive. So gleaming – all the colours of the rainbow, all the gear, all the variations. Hargreave spent another hour with the salesman, asking searching questions. ‘What about knee-impact?’ He ended up buying the latest Canadian lite-weight fibre-glass super 36-Shimano-gears job, a machine which, judging by the salesman’s account, would take him over the Himalayas with ease. Nothing but the best for Hargreave! Then he had to buy the latest in crash helmets, metallic red – he fancied blue but they didn’t have any. Then gloves. Then a rainproof tracksuit. And goggles. And two sweatbands – ‘You must have two, sir …’
Hargreave arranged for the whole purchase to be delivered to his apartment and walked stiffly back through the crowds to his chambers. He was pleased he had grasped the nettle of his ageing body, which no lesser savant than Ian Bradshaw had said was not too bad, which Olga evidently thought was pretty damn good. And she would know …
His own wit made him grin widely.
‘Enjoy,’ he said to himself. ‘Just enjoy …’
But it was hard work to enjoy.
His exercycle and bicycle were resplendent in the middle of his living room when he arrived home, his red helmet and other gear draped on the sofa. (Ah Moi, his amah, was both mystified and amused.) Hargreave decided not to ride his new bicycle today: he was stiff all over, it was hot outside, the rush-hour was still on, all good reasons for the Great Indoors. With determination he got into his tennis shorts, pulled on his new sports shoes, switched on his television, mounted his new exercycle, checked that all his dials were on zero, and began to pedal.
He pedalled hard, staring at the television; within moments he was exhausted. He stopped. He looked at the mileometer: some four hundred yards. He looked at the clock: thirty-two seconds. He looked at the calorie-counter – not a sausage. And so boring.
Well, so these things take time – he had found the exercycle at the gymnasium hard work too. Maybe he should start with the mountain bike.
Hargreave put on his flash red helmet and descended in the elevator with his flash new Canadian Super-lite, Shimano-36-gear, hot-and-cold-running-water mountain bike. He mounted it, and set off. ‘Into the Unknown …’
And, Lord, it was the unknown. It was thirty years since Hargreave had ridden a bicycle; he had forgotten what hard work is required of the legs. The area immediately surrounding his apartment complex was flat, but within two circuits his legs were aching. He came to the exit and stopped for a little rest. From here he had the choice of three directions: the steep, winding road up towards the Peak, or a more gentle incline around the Peak, or the road that led downhill towards Central. Rush-hour traffic was using all three roads. Hargreave got the ache out of his legs and chose the road that inclined gently around the side of the Peak. He adjusted his helmet, selected second gear, waited for a gap in the traffic; and went for it. He pedalled flat out across the road, then swung right, uphill.
He pedalled furiously as traffic overtook him. The ache came crashing back into his legs, his heart started pounding. He pedalled and pedalled, feeling nervous now midst the sweeping traffic roaring up from behind. He pedalled and pedalled, standing now, toiling, teeth clenched, desperately trying to keep to the extreme left of the road, out of harm’s way. He pedalled and pedalled, trying to think of Olga to obliterate the pain; then he just had to stop. He wobbled to a halt beside the kerb.
He was exhausted: his whole body was trembling, his legs crying out; even his arms ached. His head was hot in the helmet, and he took it off. A legal friend passing in his Jaguar recognized him and shouted ‘Go, Al, go!’ Hargreave managed a sheepish wave. So now he was self-conscious as well as exhausted. If they knew why he was doing this, for a twenty-three-year-old Russian whore, they would kill themselves with laughter. He looked backwards. Maybe he had done threequarters of a mile.
But a Hargreave does not give up easily. When the pain in his legs subsided he took a deep breath and toiled on.
But toiled. This gentle incline was not gentle at all. And it went on and on. He knew the road well, he thought he could visualize the turns and gradients ahead, but it all looked very different from here. He tried to put the machine into a lower gear, shoving the levers like the salesman had shown him – which made the handlebars wobble dangerously. A passing car hooted at him, swerving. Desperately he pushed both levers simultaneously and the gears crunched and jerked and then spun, in no gear at all – suddenly Hargreave’s legs were whirling, he wobbled, his front wheel hit the kerb, and he crashed.
Fortunately he was going very slowly. Hargreave only toppled off his bicycle. But he landed with a nasty thump, on his side. A passing motorist hooted and laughed. Hargreave clambered up, embarrassed.
‘Oh Lord …’
When the ache subsided in his legs, he examined the gear mechanism, cussing.
He did not understand what he was looking at, though it had seemed intelligible in the shop: there were layers of cogs on both the pedal contraption and the rear wheel: the selection of which particular cogs the chain operated at any given moment was determined by the little levers on the handlebars. Right; understood. But now the chain hung lifelessly. Hargreave gingerly lifted it with forefinger and thumb and tried to put it back on the cogs. Any cogs. The chain refused to oblige. In exasperation he wrenched, and finally the chain reluctantly took its place. Wearily Hargreave remounted, shoved off and trod on the pedals.
And fuck me if the infernal machine was not now in top gear. He wobbled to a halt again, another motorist blaring at him. ‘Oh fuck off!’ Hargreave muttered. He retreated to the kerb and glared down at the cogs.
‘Okay, that’s it!’ Hargreave said – he simply did not understand the gears. He wasn’t going to fuck about with the fucking chain again. So there was nothing for it but to return home – mercifully downhill – and get one of those kids in the apartment block to explain the gears to him. Grateful that his ordeal was almost over, he awaited another gap in the traffic, then wheeled his bicycle across the road. He reached the other side with doubtful safety, took a deep breath, faced his machine downhill, and mounted.
Alistair Hargreave, Director of Public Prosecutions, was about a mile uphill of the entrance of his apartment complex when he set off. Downhill, in top gear. He wearily trod on the pedals, once, twice, and the machine leaped forward like an enthusiastic pony. And off he sped.
And this was more like it! This was what he imagined when the salesman had eulogized about the Shimano 36-speed gears, making it sound as if he would whiz gracefully everywhere. Hargreave went swooping down the hill effortlessly, cool wind suddenly on his sweating face, the sunset caressing instead of beating him – this was almost like sailing! There was no other downhill traffic and he had half the swathe of road to himself. He trod on the pedals harder, and the machine surged again, going faster, and faster, the uphill traffic flashing by now. Hargreave pedalled joyously, effortlessly, gracefully, the wind whistling in his ears, drying his sweating face; harder he pedalled, and harder. And, oh, he would love to just keep going down this steep winding peak all the way down to Central, fun fun fun all the way. That’s what he’d do tomorrow, by God – ride down to the Supreme Court and then take the Peak tram home with his bike and then it was downhill once more from the top of the Peak to his apartment.
That
