Encounters: The Bicycle

On the upper Adriatic, even everyday life seemed to have a certain lightness. In the mornings, the air smelled of warm sand, sunscreen, and fresh coffee from the bars around the campsite. Between pine trees and oleander bushes, espresso cups clinked, children walked toward the beach carrying inflatable swim toys, and somewhere a cooler was already being lifted into the trunk of a car. Along the paths, bicycles rolled by with beach bags hanging from their handlebars — light, colorful, summery.

Not mine.

I was young, I needed the money, and that was why I had taken a summer job that was supposed to last four months. Four months on a campsite, four months of heat, sea air, changing guests, and paths that had to be covered every day.

The company had provided me with a bicycle so I could make my rounds around the campsite. It was too small for me, had three gears that worked only at their own discretion, and with every push of the pedals it squeaked so loudly that people heard me before they saw me.

Still, I used it for everything. For my evening patrols around the campsite, for small errands in the surrounding villages, for the ride to the beach. It was old, stubborn, and not particularly comfortable. But it got me reliably from A to B.

One day I pushed down hard on the pedal — and stepped into nothing. The crank arm simply flew off. For a moment I struggled to keep my balance. The bicycle wobbled, I caught it, and just managed to come to a stop.

I looked back. A little way behind me, the crank arm was lying in the road.

I walked back, picked it up, put it back in place, and pressed it on firmly. And indeed — it held. So I rode on.

From then on, I rode more carefully. Prepared for anything.

My rides on that bicycle had been a little adventure anyway. It really did squeak loudly. On the campsite I was known — not because people saw me, but because they heard me.

Later, I told a colleague about the incident.

He laughed and said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world:

“Just throw it into a ditch somewhere and say it was stolen. Then you’ll get a new one.”

I still remember thinking about it for a moment. A new bicycle would have been more comfortable. Bigger. Quieter. With gears that actually worked.

But I could not bring myself to do it. Not the lie.

And not leaving that squeaky bicycle, which by then had somehow grown dear to me, lying in a ditch.

So I kept riding it. With its repaired crank arm. With its squeaking pedals. With gears that only worked now and then.

It was not perfect. But it had become mine.

B.