We’re standing in the sun on Copenhagen Street. I can tell Paul has lost weight in the two weeks since I saw him last. I enjoy assessing size, leg length, inseam, chest width, girth, that sort of thing. I could have become a master tailor, had I been inclined.
From what I understand, from speaking to other cyclists and coaches, weight loss is not a bad thing. The trick seems to be to find a racer who can pedal for hours. Not a showman or circus act, but one who won’t give up. The more weight this racer carts around, the more energy he has to spend doing it. Elementary physics, really. With the amount of training and racing these boys are required to do there isn’t much time to eat, and whatever they eat, dissipates into energy. Runs off as steam from the engines they have turned themselves into.
Paul has told me he’s so happy I’m back a hundred times already, and though I should really tell him to stop, it’s nice to hear. This puppylike devotion, however much it is based on the treats I get him, might prove useful in the future.
‘Well, let’s have a look at this bike then,’ I say.
‘It’s great isn’t it?’ He smiles.
‘It’s not a toy, you realise. It’s an investment.’
He turns to me, earnest, ‘Hopefully I can make us some money.’
‘You better make some money quickly.’
‘Well, with this machine I think we have a chance.’ He runs a finger along the frame.
‘What’s so special about it?’ I ask, not that I’m all that interested, but he’s nice to talk to and if this is my new investment, at least I should know something about it. Same as chatting with a jockey I suppose. Or patting a greyhound.
‘It’s a 1921 Iver Johnson Special, The man in the shop told me it was once owned by Dusty Chalmers.’
‘Who?’
‘Eric “Dusty” Chalmers, an American racer. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. The man in the shop told me Eric came over here for the 1920 Olympics in Antwerp. There’s a sticker on the seat tube: “Vélodrome d’Anvers Zuremborg”. He didn’t do too well in the games, and afterward, he came to London. He brought a team of people and two bikes, can you imagine? Two bikes! Both this bright yellow. This is one he left behind.’
‘Well it’s a nice colour.’
‘Eric sold it to someone to pay for his hotel. It’s light too. Feel it, lift it.’
I lift it, and raise my eyebrows for effect. ‘Well I don’t know what to compare it to but I suppose that’s quite light, but you won’t be carrying it will you? You’ll be cycling on it mostly, won’t you?’
‘Yes. It’d be a shame not to. Look it came with laminated wooden rims, adjustable stem. Look here, the bars are made-to-measure by Mr Lauterwasser himself.’
‘Mr Lauter… who is that?’
‘The man who runs the shop of course.’
‘That’s fine. Where is it?’ I say, looking at him; a boy by the Christmas tree, the biggest gift ripped open.
‘On Holloway Road.’
‘I’ll make a point of popping in to see them.’ I want to know Paul got a good price.
‘Speak to Jack if you do. He’s the guy who owns the shop. It was nice of Rupert to go with me. He took Jack off to the pub, to do a bit of haggling. When they came back, Jack’s face was quite flushed, and the price had dropped considerably,’ he says, the manchild.
‘That’s good. Makes it easier for you to pay back.’ I shuffle my feet a little. I’m not that interested in bikes, but his enthusiasm is quite contagious. I light a cigarette and allow him to indulge a little more.
‘You know Iver Johnson Company sponsored Marshall “Major” Taylor?’ he continues.
‘Who?’
‘You’re kidding?’ he says.
‘Almost never.’ I blow smoke out of the side of my mouth.
‘Only one of the greatest cyclists ever,’ Paul’s even taken his eyes off the bike in astonishment at my ignorance.
‘Was he in the army?’ I ask, looking at the sun. It feels like it has been a century since I saw it last.
‘No, he was black.’ he says.
‘Dressed in black?’ I say, closing my eyes and feeling the warmth of the weather.
‘No, black skin.’
‘In the army?’
‘No. When Iver first started sponsoring him he was mostly doing tricks outside the bicycle shop to attract customers, and for some reason, maybe he was lent one, or maybe it was the closest to a suit he could find, he wore a uniform.’ Paul taps his finger along the top tube of the bike, listening intently for something. Then he goes on, ‘Anyway, he went on to be a legendary racer, but people found it very hard to see him win, because of the colour of his skin, and he retired early.’
‘Well lucky you’re ginger. People mind that less, I believe.’
‘I think I’ll wear a cap just in case,’ he nods seriously and wheels the bike back and forward a couple of inches.
‘I can never tell if you’re actually quite funny, or just a child.’ I say.
‘I think maybe neither.’
‘I think maybe both.’