The Kona—the bike for those who don’t keep track of bike brands—has followed me through thick and thin for more than a decade. I don’t know which is thick and which is thin but there has been plenty of both. Late last year I was afraid that its time was up when I couldn’t screw in a new bottom bracket. Panic is a better word for it. To my surprise and delight a local bike shop was able to fix, my heart flew.
I should make better use of it as a transport unit for photography related matters, I hadn’t meant to say anything about that, no less true because, in spite of that. Oh well.
Now, two months later, and I am still being childishly happy that it still rolls. That’s all.
Oh. Kona in my language means woman, or wife. I never refer to the bike as she though. Rarely does the terribly joke about my wife slip past my lips. Just as well. Embarrassingly it has. Don’t have one, no plans, and—as much as I love it—not married to the bicycle. Now that’s all. Promise.