My steadfast iron horse’s wheels are so keen on kissing the gravel paths. Nostalgia for that bygone time took me down memory lane six decades. ‘Country roads, take me home; To the place, I belong’- [with apologies to John Denver]

The usually awfully busy A2, an all-engulfing sprawl of dizzying traffic in the morning, was almost deserted as I pushed my old Raleigh bike down Galle Road, enjoying the cold morning breeze. With deflated tires on both wheels and corroded parts giving away, it was a tough task, but motivated by nostalgic memories of peddling down the lanes with friends, twinkling the bells at many a spot, and appreciating each ‘bloom’ and ‘bird’; I walked imagining I am cycling down in a relatively easy passage and crossed the main road at will instead of the usual 5-6 minute wait even at the zebra crossing while risking life before reaching the opposite pavement.

 For children down the lanes; A surprise holiday, thrilled by the lucid ‘pitch’ in the centre of the lane playing a game of T/20 cricket, no tooting motorists; no disturbing the wickets! 
Jokingly I said, “Can I join you putha?” they seem to be more focused on my Raleigh Sports.
“Sorry seeya, this is an under 12 game, we are enjoying our mid-term vacation, courtesy of the minister.”

A mischievous-looking urchin appears, “have you ever heard of mid-term holidays; you had only mid-term tests?” I commenced my sacred journey enjoying the chorus of a nursery rhyme as they sang along, ‘Pedal, pedal left and right; when they all come riding by…’,
Further down, towards the bazaar, proctor Silva was limping in his walking attire, “Very good morning, learnt a lesson? You Viyathmaga boys are back to cycling…, Eh? Your efforts 
provoked a unique political reckoning. But we need amendments to the Traffic Act, providing cycle lanes”. 
I crossed him saying-

"Oh, boy, they know little econ, only serve the crooks in the two politico camps— Private vehicles use 80% of fuel, whereas public transport that carries half the passengers, but they use less than 6 per cent, this is ridiculous, anyway, good luck chum"

 “Government says it’s not a lockdown.” “No, it is only a Bogg-Down by a ‘Thel’ [B]Lockdown imposed on a politician- vandalized nation. Fuel pipes blocked, medicines bogged at warehouses, rice hoarded with the mafia, milk powder ship hogged in mid-sea, owner-less gas cylinders chained and locked on pavements,” replied the Lawyer.
The ideal time for a peaceful drive down Galle Road to the city in my car? I was delighted; unfortunately, it is locked and bogged down in the IOC’s petrol line for the fifth successive day. It will be a long wait and then face the multipronged attacks by the fuel Mafia replete with, Cops, Military, Essential services and the Helmet gang. 
Before I reach my destination I met Doctor Fareed who was rushing for his morning prayers, “Excellent idea, old boy, cycle for a healthy life, you know apart from improving general health, will also cut the healthcare costs”. 

I really wanted to get into road riding at 78. I loved biking down the countryside, the rise and fall of the track, taking pleasure in the village roads far away, and the song of the birds as our thoughts stay in the instant. Sure, I’ll be back biking, as my bicycle awaits, ever ready to ride in scenic shortcuts and enchanting environments. 
Our evening rides ended on the beach, but not before a brief stop opposite Maestro vocalist, Wintson Paul Peiris’ on the Panadura Beach Road, for singing his golden oldie, ‘Bicykaley… , Bicykaley…, Duppath apage Bicykaley….’

Here comes Emeritus Prof Fernando, my schoolmate and former Econ head, Colombo Uni,’ 
“So, chum nice to see you with the old Sports bike, I remember the fall we had opposite the Convent, doubling on your Raleigh. Boy, fossil fuels cost $ 2,081 Mn. Read my paper on ‘Economic Recovery and Transport and Logistics in Sri Lanka’.” 
“But Many Uni dons disagree with you,” I said. “Who? may be the Pera guys?”
 “Most of them in all Unis” 

“Oh, boy, they know little econ, only serve the crooks in the two politico camps— Private vehicles use 80% of fuel, whereas public transport that carries half the passengers, but they use less than 6 per cent, this is ridiculous, anyway, good luck chum.”
Michael bass’s son was very busy. A variety of branded Chinese, and Indian mountain bikes.., with gear speeds ranging from 6-10; all stacked under the tarnished sign, “Mykle the Tyncal” awaits their turn. The young mechanic who glanced at my badly perished, corroded and discoloured metal frame that gave an eerie appearance to the once elegant steel structure—ignored me. Two ladies in their teens, one was holding a mountain bike with a ‘Gota Go …’ sticker on the handle and was waiting for the mechanic to fix the Tomahawk of her friend who was tapping her feet to the beat of her earphone. 

Failing to draw his attention, I broke the ice, “you are Michael’s son or grandson, I suppose” I said and he responded. “Yes, grandson; what can I do?”
“Tell me your name son, and can you bring my Raleigh Sports back to its former glory?”
“Ralee spot… where is that? They call me Tyncal”
“You know my dear, it was your grandpa Michael bass who attended to it from the day my dada bought the ‘Made in England’, two-wheeler for 265 rupees.”
Encouraged by the shocked facial expressions of the youngsters, I continued, “You know, an imported tyre cost just 2/25, that was in an era when Nat King Cole recorded – “Bicycle Built for Two” - 1963.”

‘Daisy, Daisy; I’m half crazy; All for the love of you, I can’t afford a carriage
 But you›ll look sweet; Upon the seat, Of a bicycle built for two
Tyncal points his finger to a place further down “Sir, that’s Sundarams,” and continued, “he ran out of petrol for his scooty and he is starving at the IOC line, you better take it there after the 22nd, the tanker, as the ‘energetic’ minister says is in mid-sea.” 

He wiped his majang hands on the overall, and turned towards me, “Did you ever have ministers in your days who informed well in advance the dates of oil shipments for you to plan your trips?” He pulled an empty condensed milk can, “just see, no lamputhel [kerosine] for cleaning,” and continued, “Sir, if you are in a hurry, Sundaram’s wife is there, they collect throwaway iron and rubbish in the dumps over there,” she would buy your ‘Lamborghini’ for fifty rupees.”

The two young misses couldn’t help bursting into loud laughter; perhaps they are yet to learn from their pretty, sporty and charming grand-mamas, how they peeped through the hedges in admiring the glittering ‘Raleigh Sports’ six decades ago. 
Bob Dylan was timeless and relevant, when he sang…, ‘For The Times They Are A-Changin’
I left my treasure in the hands of Sunderam’s wife; she stretched a 100 rupee note.
 “No, you keep both” 

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