Books, Old ­Friends

As an impoverished cycling courier in London during the late 80s I read a biographical account by a young man who journeyed around the world on his bicycle. Like all my favourite books I gave it away at some point and have regretted it ever since. I cannot remember the name of the book or the author. The author was possibly a Canadian french speaking chap who had written the book in english. Travelling alone he developed a deep relationship with his bicycle. He of course named the bike, I forget what. The book had a few scratchy line drawings illustrating particular aspects of his bicycle. In one of the ‘stans he had an encounter with bandits on camels shooting ancient rifles.

About five or so years ago I trawled the internet with what I could remember of the book. I found the author living in the french countryside. I thought I would send him a letter and ask if he was one and the same. I didn’t and I regret it. I just had another look but could not find him, nor a clue to the book.

Books are like old friends. I miss them and regret their loss.