All over London the lost bikes sit waiting to be discovered again.

July 25th, 2014, 2pm

It was 20°C with few clouds. The breeze was light.

Having been relieved of one or more parts, they rest still locked to poles, fences, and racks, their owners too disheartened or disgusted to even bother removing them or buying a replacement wheel, an extra saddle. As if to say, I cannot bear to look at you. You cannot be made whole again.

Saddest of all are the solitary wheels, those tiny monuments to the bike that was, the ghost of a frame dancing delicately around them. They speak to a hope betrayed, a single, unthinking moment that ended in loss and bitterness and chaos.

So all over London the lost bikes sit, dreaming of woodland paths and café-lined streets, of tweed and leather and the dancing of pedals.

Lost Bikes


Christine, Adrian and Shu said thanks.

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Thom Wong

Eventually you find your way.

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