I can’t dispose of this.

I can’t dispose of this.

14 years. A lifetime. Scrapes and crashes, scuffs and scars.

Faded glory, its battered features tell a silent story, its mute voice clear as day. ‘You used me and abused me, I did not let you down’.

I can’t dispose of this

It’s part of my history and I’ve moulded it’s form. Hills crested, singletrack flowed . Meanders to the shops. A stint in the Lakes. A dreadful day in the Beacons. A better one in Pembs.

I can’t dispose of this.

The original saddle from my 1998 Orange P7. Too beautiful to discard, too tired to use.

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