It was a sad day when I got rid of my bicycle.

I was moving house after splitting up with my partner and I had to be ruthless with binning anything I didn't need. My bike had been left rusting outside for the previous two years and was no good to anyone any more, so it had to go.

When I came to take it to the council tip I had to seperate it from my ex-partner's bike which it had leaned upon for years. The chains were tangled and had lain rusting together in the rain. It was hard work getting them apart. Eventually I wheeled the sorry looking bike outside and down the street on its final journey to the tip.

It didn't always look this worn out. I first bought the bike when I was 14 and it took pride of place in the shop window, hanging there all black and red, its wide handlebars set at an angle and its thick wheels shiny new. I could only afford it because of what had happened on holiday:

My family's first holiday abroad was to Tunisia. On the motorway services on the way to the airport my Mom found an envelope containing £320 in the toilets! She, naturally, kept it and we decided to split it up between the five members of the family. It's interesting to note that my Mom became ill on that holiday and, to be honest, has never been that well ever since. The money seemed to put some kind of curse on her. Or maybe it was just the guilt eating away.

With my £64 share of the found wadge, together with my birthday money, I was able to trade my beloved Grifter in for a £10 discount and buy the bicycle of my dreams.

It no longer looked like the bicycle of my dreams as I got on it and tried to cycle to the tip. The bike protested by shedding its chain, leaving my feet spinning around on the unattached pedals. I had to push it the rest of the way up a huge hill so I decided to take it through the cemetery to make the journey a bit more interesting. Walking through the peaceful cemetery park I read some of the gravestones in differing states of dis-repair. It made me think about death, not just the death of life but the death of the self that we go through as we move from one stage to the next and the mourning process we have to go through as we accept the passage of time and let go of our old selves.

Through the cemetery and up to the top of the hill I pushed the old bike, jumping on one pedal and free-wheeling whenever the hill flattened out. Finally, after an energetic last push, I reached the top.

The tip was just over the other side of the hill so I decided to give the bike its last ride. I sat on it and pushed off down the hill, along the pavement, towards its final resting place. With no brakes, no chain, flat tyres and rusted parts everywhere it wasn't the safest journey of my life, but I felt I owed it to the bike.

It reminded me of when I first rode it. I bought the bike with my Dad and I rode it home following my Dad in the car. Out of the bicycle shop and down a huge hill, I had to put my full trust in the bike. It was huge compared to my Grifter and its thin seat was uncomfortable at first, but I was so proud when I rode up my drive. It was exhillarating in a am-I-going-to-fall-off way.

I had the same exhillaration on my precarious journey down the hill to the tip, feet out-stretched to be used instead of the brakes which had long since seized-up. When I got to the gate a man working for the council tried to persuade me to take the bike to be fixed instead of dumping it. But I didn't want to. It had served me well for a long time but its time had come.

I left it with the other rejected bicycles and tricycles and scooters, turned my back and had an easy walk home without the burden of a broken bicycle.