Coventry Cycle
"At the transport museum, vintage bicycle restorer Janet shows visitors the history of British cycling. When collector Michael brings a rare find, she takes him for a very different ride."
Coventry had been the bicycle capital of Britain once—Rover, Humber, Rudge, names that had made cycling synonymous with this city. The transport museum held what remained of that legacy, and I maintained it. Every vintage bike, every restoration project, every piece of two-wheeled history.
"Ms. Hartley?"
The man in my workshop was carrying something wrapped in blankets with the reverence usually reserved for holy relics. He set it on my bench and unwrapped it slowly.
"My God." I'd seen plenty of rare bikes, but this—an 1887 Rover Safety, the model that invented modern cycling—left me breathless. "Where did you find this?"
"Estate sale in Warwick. No one knew what it was."
"They knew enough to wrap it carefully." I ran my hands over the frame. "Michael—that's what the message said?"
"Michael Ashworth. I collect vintage transport. This is too important to keep private." He watched me examine the bicycle. "I want it restored and displayed. Properly."
The restoration took six months. Michael visited weekly, watching progress, learning about the techniques that differentiated period-correct work from modern shortcuts. He asked intelligent questions and accepted honest answers, even when they meant delays.
"Why bicycles?" he asked during month four. We'd moved from the workshop to a pub nearby, professional distance long since eroded.
"Because they changed everything. Working people could travel. Factories could hire from larger areas. Women could escape chaperones." I sipped my beer. "The bicycle is the most democratic invention in history."
"That's a grand claim."
"It's a true claim. Look at the research. Genetic diversity increased in areas with bicycle access because people could finally meet partners outside their villages." I smiled. "The bicycle is responsible for more love matches than any dating app."
"Speaking of matches." His hand found mine on the table. "Janet. I've been coming here for four months. At first it was the Rover. Now it's you."
"I'm a museum restorer."
"You're a keeper of stories. Every bike you touch carries history, and you're the one who makes it speak again." He leaned closer. "I want to hear what you have to say."
We kissed in the pub, surrounded by afterwork regulars who paid us no attention. His mouth was warm, certain—the kiss of a collector who knew when something was genuine.
"My flat's nearby," I said.
"Show me."
The flat was cyclist's territory—prints of vintage bikes, components I was restoring at home, the evidence of a life devoted to wheels. Michael looked around with obvious appreciation.
"This is you."
"This is my obsession."
"They're the same thing." He pulled me close. "The best people are their obsessions."
We made love while bicycle parts watched from their shelves, our bodies finding rhythms that had nothing to do with restoration and everything to do with connection. Michael touched me with collector's reverence—appreciating rarity, understanding value, handling with care.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm built for workshop work."
"You're built for purpose." He kissed down my body. "The most beautiful things have purpose."
We came together while Coventry slept outside, a city that had forgotten its bicycle heritage but housed one woman still keeping it alive. When I cried out, it was with the satisfaction of a completed restoration—all the parts finally working together.
"Stay," I said.
"In Coventry?"
"In the museum. In my life." I touched his face. "The Rover's almost done. But I'm not done. Not with the collection, not with the work, not with you."
He stayed. The Rover went on display—prominent position, detailed interpretation, proper credit for the collection that had saved it. But more than that, my workshop gained a patron who understood why the work mattered.
"We're partners now," he said one night.
"In collecting?"
"In everything. The collecting, the restoration, the preservation. The life that makes all of it possible." He kissed my forehead. "You taught me that objects matter because people matter. The bicycle isn't the point—the riders are."
"And now?"
"Now I'm one of the riders." He pulled me closer. "Taking a very different kind of journey."
The museum still stands. The Rover still gleams in its case. And now there's a collector who became a lover, who helps fund the work that keeps Coventry's bicycle legacy alive.
That's what preservation really means—not just objects in glass boxes, but relationships that sustain the work. Michael found that in a workshop and in me. I found someone who understood that the best collections include people.