Pack rat

The bicycle commute into work has taken a distinctly chilly turn this week, Wednesday saw me attempting to ride with frozen hands in my pockets, so it was away with the fingerless cycling gloves and out with a spare pare of motorbiking gloves. I also dug out a slightly more robust pack for the extra clothing. Then it occurred to me just what amazing value my Karrimor Trail rucksack has been.

Bought as my school bag aged 13 I'd obviously set my face against the playground fashion for a HEAD tennis bag. If you're aged 35 or thereabouts you might remember their shoolyard ubiquity in the eighties. I can't remember if it was a birthday present, but I have a clear recollection of wheedling to my parents that it was a sound investment given the superior build quality - and time seems to have proved me right (my quality tool fetishism starts here?) christ knows filling a bag with textbooks is a pretty tough test that saw those HEAD items lucky to survive a couple of terms.

When I sling it on it fits me like a glove, but perhaps seeing as I spent puberty lugging it back and forth it might not be too fanciful to say I grew into it - moulded into its shape as time passed, its certainly the most comfortable I've ever worn. Time and the accumulated dirt of three continents has calmed down the eighties neon colours and worn away the embroidered logos and though it shows wear there's plenty of life in the bugger yet. I love it.




These days on a motorbike I might wear it a wee bit lower on my back, but catching your helmet wasn't an issue on the road in India back then - I was seen as something of a safety nut for wearing jeans and a stout boot rather than the obligatory shorts and flip-flops.


Buy cheap buy twice, as true as it ever was. Cheers Mum and Dad.