the papergirl

Words: Alex Throssell Illustrations: Gill Chantler | gillchantler.com

As unassuming as a leisurely group ride around norwich may sound, it was probably the greatest ride of my life

In the space of two months, I met and then lost possibly the most influential person in my recent years. It was at a battle of the bands gig in late March that I first met Kiama Petit: a friend of a friend and an uncontrollable bundle of positive energy. In the quiet between acts, she raved about local bike-builder Tom Donhou and told me about the Norwich Papergirl ride, her art-meets-bikes end of university project. By the beginning of May, four weeks after the Papergirl ride, Kiama, still only 21 years old, unexpectedly passed away. A year and a half later, all of the good things that have happened to me since can, in one way or another, be traced back to that Papergirl bike ride. In fact, it was on that single day that I (almost) met the love of my life, found one of my closest friends and got to know the people at the bike shop I’d go on to work with for the next year or so.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but all too often I seem to focus on the negatives. Especially after a long day’s riding, I rarely remember the sunsets, the descents and the the conquered heights, but can far too vividly recall the rain, the wind and the punctures. The more fortunate amongst you might experience the catharsis of having it the other way around, but for me, it’s the grind, the pain, and the frustration that tend to repeat for a long while after. For possibly the only time I can remember before or since, the Papergirl ride was different. As unassuming as a leisurely group ride around Norwich may sound (and, truth be told, as unassuming as the actual cycling was), looking back it was probably the greatest ride of my life. And although that sounds far fetched, I think that was the point all along. Kiama’s university studies focused on the ‘participatory, analogue, non-commercial and impulsive.’ Her mantra for the Papergirl ride was that art, and the gift that it gives, should be a part of everyone’s daily life, even if it’s just to brighten it for a moment. Some, like me, would experience a fiercer brightness than others. To pimp our rides a little before the event, Kiama arranged a free-for-all customisation session at a newly opened community bike project. Aided by the project’s founder, Jason, we went about transforming our bikes. Several hours later I rode away with a handcut kaleidoscopic wheel cover, whilst others had attached flags, tassels and flowers. When we left, now considerably more eye-catching than when we arrived, I had no idea I’d return to that workshop in September, shake hands with Jason, and start a new job as a bicycle mechanic. Although the group was modest - only 21 cyclists in total - it covered a brilliant spectrum. From young girls to old men, to people like me who just wanted to look cool, each carried a custom messenger bag full of carefully wrapped artwork and spread happiness by gifting a random piece of art to whichever passersby we chose. Part of the bunch, but often riding with

me up front, was a similar-minded bike nut who whooped “Free art!” in a range of accents, introduced me to fixed gear riding, suggested we turn an old house into a bike café and became one of my best friends in the process. And just as the Papergirl riders were a rag-tag, happy-go-lucky bunch, so too were the recipients of the random art-gifts. There were curious children, smiling pensioners, surprised exclamations of “and it’s free?”, and one particularly notable bohemian cyclist-type who swerved across two lanes of traffic with reckless abandon at the promise of free art, joyously colliding with a kerb seconds after claiming his prize. Although I didn’t know it then, one of the art gift receivers just so happened to be the girl I would fall in love with – a fact I was to discover on our first date six months later. Even though it went against the whole spirit of the event, by the end of the ride I’m pretty sure we’d all had an urge to purloin a piece of art ourselves. I know this because over the course of the day several people asked Kiama whether they could take one as a memento. But with the integrity of her project in mind, she politely informed us that we were to give everything away and that we’d hopefully come away with something ourselves as a result. I’d guess that a few probably flouted her advice regardless, but for those like me that dutifully obeyed, Kiama’s words resonated more deeply than she may have intended. And indeed, the gifts that I took from the day were far richer than any piece of art could ever have been. Cut down by a completely unexpected brain aneurysm, Kiama’s last great act was the spread of happiness to whoever would receive it, all from her trusty sit-upand-beg. And oh, what a wonderful world it would be if we all cycled the same way. It was just one day, and only a few hours on the bike, but I found the love of my life, one of my closest friends, and made memories that will stay with me forever. In memory of Kiama Petit

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