The building of the Cyclemas Tree kept on until the very last minute. The stationary cycle fitted with the dynamo wheel that would light up the lamppost when a child pedalled it was erected between two police barriers, disguised as a golden reindeer with a bicycle seat as a head.
After having tested the lights and especially the kid-powered lamppost, I cycled home for a shower before the lighting ceremony. I was nearly out of my mind with exhaustion and logistics fatigue, and had all too much of the general public.
When I cycled back into town, I was astonished to see hundreds of well-wishers gathering in this forlorn corner of Gloucester Green. After an introduction from Andrew Nairne, the man who kick-started the whole project and stuck his neck out for the whole absurdity, I pronounced this ground the "Church of Bicycles".
Every object is a frozen story, and the story of the Cyclemas Tree was largely the story of its creation and how it brought together children, artists, councillors, police, and cyclists alike. Somehow, it brought out the very best in everyone who worked on it, and as a result, I found myself working with the very best people.
Every step of the way, Sod's Law was in full force, as it is in most pioneering projects. We managed to head off every possible error, every unexpected tangle, every obstacle. Apart from one. My daughter, Pandora, had been promised to have the honour of being the first child to pedal the reindeer bicycle that would light up the lamppost. And so, after a quick speech, we began the countdown...
"10...9...8...7..."
Jason Brown and Olivia Dawson crouched inside the tree, ready to plug it in.
"...6...5...4...3..."
Pandora, dressed in a sailor jacket that once belonged to me, was red-cheeked in anticipation at being the first child to pedal the reindeer and light up the lamppost. Dozens of her friends and other children were all queued up, looking forward to lighting up the most important part of the tree.
"...2...1...!"
The rope lights blazed into life in an eye-popping tangle of blue and red. The crowd roared. And Pandora pedalled as if her life depended on it.
The lamppost didn't light up.
Pandora pedalled faster, and the crowd cheered her on.
Still, the lamppost did not light up.
I jumped into the cordoned off area, trying desperately to fix the bad connection. I stripped the wire with my teeth, cut my fingers open, and was bleeding all over the wires, squeezing the copper together to get the current up to the lamppost. But the lamppost stayed dark.
Pandora burst into tears, and pedalled all the harder. Well-wishers were shouting praise into the ring, but I couldn't acknowledge any of them , nor bask in any glory, nor watch proudly as Pandora lit the tree up. I had to come to terms that, in the end, Sod's Law would win. The bloody light bulb had blown out, and at 6 metres above the ground, and no ladder in sight, it would stay that way until the next day.
It was, at once, the high point of my life since Pandora was born, and the moment of greatest shame and desperation as I watched Pandora humiliated in front of all her friends, many of whom were now crying and upset that they would not be able to light up the Cyclemas Tree.
The reception party was terrific, but I was too messed up by the whole thing to be coherent. I hate being the centre of attention and having to seem sane at the same time...the moments of concentrated fame, however local and short-lived, is too much for me to cope with.
But the tree looked great, and for the next 7 weeks, the spirit of Cyclemas would fill this sad little corner of Oxford's city centre.
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