The decrepit old bicycle sat forlornly by the chain link fence, covered in several layers of green emulsion paint, locked up outside the 4D betting shop. I stopped to take a closer look and to my surprise, the headbadge was one I recognised. A Hercules! No cheap Chinese bike, it was made in Britannia Works, Birmingham. How did it end up sitting there? Every bicycle has a story and this is the story of my latest completed project. 

Sometime during the 1940s, a young Eurasian man named Percy, who had his studies disrupted by the Japanese Occupation, returned to school to attain his Higher School Certificate. Armed with his HSC, the Changi boy joined the civil service as a clerk right from school around 1950. Singapore was a very different place then. There weren't many cars on an East Coast Road flanked by coconut trees. The whole place had a sleepy seaside resort-like atmosphere.  

Every day, Percy would take a bus to his office in town, then return the same way each evening, when he would stop by the coffeeshop for a cigarette and his Guinness Stout. He often thought it would be nice to own a motorcycle someday. Perhaps a BSA or Triumph. Of course, it was too expensive - even the ex-British Army motorbikes were quite a stretch for his meagre public servant salary.

Several years after he started work, Percy's family moved to Katong, and his commute became much shorter. One of the older chaps at the Katong coffeeshop he frequented suggested he buy a bicycle, as it would significantly shorten his daily commute. Plus, it was good exercise. Percy agreed, and found himself at the bicycle shop the next week, admiring a brand new Hercules Popular Roadster. It sat gleaming in its glossy black lacquer, its gold pinstripes shining in the dim light of the old shophouse. It wasn't as glamorous as the Italian and British 'racers' on display, but it was a tough commuter bike. Able to withstand the rigours of the unpaved kampong lanes and potholed roads of 1950s Singapore. Just what he needed.

He bought the Hercules for the princely sum of $100 dollars - a small fortune back then. His first bicycle, it served him well. It took him just about eveywhere he went, rain or shine. He later fitted a rear rack to help carry items, but really, it was an excuse to give rides to Lucy, his girlfriend whom he met at a friend's house party. Some years later, in the 1960s, she would become his wife and bear him a daughter and son. Percy would give them joyrides around the estate on the Hercules.  Percy loved his Hercules as much as he loved his kids. Even after his income increased, when he could afford a better bicycle, he never entertained any thoughts of selling the old girl. 

Finally, in the 1980s, after Percy's kids had grown up and migrated to Australia, he and Lucy sold the house and moved to a flat in Chai Chee, with proceeds from the sale of their house financing their retirement. Sadly, Lucy passed away several years later and Percy found himself alone. At least his Hercules remained with him.  Even so, it was a lonesome existence. Heartbroken, he pined for Lucy and wished she was still with him. His daughter begged him to join her in Australia, but he stubbornly refused. Singapore was home. It had too many memories for him and he would've hated the cold weather anyway. Plus, there are no 'kopitiams' in Sydney. 

Every morning, he would cycle from Chai Chee to the Changi Road coffeeshop, for his Guinness and Benson & Hedges, then on to the 4D shop for his usual bets. Over time, he got to know one of the patrons of the coffeeshop, Tan, who happened to be the 4D shop owner. They became friends and Tan would bring Percy to the clinic whenever he fell ill.  

One day, Percy cycled over like he used to. Except this time, he was much slower and found it much harder to get on and off his bike. He told Tan he couldn't cycle anymore, as he was going to be admitted to an 'old folks home'. So he offered Tan his beloved Hercules. She had served him well, he said, and he wanted to pass it on to someone who would treasure it. Tan graciously agreed to take possession of the old bicycle.

But not before Percy said his last goodbye. Slowly, the retired civil servant walked over to his bicycle. Percy squatted beside his loyal steed for a long while. Taking a last loving look at her, he smiled, shook Tans hand and thanked him for all his kindness. Then he left. 

Percy never returned.  

Tan believes Percy passed away in a hospice. Tan got to work on the old bike, giving it a few layers of green emulsion paint, then used the Hercules when he went out to buy lunch for his employees. This was to be her second career. Until I came along.

Tan was initially reluctant to sell the Hercules. After all, it was a gift from Percy. However, he also considered how I - being a collector - would be better placed to look after the old girl. After some discussion, I bought her for the princely sum of $100 and a promise that I would restore her to her former glory. I've kept my word. Even though it took me three years and significant expense.

Today, I sit Guinness in hand, admiring this piece of our history, a monument to our Greatest Generation. I raise a toast in memory of Percy, and the countless other Singaporeans who spent their lives building our little city state. Their lives weren't remarkable, but what they created is. 

This one's for you, Percy.