What a ride!

This is a tribute to all the bikes in my life. The wheeled creatures, which accompanied me on many an adventure around the back yard, on the gravel road circling the neighbourhood houses and along the bitumen leading down to the rickety bridge crossing the river. Those tyres ripped up the dusty, and sometimes very muddy, motorbike tracks running alongside the flow of the water. And my favourite feeling was flying down the big dipper. Fear in my throat. My feet forgetting the pedals.

My first bike was a three-wheeled trike. Handed down from my older brother to my sister and then to me. I rode that bike everywhere, following my older siblings as fast as my little legs could pedal. My bare feet would scuff the back verandah or the gravel road, and my big toe would have a top layer of skin scalped again and again and again. A worthy sacrifice for a bit of tricycle speed. Something I would regret that night in the bath, the water stinging as the flap of skin danced on my toe. That trike gave me my first taste of freedom. My escape vehicle as I ‘ran away from home’ pedalling furiously after my brother and sister and their friends, as they rode off on their big bikes to do big kid stuff.

The next bike to come my way was a brilliant metallic green bike, with a glittery white and green seat. A two-wheeler. Round and round in wobbly circles I went on the soft grass of our back yard, the same colour as the bike, a cushion for every fall. Until I felt brave and confident enough to ride beyond our back gates. Past the cactus patch. Well almost past it. My initiation to conquer the two-wheeler and become one of the older kids, delayed by a spectacular fall. The prickly needles taking much delight in piercing my skin as I landed awkwardly on top of them.

For years that green bike and I were inseparable. Unless of course my sister wanted to use it, and I was being dinked by my brother on his red Chopper bike. With its L-shaped black leather-type seat, high handles and oversized reflectors. A pillow on the double barred central frame the comfiest seat ever. Hugging my knees watching the world blur by. With its front wheel smaller than its back, and its street cred, that Chopper bike was no doubt the precursor to many an adult motorbike purchase of the same name.

My brother upgraded to a blue racer. My sister got the Chopper. I got the green bike all to myself. My sister and I taking turns on a pillow on the Chopper to pedal the other around. In between the skid competitions, where my green bike served me well. Or so I choose to remember. And then the day came. The Chopper was sold. My sister got a brand new bike for her birthday and I was getting a newish one too, one my grandmother no longer used. I was mortified when it arrived. The sparkling purple frame, the garish floral seat and that white basket with plastic flowers would never hide my shame. Way to girly for me. Babyish even. But I had no choice but to embrace it. The basket discarded, I owned that bike. Radically accepted it was mine. And proudly rode it as fast as I could down the big dipper. It taught me that appearances are deceiving. A Malvern Star Dragstar, it was tougher than it looked. It was made for street racing. It was made for dirt tracks. It was made for the big dipper.

I discovered it was also made for a bit of cross country. It held its own as I lost control riding down the grassy sloped river bank toward my older sister who had gone ‘off road for a while’. My feet in the air, my dignity in the dust behind me, my older sister jumped off her bike and tackled the Dragstar and me to the ground, seconds before we were to plunge in the river. We lay there by the waters edge laughing hysterically as my brother stared in disbelief at my stupidity from the track above. A memory that always has us in fits of laughter whenever it is brought up to humble me a little, and point out my uncoordinated predisposition as a child.

In high school, the Dragstar and I parted ways. I occasionally borrowed my sister’s bike to ride with my friends to school some 15 kilometres away. And then, when the time came, I upgraded to the family’s 1966 square nosed Toyota Corona which followed the same hand-me-down line as the trike. As I drove off to the big smoke, I left bikes behind. Until 7 years later when the love of my life arranged for a boot maker he knew who had started making bikes, to make me one. My first new bike of my own. We lived right in the middle of the city at the time. In a fabulous artist commune which happily provided cheap rent for photographers, while giving an old man some spare cash until he was ready to sell the classic old warehouse building to developers. The bike was easy transport around the city and came with us when we moved out to our own studio, and then to our family home. It was that bike I rode to the Celebrant’s office, to get married.

Many years and two kids later, I upgraded to a Giant mountain bike, and decked myself out with all the gear needed to ride 40 minutes to work each day. That bike was the best therapist I ever had. It listened to my complaints as we pedalled home in the rain, decompressing from the day, processing work stress to come home refreshed and renewed. Eventually my son grew big enough and interested enough in seeing what air he could get on that bike with his mates. It served us well.

Next came the Hornet Princess. A gorgeous lightweight single speed with a red frame and flaming pink wheels. My first bike from Hornet Cycles, built lovingly by my talented husband. An up-cycled number. His specialty. The Hornet Princess. The coolest bike I ever did own. I miss her sometimes. Although I do love the Hillman restored by my bike-building husband. The cane basket he attached, ironically reminds me of the one I discarded as a child long ago, alongside the image I fiercely rejected at the time. Funny how things can make their way back to you, when you least expect it.

One of my favourite memories is riding our bikes as a young family in Bali. Seeing that beautiful place with the wind in our hair and the sun on our backs. Riding through rice paddies and tiny villages. Our travels decorated by the smiles of the people we past. An adventure on our bikes.

You can’t ever be sad on a bicycle. I am so grateful for those two-wheeled creatures, and what they have allowed me to pedal away.