It was the summer of 1984 when my sister grew out of her BMX and it was begrudgingly passed down to me. A beat up black beast with fluro quicksilver stickers, reflector pedals and spokey dokeys on the wheels. I had just mastered the training wheel and was ready to take the next step. I was, at the time, more impressed with the bike she’d just inherited from our elder sister. An ocean blue cruiser with a sparkling blue/silver banana seat with a tall back rest, long flashy handlebar streamers and white wall tires.
I was used to the concept of ‘hand-me-down’ by this stage of my life – toys, clothes, doona covers, unwanted pets, old tennis balls. I was also quite familiar with the ‘hand-me-up’, which involved something in my possession an older sibling desired and then promptly taking it from me.
Resistance was futile. Even if I rallied the parents, who obligingly insisted the return of my prized possession, victory was only short lived. The scorn and exclusion of my siblings was much more painful than initial disappointment of losing my last Easter egg, bag of marbles or the best seat on the couch. Pecking order, or as I remember it – punching order. The only thing I could do was try to negotiate – ‘You can have it and this one if you take me roller-skating with your friends on Saturday. Please. Please. Please. I promise I won’t talk to you’.
Some items didn’t make it all the way down the chain, especially after contact with my direct predecessor. She was leaps and bounds ahead of me in the bike stakes. She pelted the streets with a crew of biking kids jumpin curves, skidding up the church lawns, fanging down the lane with her hands in the air screeching like a banchee! She was a bruiser. Coming off a BMX onto a cruiser is a big transition. The cruiser won’t take the tight corners, jump the curves or skid out like a BMX will. You are supposed to sit back, take it easy, roll with it. It was a graceful machine built more for appearance than speed, style than performance. Seeing my sister bash round the side of the house on that beautiful blue bike broke my heart.
She once tried to teach me to ride with no hands. “It’s just like skiing with no poles” she teased knowing full well how that lesson went – I still have a scar. Her lesson involved riding around me in circles with no hands on the bars saying “do it like this, like this, see its easy”. I never got it. I wanted desperately to get it. I promised myself that one day I would succeed. I would ride around with no hands for all to see. Hopefully I would also have a walkman and Rebok pumps, then I’d show her.
As predicted by the time I acquired the once premium piece of equipment it was a little worse for wear. She had completely knocked off the streamers off one of the handlebars and the other side was like a mangey dog’s fur – thin, uneven and scruffy. The seat had strange punctures in it which not only ruined the sleek shiny gleam from the sun, was also rather uncomfortable to sit on. I decided then and there that one day, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow I would buy my own bike, a new bike, the best bike.
Throughout the rest of my childhood and my travels I still had never bought a ‘new bike’. It usually wasn’t a budget constraint holding me back, it was more of a long engrained notion that bikes were a second hand purchase. New bikes got stolen, they were tinny and flashy, they had no character, no-one had pre-loved them.
Moving to Darwin changed all that and I found my new best friend. A single speed Trek Soho S series, matt black lustrous finish with puncture-proof racing tires. It was designed for couriers in New York and (perhaps by accident) communication professionals in Darwin – just a few peddles on this puppy and you’re hauling! Everywhere in Darwin is too far too walk, to quick to drive and just perfect to ride. Work, supermarkets, pubs, ukulele practices are all excuses for me to ride my bike. AND everyone’s doin it ma, everyone!
Not long after I arrived I was peddling home after a few cheeky sunset beers with an old mate. He rode ahead, threw his arms in the air and said ‘Look no hands’. This was it! This was my chance, the conditions were perfect. A few beers for Dutch courage, empty suburban streets, a new bike – I got nuthin to lose. I controlled my speed and rolled into the middle of the road. I leant back a little into the saddle and straightened up. I took one hand off, then the next and stuck them straight out the sides for balance. I wasn’t only riding with no hands – I was flying.
Bikes are the new black and my bike is black so that makes me pretty hot shit. But regardless of colour, age, shape, size, new, old, found or stolen embracing the biking revolution is hugging life. So get on it.I present my friend – ‘Alchemist’
Ding ding!
No comments:
Post a Comment