We are seated on leather bar stools chatting over fragrant pizza. I ask my 30 year old friend the cordial, “So how have you been, what have you been doing?,” which is quipped with an unexpectedly vivacious response, “I learnt to ride a bike.”
I stifled an eruption of giggles. I thought he was being sardonic. But he was serious. He really had, just learnt to ride a bike. Something he had always wanted to do but never been taught. As he ecstatically outlined his achievement and mastery his face resumed a boyish charm, “It’s like you’re flying,” he said.
I felt a twinge of envy. The same envy you feel when you recommend a 10 year old a long list of your beloved books, that they have not yet read. In those moments you wish you could uncover the twinkling gems of exhilarating stories. I can ride a bike and I have gorged myself giddy on bending shelves of books but imagine doing it all again for the first time. Imagine. Learning to ride a a bike at 30.
They spin past me, carefree and mostly helmet free on the boulevards. As I ambulate sans wheels, I can’t help thinking how much a bike would be my best accessory.
I always had a bike as a kid. I probably spent the longest time on trainer wheels of anyone you know. Growing up in a valley in the hills of Perth was the perfect locale to spend your holidays riding, ringing your bell, whirring your wheels and stealing a few pieces of fruit from the orchards when the fancy took me. I even have emblems etched into my knees – spoils of poor coordination combined with treacherous gravel.
Señor Divageiger and I both dream of living in Carlton and cycling everywhere. I want a wicker basket for Seppe Verdi (pooch) and gleaming frame. I peruse Copenhagen Cycle Chic on a regular basis and have a big whopping penchant for Pashley… I’m not sure if he realises the lengths I want to go to, to cycle in style but I guess he will soon.
- Frau auf einem Fahrrad (thephotographerslens.com)