I don't recall learning to ride a bike. I have an image in my heart, of course, of my father teaching me, because it would have been him over my mother, who undoubtedly would have been in the kitchen. I recall Dad teaching me to surf - *paddle paddle paddle* - so in my auditory memory, I can hear Dad shouting *peddle peddle peddle!*  I can also remember him removing splinters from my knee from climbing the neighbors fence, leaving a white scar there. These memories are irrevocably tied up with the landscape of the suburban block in Melbourne we lived until I was 11. There was the house, with the pergola and the latticed brick, the shed (where outside we smashed macadamic nuts with a hammer), the rumpus room with the table tennis table, the stereo playing Pink Floyd on a Saturday morning. 

From this centre were the footpaths that led to the corner shop, where I would be sent to get milk with my sister. Those two blocks seemed to stretch on forever. 'Round the block' was a verb, coming out 'roundtheblock', but it was a long street, so 'round' was never really achievable until I could ride a bike. 

The bike itself I imagine I got for Christmas, or perhaps a birthday. My sister would have got one at the same time, because my parents liked to be fair. It would have arrived with some fan fare and I would have been thrilled, not expecting such a gift, as we still are some forty years later when our parents gift us something. We were not spoilt, but nor did we really want. I remember flashes of green, but perhaps this is confused with the green machine my cousin had - 'the hottest ride in town' for 'guys who really like to ride'. My mother found this infuriating. She was also infuriated with my cousin who barely let us have a go, because 'girls can't ride green machines'. 

One of the few occasions I set off to 'ridearoundtheblock', past Italian Fernando with his white rocked garden and concrete swan, past the high fenced house with the barking rottweiler, past the empty blocks with smashed glass bottles and discarded washing machines, I rounded the corner so badly I fell right into a box thorn, that import from South Africa that thrived in the semi aridity of the growing western suburbs and whose spiny branches sheltered reptiles, ants and the occasional bush rat. To this day I am still uncertain whether it's formidable thorns ripped open my foot, or more likely, the sharp metal of the kickstand. Either way, I looked down and saw the pale pink of my flesh - a first - then welling blood. Distangling myself from the bicycle and the thorn, I limped bike-less back home and was promptly taken to hospital for six stiches. Ten years later I'd get a matching scar from surfing, on the same foot. That was the foot that would always slip out of the stirrup riding horses, possibly as I couldn't flex the heel down as well due to nerve damage.

Girls might not have been the market for the Green Machines of the 1970's, but they certainly found other ways to ride. 

A few months later I jumped back on the proverbial and literal bike, and promptly fell in next door neighbour's cactus. Not pretty, architecturally purposefully cactus, but terrifying hedges of spikes that ended up ruining my tracky dacks (that's Aussie for tracksuit pants) as Mum spending an afternoon with me removing prickles from my skin. Reflecting, it was likely prickly pear, an import and a scourge like the boxthorn. 

And people wonder at our border security. 



![image.png](https://files.peakd.com/file/peakd-hive/riverflows/23xebjCcoCAFCYagUjeU48dem3o6a5Tc7ko489KrUsvrZ2nmKJGRjRcaUUN4GbRutWZCo.png)

*Prickly pear - photo my own.*


Now I think about it, I haven't had a good track record, as it were, with bicycles. Perhaps a demi john of blackberry wine had something to do with it, but landing in a hedge after attempting to cycle a mere three miles home resulted in a sprained wrist (never mind the morning's headache) and a growing hatred of bicycles, though Jamie loved restoring vintage bikes and always hoped I'd go on long rides through the countryside with him. I did, on occasion, but it was always his thing, not mine. 

Wheels were just an added complication to moving my body through space, and a moment's inattention could be disastrous. 

I haven't actually ridden a bike since visiting a neighbour around the time everyone was arguing about vaccinations. She spend an hour ranting about it to me about it, including every wild conspiracy under the sun, and I was too scared to admit I'd had it (we weren't allowed to work without it) and I was so rattled by the time I left I rounded a corner on gravel and tore the muscle on the back of my thigh. Crying, I sat under a tree and waiting for Jamie to rescue me, complete with ambulance noises. 

I'd rather surf. Less wheels, gravel, box thorns and cactus.

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# `With Love,` 


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