When I look at the continuous line of cyclists
passing me as I push into the strong sou-westerly heading
away from the city, I start to ponder the question, “why
does every other rider have more energy than me?” A
faster bike, younger maybe… no, I come to the inescapable
truth – I am basically lazy.
Yes, I could dash up behind the skinny kid with pimples,
sit on his wheel and make snorting noises – but I would
only blow a foofer valve and give some poor paramedic a
heart attack when he or she attempts to pick up my 100+kg
frame. No, better I should listen to the alarm on my
heart rate monitor(HRM), find my groove and slow down a
touch more… that’s better.
Just to make me feel better, an old fart just flew by
whistling… you gotta be kidding ( I knew he was old, he
had a telegram from the Queen sticking out of his back
pocket). I check to see if the handbrake is on – no,
everything is moving freely except me. Can’t be far to go
now, head down bum up, try to start whistling (well it
worked for the geriatric) – no can’t whistle, breathing
way too hard.
Ah, there’s Canning Bridge – just cross here and I will
be out of this sodding wind.
Oh – there’s a dolphin… oops, blast, some moron has
smashed his beer bottle on the bridge – get off, walk
through the worst of it (kick the big bits to side – got
to look after those that follow) – check the tyres -
looks ok. Off we go again, bugger, the wind has just
swung from a sou-westerly to a westerly… I must have
upset a gypsy at some stage ‘cause I can’t take a trick
today.
Got to get into my groove, think of the ‘child bride’
waiting at home – ah home, the back balcony beckons –
that’s it, a beer with the Freo Doctor on the back
balcony.
I zip over the bumps around Como, scoot through the old
folks home behind Melville Bowling Club – look out –
poodle on a long lead – you gotta be kidding me lady.
Get back in groove… mmm beer-balcony… it’s working. Ok,
just Mt Attadale to go (or Alpe de Swan as I know it) –
not bad here, it’s out of the wind because of the size of
the hill. I reach the top in pretty good shape – that
pimply kid would have been checking out my back wheel
here – eat my shorts (no too much groove now – getting
carried away - dial it back a bit… mmm beer-balcony).
Now slide down the other side, down Wrexham, behind the
tennis courts, round by Aquarama and The Left Bank –
almost there. Not long now – mmm beer. Down South Terrace
past Ginos – pull the gut in here – have to look good for
the fans – dial it back a touch more, swing down Collie
into Pakenham and I’m home.
A short struggle with the letter box, drop the mail on
the ground, swear – apologise to the old lady walking her
dog – pick up the mail, put the bike away, shoes off –
take the lift to the top – open the front door and hobble
straight to the fridge. Mmm beer – grab a cold Coopers
Pale Ale and head for the balcony – sun is setting, low
over the Indian Ocean, a quick sip and I almost throw up
– the gag reflex has happened quite a bit since I turned
56.
Sit down, feet up – nah, brrr way too cold out here with
the Doctor still howling – better I go inside and give
the missus a kiss and get out of “the bike groove” and
slip into the “bed groove”.
True Story. Mike O - Team Calibre - Fremantle to
Perth.
Mike wins a Cycle Instead Bike prize.
PS. I should re-read things before sending them. At the
end of my rather long story, it reads as though there may
have been something other than “sleep” on my mind when I
referred to getting into the “bed groove”. I want to
assure you that I was pure of heart and mind at the time
of writing, and honestly thought only of sleep – hey I’m
56 y/o, when the pillow beckons, it’s just a good
nanna-nap that’s needed.
Cheers, Mike the Pure of Heart.