Free wheeling at 45

I didn't learn to ride a bike as a child.  We lived on a hill, near some pretty busy main roads.  I didn't progress beyond a dinky in the back garden, until aged about 12 as I recall, at the family holiday house at Lake Macquarie.  Rickety old bike with a back pedal brake, again, lots of hills.  I recall crashing into the embankment at the side of the road with monotonous regularity.  It seemed like hard work for not much return and a bit of pain thrown in.

Then after that I just didn't ride.  Especially once I could drive.  And then once my grown up logical brain and understanding of consequences took over.  I could visualise the damage I could do to myself with no problem at all.  Mentally, I had decided it was too late.  Cycling was something I just wouldn't ever do and I was fine with that.

But we moved to Canberra, city of bike paths, and first one child, then the second and then finally, just before Christmas, the third child conquered two wheels and took their first steps towards independent travel.  The only one left lagging behind was me.  Even my non bike riding sister had taken to the pedals.

So I gathered up my courage and bought a bike.  A simple (yet surprisingly sexy) matt black Trek road bike.  Some gears and some brakes and not much else fancy.  And got on it, and rode around the reserve out the back of our house.  I didn't fall off.  I could put my feet on the ground when I felt nervous.  My little cheer squad was proud of me and so was I.

The first time I ventured down the hill, I remembered that I don't like down hill.  As a cycling novice, down hill feels remarkably like out of control.  Being well endowed with leg muscles from my gym work, to me, up hill is good.

But I persevered and we rode to the nursing home to visit the girls' grandfather.  And back again.  We rode around Lake Tuggeranong one evening, and I had to ride past walkers and dogs and children and only crashed into one bollard.  It turns out cycling is doable.  Especially when there is a reward at the end of it.

A Sunday morning bike ride, with some friends, to deliver the older child to circus training, with the lure of a good breakfast at the end.  Well, in the middle, because we had to ride back again.

There were hills - down and up.  There were roads to be crossed and ridden on.  A real bike ride, just like the 10 year olds do.

So at 45, I've done it.  Me and my matt black trek are friends.  My backside hurts and I need some cycling shorts, but I too have conquered two wheels and taken some different steps along the road to independent travel.

It feels surprisingly good.