The Wheel Deal

The Wheel Deal
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday November 14, 2015

In my twenties, last century, I became captivated by a book called The Third Policeman. It was a darkly comic novel penned in the 1930s by an Irishman, who wrote – sodden with whisky – under the pseudonym of Flann O’Brien.

Several of his characters had spent their lives on bikes, traversing the rutted roads of their country parish. So attuned were they to their metal steeds that a transmutation occurred: the rider’s body began to merge with the molecules of his bike.

The postman, for instance, became 71 percent bicycle. He developed strange behaviours: regularly leaning one elbow against walls, or standing in the street with one foot propped on the kerb.

I wonder if I, too, am becoming half-woman, half-bike. My metamorphosis began after the calamity of losing my driver’s licence. In the wake of a disastrous double-demerit-point weekend, I found myself forced into two-wheeled servitude by the local constabulary’s speed cameras. The curtailment of my freedom was shocking: so accustomed was I to holding a steering wheel. How I would manage three children and my life without a car?

The first week, I rode across four suburbs to reach the nearest Officeworks. There, I discovered I had no hope of fitting two cartons of printer inks, a telephone book of photocopier paper and an impulse buy of several lever-arch files into my bike panniers. Ignoring Newton’s first law of shopping bags, I hung a pendulous sack from each end of my handlebars. My bike seemed stable enough while stationary. But as I panted up the first hill towards home, the brick of paper dangling from my right handlebar began swinging wildly, banging painfully into my shin. The lever arch files champed at my knee cap with their metal-teethed corners. After ten minutes, my saddle had stiffened to concrete. I cursed the westerly headwind as my legs screamed for mercy. My bike, as transport vehicle, was a bruising ride. And worse, it depended on me for its engine.

The friction between us only escalated the second week. Grocery shopping became a saga of misfit: milk and bread jammed under the metal carrier behind my seat, fruit stuffed into the panniers, tinned tomatoes and baked beans strung from one handlebar, cheese and yoghurt from the other. I gently wedged a carton of eggs into my backpack. As I cranked through my gears to tackle a long rise, the chain jolted on its cog, dislodging my foot from the pedal. Clipping the kerb, I toppled onto the verge, a tangle of spokes and bags. Hauling myself up, I saw the milk had split open and was chugging its contents into a drain. My avocados were mush. Only the eggs had been granted a soft landing. I checked myself for missing skin, collected the foodstuffs strewn across the grass and trundled for home, nursing grazed ankle and bruised ego. My cycling enslavement, I decided, would be hell on wheels.

But three weeks into my driving proscription, the bike and I found our rhythm. Our personalities slid into one. Together, we looked for smooth detours around storm drains, tree root speed-humps and the glitter of broken glass lying in wait by the kerb. Potholes became our common enemy. We travelled to the soundtrack of the wind, breathing in the sweet smells of the slow lane.

My life constricted. Or loosened – I’m not sure which. Without a car, my world had shrunk, but I discovered new freedoms. Each day, I calmly calculated where I needed to go. Bike and I rode as fast or as slow as our mood. We scooted through traffic jams and took short cuts across park paths. I learnt the contours of my suburbs by heart. In my car, I’d flattened big hills with a gentle nudge on my accelerator. On my bike, every dip and rise was committed to muscle memory.

Sights that had passed me in a blur from the inside of my Swedish steel box became suddenly intriguing. Why had I never noticed the recluse on a nearby corner? Wild-haired and hump-backed, always in the same tatty shorts and t-shirt, cataloguing his latest collection of oddments. Some afternoons, I’d ride by and catch sight of him, surrounded by rusty tins, painting sheets of scrap metal – for what, I didn’t know.

Stopped at traffic lights yesterday, I paused to look wistfully across a sea of cars and drivers and remembered with a stab of shame, why I’m in the bike lane. But all I saw were stony faces, staring dully ahead. Riding a bike is one of life’s simple pleasures, like skimming stones, or baking a cake, or interrupting my husband.

Justice has smote me with her flaming sword, as deserved. When I’m back behind the wheel, I promise never to take an eye off the speedo. But for the next few months, I’ll respectfully ride out my punishment.

Driven to Despair

Driven to Despair
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday October 24, 2015

The man behind the counter at the Motor Vehicle Licencing Centre dwarfed the glass partition that separated us. He was as skinny as he was tall, with a flap of dark, wavy hair plastered across his forehead. His moustache was fringed with grey. As he strained to staple a wodge of documents, I stood meekly on the wrongful side of the counter. He nodded and I slid my offending paperwork towards him and waited. He glanced up at the clock on the wall, sighed and turned to face me with the nettled expression of someone whose job it is to be civil to miscreants.

“Yes?”

I pleaded my case. “I think there’s been a mistake,” I said. “I got this letter last week saying you’re going to suspend my driver’s licence. But you can’t lose your licence for driving at 72 in a 70-zone on a highway can you?

He studied my papers.

“You can when it’s a 60-zone.”

Despair tightened in my gut.

“I see here,” he continued, “that you’re already on a good behaviour bond for driving at 60 in a 50-zone four times on the same road on a double demerit- point long weekend.”

“Well, yes,” I replied guiltily. “But I thought the speed limit on that road was 60. It’s the main thoroughfare through my suburb. You get honked if you drive at 50!”

“Well – I’m afraid the law says it’s a 50-zone,” he said sternly. “You’ve now accrued thirteen demerit points. Your licence is suspended. No driving any motor vehicle from midnight tonight.”

I felt nauseous.

“Can I appeal?” I whispered.

“Not once you’ve paid the fines.”

I cursed my bill-paying efficiency. In shock, I cast about for a worthy plea bargain but drew a blank. Instead, I dumped my dignity. I propped my elbows on the counter, clasped my hands and prayed to the Licence God.

“Please! I’m hardly a public menace. I drive a 10-year-old clunker for goodness sake! You can’t be a hoon in a station wagon: it drives like a brick.”

But he’d heard it all before. He held up his hand to silence me and pushed a document under the glass.

“You sign here to accept the suspension,” he said.

My hand trembled as I scrawled my signature with the Department of Transport’s official 30-cent biro, tied up with string for safekeeping. He stamped my paperwork with too much gusto.

In that instant, I became a bloody Volvo driver unable to drive like one. Disaster! My lead foot had led me astray. On the way home, I began to panic: No licence for six months? With three children?

A girlfriend called by to commiserate.

“Just think how this’ll reduce your carbon footprint,” she said, consolingly.

“I don’t have a carbon footprint,” I wailed. “I drive everywhere!”

The man of the house was unimpressed.

“So I guess I’ll be driving the kids to sport all weekend, will I?”

I tried to sound upbeat: “I’ll follow you on my bike!”

“Gee, that’ll help,” he sighed.

I went to bed and pulled the sheet over my head. I spent several lonely hours reflecting on how the rule of law creates a better society.

The next morning, I resolved to remain a glass half-full kind of gal. Then I stood in the driveway wondering how I would fit the contents of my car into two saddlebags on the back of my bike.

My car has always been my handbag. I like to use the passenger footwells to store all of life’s necessities: lip gloss, hair elastics, biros, loose change, a refreshing drink, a picnic blanket. Last week I needed a notepad to write down a phone number and all I had to do was rummage under the seat until one materialised.

I packed what I could into my bike panniers and decided if I was going to become a full-time cyclist, I’d have to swallow my pride and dress like one. I threw on a tatty t-shirt to match my jeans and rode to the bike shop. “I’m going to need some lycra,” I panted to the male assistant, his ropy thighs suctioned in neon spandex. “But nothing with a padded gusset,” I added, wincing at the sight of his lime green, walnutty bottom as he led me to a rack of clothing.

All the leggings were shouting their corporate sponsorship. “Are these slimming,” I asked hopefully, selecting a sky-blue pair with the least amount of brand splodges. I thought I heard him snicker as I parted the curtains and entered the changing room.

Two hundred dollars later, I was outfitted for my two-wheeled servitude: six months in the saddle and a new cycle of life. I’m an enemy of the people but I can be reformed. Wave to me as you drive past.

Bumpy Ride

Bumpy Ride
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday March 7, 2015

Whatever you think of middle-aged cyclists, I envy them their exhilarated faces. Rarely do I see joggers who inspire me. Middle-aged joggers, with their glazed eyes and their slackened, panting mouths, give me the impression they’re trying to hold back an infarction before breakfast.

Lately, I’ve been wearing the same expression. By the time I jog around the park and head for home, the twinge in my knee has become a roar. My lips are set in a grim line. I lead with my left leg to take the pressure off the right. My face is drippy with sweat and florid with exertion.

My neighbourhood pelotons rocket past me like so many superheroes, still fresh from their 40 km dawn airing. Their costumes are a riot of spandex. Their chests and backs carry exotic names like Birzman and Limar, Zefal and Shimano. They chatter as fast as they ride, laughing and shouting each others’ praises. I gaze admiringly at their hairless calves and the sinewy crush of speed and sweat. I see no stress on these faces, just the joy of self-propelled transport streaming down the road.

I, too, want to wear windswept euphoria on my face. So as the sun cruised over the horizon last Monday morning, I dragged my husband’s bike out from under the ivy festooning the shed. I wiped off a summer’s dust with the tail of my t-shirt. I resuscitated the flaccid tyres and got quite out of breath myself. I tugged at the seat-post clamp until it grudgingly agreed I wasn’t six-foot-four (neither is my husband, but he likes the illusion of tallness). Finally, I waggled the saddle down to five-foot-five and warned the black spider clinging to her web in the front wheel she’d regret her stubbornness.

At 6.22am, I threw my leg over the saddle, settled two dainty buttocks into position and cranked my way up the road. Still cool enough to be pleasantly fresh, the early morning easterly buffeted my face. I pumped my legs and my bike surged forward. I listened to the soothing hum of the wheels. My brain shrugged off the last vestiges of sleepiness, as bike and Wonderwoman found their rhythm. Even my aching knee was pacified into submission by the smooth ride. This was freedom!

For the first ten minutes I coasted behind pedestrians waiting for them to move aside. ‘Ding!’ I chimed them politely with a flick of my rusty bell. Their heads snapped around to clock the approaching danger. I sang a two-toned ‘Thank you!’ as they stepped left and I breezed past.

Confidence soaring, I dipped off a driveway and swept into the cycle lane, dodging the litter of box tree nuts along the kerb. A cyclist whizzed past me in a rush of warm air. So close was he, a bead of his sweat splatted my cheek. My front wheel wobbled in shock.

“Squirrel!” he bellowed at me over his shoulder as he tore away.

“Squirrel?” I called after him nervously, darting around another scattering of tree nuts, but he was long gone. I checked behind me to see no-one else was hiding in my slipstream. I shifted my weight from left cheek to right on a seat that was hardening to concrete.

As I swept around a bend and down a steep hill, a peloton streamed past me, riding two and three abreast. With the wind roaring in my ears, I didn’t hear them coming until they zoomed around me, the cogs of their bike-chains buzzing like a swarm of bees. I pedalled furiously to keep up with them, but within seconds, they were just a blur at the bottom of the hill. Despondent, I gave up the chase.

As I coasted down the slope, still panting from my sprint, an insect travelling uphill veered into my lane and rocketed into my mouth. Hitting the brakes, I spluttered and tried to spit it out. The bug must have sensed the drop in air speed because it made a frantic attempt to escape my mouth-flower. It gave a final feeble buzz as I swallowed him (or her). I was still gagging as I turned for home.

It was on the last straight stretch of road that I saw him. A lone cyclist, up ahead, a wiry-looking bloke in lurid lime and black. As he breezed along a gentle decline, I upshifted into high gear and hammered my legs. Tucking chin to chest, I hunkered down over the handlebars and closed the gap. On his tail, I psyched myself for one last burst of acceleration and slid past him, turning slightly to deliver a nonchalant “Mor-ning!” That’s when I glimpsed his well-worn face and my brain absorbed the words on his vest: 80-plus, riding high.

I have more training to do.