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.

Virtual Reality

Virtual Reality
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday March 14, 2015

The train doors hissed apart. My youngsters scampered inside the near empty carriage, debating the merits of north-facing window over south. They scooted towards the driver’s door and clambered onto the bench under the largest expanse of window, a foot apart, each claiming the winning view. Babbling to each another, they pressed their noses to the glass as the train glided out of the station.

Teenage son and I sat down beside them. I assessed the couple opposite – a well-preserved grandma in a floppy felt hat and her pint-sized companion, a boy about the same age as my four-year-old daughter. He was sitting quietly, his thonged feet dangling, head bowed, transfixed by the iPad in his lap. Every few moments, he’d jolt into action, little thumbs swiping frantically at the screen, a chorus of bubbles noises accompanying his efforts.

“Next stop: City West,” sang the lady-spruiker over the intercom. My youngsters parroted her in high-pitched voices. They leapt to their feet for a game of statues. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder like the Queen’s guard, they competed to see who’d falter as the train lurched to a halt beside the platform. As the driver squeezed the brakes, small daughter teetered, then stumbled forward, collapsing on the floor in a fit of giggles.

“I win!” gloated seven-year-old brother as she scrambled to her feet.

“Again!” she squealed, resuming her sentry post as she waited for the driver to accelerate.

That’s when I noticed a flicker of disapproval on the grandmother’s face. Her mouth set into a grim line. I checked myself before smiling at her: “They love that game,” I said, attempting to humour her.

“Pfff,” she harrumphed. “The train’s not a playground.”

“I know. But it’s empty,” I said. “I wouldn’t let them do it if it was full.”

She wasn’t buying my mitigation.

“You young ones,” she said. “You’re the parents who won’t parent!”

It took me a moment to register her back-hander. I scanned her stony face for signs of amusement but saw only contempt. I was saved by the tinny train-voice chiming “Next station: Fremantle.”

My children capered by my side as I gathered our bags. My brain scrambled for a riposte but the woman’s snipe had thrown me. I gave her a conciliatory nod as I stood up, wishing I’d joined the school debating team. For the rest of the morning, I felt rattled. I deconstructed our conversation and questioned my parenting.

Had my children made a nuisance of themselves? Should I have discouraged their playful exuberance? Was train-nanna the more considerate parent for occupying her grandson with an iPad?

The little boy had barely registered the journey, let alone the view. He’d missed the train clacking over Fremantle Bridge; the vertiginous drop to the swirling water below. He hadn’t spotted the two tugboats ploughing in from Gage Roads, nor marvelled at the bulk carrier unloading its cargo of white Hyundais like so many Matchbox cars. His curiosity about the world outside his window had been stifled by the attention-seeking gadget on his lap. The virtual world was his babysitter while real life passed him by.

I, too, have succumbed to the charms of electronic child-minding. Our two-hour trip to the family farm near Collie is now driven in rapt silence. Our three kids are allowed to power up their screens as soon as we hit the freeway. The bickering subsides as we coast over the Narrows Bridge. I swivel to see who in the back seat is silently crying. I’m greeted by my trio in matching pose, heads down, headphones clamped to their ears, thumbs hovering over shiny glass. I no longer bother to point out the Old Mill, the jet-skis foaming up the river, the parasailers tethered to their harlequin canopies.

I miss playing I Spy. I miss the alphabet games that taught my daughter her letters. I miss the collective groan from the back seat when I suggest a round of Who am I? (An hour later, no-one wants our charades to end.)

Lately, I even pine for middle child’s frequent piddle-stops. They gave us an excuse to explore the bush. But bladder breaks are a rarity now there’s computer time on offer. (My lad would delay a wee through an earthquake rather than cut short his weekly ration of a Minecraft game.)

Our drives to the farm, the five of us in forced company, are now sterile. I like my family boisterous, not tranquilized. It’s no fun without smallest child whining “How much longer?” as we pass Jandakot Airport.

The next time we go to the farm, I’m banning the iPads. I’m going to hold court from the front seat and parent the old-fashioned way. We’ll have spelling bees and play Spotto. They’ll hate me for it but I don’t care. That train grandma has done me a favour. I’ve seen the future of parenting and I want my family back.

Family Territory

Family Territory
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday October 26, 2013

Sometimes, a two hour drive is all it takes to turn humdrum to holiday.

“How about a romantic weekend away?” my Lothario whispers across his pillow, our love life handicapped by the three-year-old octopus suckered between us.

“Just a couple of days hey?” he murmurs. “Somewhere exotic. By the beach.  Away from all this.”

I could have kissed him. Instead, my arm is paralysed by the dead weight of a sleeping child’s leg-tentacle flopped across my chest.

“Promise?” I whisper back.

“No” comes the reply, “but the weekend after next I have to go to my high school reunion in Bunbury. I’ve booked us all into the Lord Forrest hotel.”

Those who remember Alan Bond will recall his gift to Bunbury: a five storey shiny white high-rise with a single porthole window skewered through its pointy apex.  Driving into town last weekend, Bondy’s tower loomed over the back beach like the snout of a white pointer. Its dark porthole eye followed me all the way to the hotel carpark.

“It doesn’t look like a shark, dopey!”  says my husband. “It’s supposed to look like the prow of a ship!”

“Well I say it’s a shark!” (much like its owner in 1983).   

So here I am at the Lord Forrest, sitting on a plastic patio chair by the side of the once-famous atrium pool, staring up at the hanging gardens of Bunbury (devil’s ivy).

“Mum!” cries my 6 year old. “There’s a bridge! And pretend rocks! And a waterfall! And look! You can see through the roof!”

Outside the rain is sheeting down, but my children are intoxicated by their first taste of three-and-a-half star luxury. Small son plays hopscotch on the crazy paving, mindful not to step on the cracks. Then he discovers a blue button in the wall and leaps in fright when the spa gurgles to life. His sister flaps her inflatable orange arms and paddles over to the pretend-rock steps for a closer look.

The pool gate swings open and in walks a portly bloke in baggy shorts, flanked by two primary-school-aged granddaughters.

The girls leap into the water and the granddad settles himself at the only poolside table – mine.

“Nice day for swimming!” he says and we laugh politely.

I can see through the lobby windows a row of date palms flailing in the squall outside.  

“Frank!” he says, by way of introduction, and pumps my hand. “Travelled far?”

“Just from Perth. It’s my husband’s 30-year school reunion tonight. He’s up in the room deciding which side to part his hair.”

“Ha!” he snorts. “We’re holidaying close to home this time. My wife has a sore hip. We’re doing the wineries, sixteen of us.”

“Sixteen?” I say, thinking he must be on a tour.

“Yeah, the whole family. We do all our holidays together – two daughters, their husbands, my son, his wife, the grandkids – 11 of them.”

I must look incredulous because he adds: “Yep, we’re the Griswald clan. We travel in convoy. We need five cars – the eldest grandkid is 19 and they tail down to three.”

“Wow!” is all I can manage.

“Yeah, we’ve seen the world all right. Last year we went on a cruise through the Caribbean, we did Greece and Turkey before that. We’ve gone from one side of America to the other. Sometimes we take up four rows on the plane.”

“Why?” (I feel a hermit by comparison). “Doesn’t everyone want to do their own thing?”

“Sometimes. But this way, the kids learn how to be part of a tribe. We learn about them. I can tell you, that one there…” – he points to the elder girl in the pool – “she’s only nine but she’ll do anything for anyone. Her cousin, she’s six -smart as a whip. Best speller in her class.”

I see the pride on his face. He shrugs at me and grins, as if all families are like his.

I try to picture my family, en masse, checking in at Air Bulgaria. All those niggling, squawking personalities trying to control proceedings: dominators, peace-makers, martyrs. Didacts, autocrats, me –  dreaming of an upgrade.

“Is it relaxing?” I ask.

“Most of the time. Neutral territory helps. We use these holidays to catch up on everyone. I want to know what the young ones are thinking, how they see the world. In return, we tell the grandkids all the old family stories – remind them how they got here.”

I wonder if I tell my children enough about their past. Do they understand the world had its own momentum before they arrived? That they belong to something bigger than themselves?

Frank’s grand-daughters have climbed out of the pool and are shivering. He stands up and hands them each a towel.

“What’ll we do now, Granddad?”

“Let’s go and see what the others are up to!” He winks at me, then raises his hand in a gentlemanly salute: “You can never separate who you are from where you’re from.”

And with that, the pool gate clangs shut behind them.