Cycle of Love

Tonight, I almost hit a cyclist on my way home from work. The shock of seeing his blurred spokes in my headlights as I entered the roundabout will haunt me for a while. It also got me thinking about my love/hate relationship with bikes.

Actually, I wouldn’t be in Australia if it wasn’t for my bike – and possibly the accident I had when riding it. I had decided as a young single woman that cycling would be ‘my sport’ and I bought a periwinkle Miyata 18-speed from Daniel Boone’s, an iconic bike shop in Houston. Or so I was told by my then boyfriend who loved his bike and wearing the corresponding lycra and talking about the Tour de France - but I never actually saw him ride the thing!

Even so, I spent a few years or so riding long, boring hours on the flat streets of Houston, longing for hills, but not sure how to change the gears to ride them without killing myself. Eventually, when I decided to get serious I bought some cycling gloves and a thingy to tie back my pants leg. Wow. Watch out.

So, when my future husband crossed my path in his racing gear, pedal cleated shoes and spiffy bike I was ... not impressed. I’d fallen for that before. In fact, I told him that if he were truly serious about cycling he might want to check out a cycling adventure poster in the church foyer (yes, we were at church, back in the days when people still dressed up on Sunday – and he was self consciously standing out in the crowd having ridden across town for the service; he was a grad student living tough without a car).

Anyway, long story short, turns out he was the one who had placed the poster on the wall. In fact, he was the contact person for the Christian Adventures Tours cycling group! Gulp. Well, then, ahem, perhaps he would be so kind as to show me how to change gears on my swift bike??? *flutter eyes and blush*





Eventually, our schedules meshed and I was all set for some tutoring, except that on the very first corner I turned too sharply and too quickly and came off the bike. Yep. What was it that he said just before we started our ride? Oh yeah, something about how I should wear a helmet. Nah. I told him, I didn’t need one because I didn’t race like he did. Yep, he was into road racing. Serious Cycling Man. The real deal.

There I was, a few seconds later, proving him right. I was sprawled on the concrete sidewalk, face down and not moving. He thought I was dead. Scary way to start a first date, don’t you think?

I sat up. He told me to stay put and quickly rode back to get a neighbour who could drive me to the hospital. Meanwhile, I dutifully began wandering up the middle of the street wondering if the strangers I saw would know where I lived. Really. Thankfully, he and my neighbour were quick to come and rescue me (now I know why people wander off after accidents).

Next stop was the hospital. By this time I had an egg embedded in my forehead. Just like in the cartoons. The doctor thought he was my husband and gave him instructions for how to care for me for the next 24 hours. He paid the bill, and then took me home and fixed a meal. No wait. We stopped at the grocery store first for some ingredients. The folks there looked at him with disgust. And then we realised they probably thought he had beaten me. By this time my eye was swollen shut and blackened and I was still woozy and unsteady on my feet. Surely this is the stuff of romance!

While he cooked dinner I put on a record (showing my age now) of Big Band music – the kind of retro I liked. At the top of my Bucket List at that time were two things I wanted to learn. How to ride a bike on hills so I could do a Bed and Breakfast bike tour of New England in the Fall, and how to ballroom dance.

Now, this Cycling Hero Man-who-did-not-run-when-the-doctor-thought-he-was-my-husband-or-when-people-thought-he-was-a-scumbag, looked up and grinned from ear to ear and asked me if I liked to jive. Seriously. I told him I didn’t know how.

After dinner he drove me to my Mother’s house and after she put me to bed, he entertained her and her husband until the wee early morning hours with stories about life in his homeland of Australia.

The next morning as I hobbled downstairs for breakfast my mother said to me in a tone I’d never heard before, “I don’t want you to move to Australia.” I laughed it off ... but a mother knows.

Once I recovered and my shiner was gone, the Cycling Hero Man suggested we go dancing at Paul Berlin’s, a nightclub known as a live Big Band and dance venue (mostly for the older crowd). Wow. He said he’d teach me how to jive. When I picked him up – remember I was the one with the car – he was standing on the curb with the biggest corsage box I’d ever seen. And I began to worry. Oh, no. I didn’t want flowers and stuff. What should I do? This was too much, too soon!

He urged me to open it, with the same twinkle in his eye that he gave me in church that morning when I suggested he call the tour group organiser listed on the cycling poster. I opened the box. Inside? A most romantic gift. More welcome and delightful than flowers. Perfect in fact. I laughed.

A bright yellow bicycle helmet laughed back.

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