When riding a bike is not like riding a bike!

If tackling a task for the first time in many years like driving a manual car, swimming freestyle and solving a Rubik’s cube are all like riding a bike, then what is riding a bike after a long time? 

     With TK in NZ and the little ones with big sister in Newcastle, there was just Sutchy and me for ten days.  When my brother, Stephen arrived I suggested we train for a ride to Mareeba along the Rail Trail, a round trip of 70 kilometres. 

     I convinced them to do a reccy ride to Rocky Creek the following day.  I was feeling fantastic having just kicked the flu after three days in bed.

     They were in. 

     The Atherton Rail Trail is a compact dirt track restored following the removal of the railway line between Atherton and Mareeba in the 1980s.  I’d ridden to Tolga before and knew the track was in good nick.  The 26 km round trip to Rocky Creek, past blueberry and potato crops, along the irrigation channel and through the bush would be a great start to Sutchy’s and my  holiday.  He had held the fort while I was sick – mediating the little ones’ fights, doing the housework and walking the dogs.  I wanted to spend some quality time with him doing what he loved.  

     That I hadn’t ridden for 12 months and that I had just battled the flu were minor concerns.  I knew endorphins would kick in and get me there and back.   

     Riding a bike is like riding a bike.

     We left at 8.45 in perfect conditions.  The baby blue sky and gentle tail wind heralded a perfect day.  We reached Rocky Creek in 28 minutes.

     “Let’s ride to Walkamin,” I said after a drink.  

     The endorphins were coursing and even if I was bike-unfit, the worst I could expect tomorrow was pleasantly aching quads and palm muscles and perhaps a tightness across my shoulders.  Stephen and Sutchy expressed some concerns about my health, but I was having none of it.

     I whipped out my phone and Googled the distance, six ks, to support my argument for another reccy for our Mareeba trip.  

     "I feel fantastic.”

     “Mum, you won’t when it’s over.”

     “Okay,” said Stephen in a flat voice.

     A reccy is a good thing providing it’s not done on the back of another reccy.

     Soon after leaving Rocky Creek, we encountered a minor obstacle; the track to Walkamin was sand.  An internet search that night revealed the track from Rocky Creek is due for upgrade! 

Relaxing under the Rocky Creek bridge

A potato crop out of Rocky Creek.

Crossing the irrigation channel

      An hour after leaving Rocky Creek, we made it to Walkamin, a quaint little community with a population of 630, a corner store, a school, a caravan park, public toilets and tennis courts. 

Perfect climate

     I recalled talk in the mid-nineties Walkamin came out tops in research about perfect world climates.  It’s a lofty claim since it was damn hot and dry and the “fact” hadn’t seemed to attract more residents in two decades. 

Walkamin public toilet signs. Tee hee!

    

      I was keen to leave.  The endorphins had run out and so had the food.

     “It’s all uphill and into the wind,” said Stephen, again with a flat voice. 

     Then I remembered a few real facts. 

·              The irrigation channel we crossed after Rocky Creek irrigates farmland between Tolga and Dimbulah.  

          Water flows downhill.  We were downhill of Tolga therefore ...

          We had a tail wind on the ride to Walkamin therefore …
     Wind speeds increase during the day therefore ...
     The temperature increases towards midday therefore ...

     And riding a bike is not like riding a bike.  I’d forgotten about the curse of the bike seat for females who haven’t ridden long distances for a long time.  The sand, head wind, heat and the laborious climb were nothing compared to the sensation of having a Brazilian done slowly with a cheese grater. 

     I couldn't maintain motion and kept stalling. Repositioning myself on the seat was agony.

     I got within 1.5 km of home, a mammoth 36.5 kms and stopped.  Stephen had to ride home and return with his ute.  The round trip took four and a half hours.

     I needed another three days in bed.  The Atherton-Mareeba trip was off.

     Riding a bike is not like riding a bike. 

How do they watch this stuff?

I’ve always tried to limit the time the kids spend sucking on Flat Screen Nipple, but sometimes I need to suck up the fact there are occasions when they need to indulge their desire to watch TV.  One of those is when we have dinner at my mother’s place because Home and Away is always on the menu during the week. 

     I can say I’ve never watched an entire episode mainly because the show just doesn’t grab my attention. It’s not right that I stop my kids watching something they enjoy simply because I think it’s shallow and unnecessary.  But I am constantly asking myself, How the hell do they watch this stuff?

     For starters, I am unsettled by the over-representation of beautiful and unhealthily-thin women.  They all wear heavy makeup.  Also, there isn't enough Slip-Slop-Slap and the characters spend a disproportionate amount of time at the beach.

     I appreciate there are some topical issues covered like family violence, alcoholism, gambling and sexual abuse but the characters always manage to overcome their adversity/addiction with an ease that simply doesn’t happen in real life.  Characters hook up and break up with disturbing regularity and I am surprised that STIs haven’t been a focus issue (come to think of it, I’ve missed the plots focusing on melanoma, over-eating, bulimia and anorexia).  

     I reckon there are too many sexual encounters for young viewers and I can’t understand how these got past ACMA.  These would be fine at a later time-slot but this is peak family viewing time at 7 pm.  Sadly, ACMA has approved, from 1 December, M rated viewing (15 years and over) on TV from 7.30 pm (previously 8.30 pm) along with watering down other safeguards for young viewers.

     I’ve never got a handle who is who in Home and Away and when I ask the response is a loud and often chorused, “we’ve already told you ten times.”  So many of them look alike – white and thin and beautiful or white and toned and handsome - so how am I expected to distinguish between them.  I am often confused by the plot and if I ask about it I am told, “stop asking questions.”  How I wish I was away from home!

     So I always find something else to do like focus on eating my dinner, reading the ABC news on my phone, the tickling of soap suds on my hands as I wash the dishes or even sitting and doing nothing ... except, of course, wondering how the kids can watch “this stuff.” 

     A couple of weeks ago, Seffie and Kibby were making breakfast while I was doing yoga on the deck. 

     “What’s the name of Andy’s brother in Home and Away?  Kyle's friend?” Seffie asked Kibby.  

     “I can’t remember,” said Kibby.

     “Josh,” I yelled out without thinking.  And then I asked myself, How the hell do I know this stuff? 

WWJD

Years ago there was a little religious shop on the main street of Thursday Island called Sower.  Sower was hand painted in a cursive script on the outside wall.  The shop is long gone, but I always thought it had an odd name, even for a religious shop.  A sign at the door also proclaimed it was the agency for Uzu Airlines.  

     Inside was packed with bibles and other Christian literature.  Considering the musty smell and the film of grey dust on the shelving edges, I figured there wasn’t much demand for religious literature on TI.  However, it did sell dust-free, divine nick-knacks like crucifixes and Jesus statues along with posters, cups and placemats bearing the Lord’s prayer and the ten commandments, biblical quotes like, Ask and you shall receive and catchy adages like, The family that prays together, stays together.  These Godly accoutrements were displayed in the front window, enticing passersby inside. 

     My absolute favourite sale item was the wrist band that bore the letters, WWJD.  The wearer was constantly reminded to ask, What Would Jesus Do?

     There’s one problem with asking Jesus questions and that’s to do with his tendency not to answer directly and then not without many Our Fathers and Hail Marys.

     The image of the WWJD bracelet has stayed with me. When I have a problem I often find myself asking, WWJD, but I’m lucky.  I have a mortal to ask; my good friend Julia.  I can text and call.  If she doesn’t pick up the first time, she’ll always ring back or text. Somehow Julia either knows the answer to my question, has had a similar experience or we start brainstorming solutions and, voila! I come up with the answer I need.  The kids know I value Julia’s advice because I often say, “Julia’s suggested …” or “Julia reckons …”

     Now I have a couple of issues I need to address and I have regularly discussed these with Julia, but I’ve not settled on a solution that doesn’t involve going cold turkey.  One issue is yelling and the other swearing and they are inextricably linked.  For example, if I have asked the children to do something twice, they know I will yell on the third request.  If that goes unheeded, I may drop the odd expletive and more on the third, fourth, fifth and sixth request.  Please note I never swear at people, only at the situation.  I just, somehow, unintentionally, through a frustration that even Jesus and Julia could not tolerate, utter sinful words.

     Not long ago, I said to Seffie and Kibby that I needed to stop swearing and yelling, that I needed their help, that is, they needed to do what I asked, when I asked, the first time.  I reminded them that I only yelled and swore because they refused to do what I asked or they fought to the point of violence.

     “You’re not Julia, Mum,” said Seffie in a condescending tone.

     “Julia swears.”  Seffie raised her eyebrows as if I’d blasphemed.  “She does so swear.”  Seffie did not believe me.

     “Well, Julia doesn’t yell.”

     “She doesn’t have to yell because her daughters don’t fight like you two and they are at boarding school in America.”

     “But they come home for holidays and Julia still doesn’t yell.”

     “THEY COME HOME TWICE A YEAR.  JULIA DOESN’T HAVE TIME TO YELL.”  How could Seffie not see the connection between not yelling and not having children around? I was trying to stay calm.

     “That's because she just doesn’t yell.”  Seffie was very calm.

     “THE LONGEST THEY ARE AT HOME FOR IS EIGHT WEEKS.  NOT LONG ENOUGH FOR THE GIRLS TO GET BORED AND START FIGHTING AND NOT LONG ENOUGH FOR JULIA TO GET FED UP WITH THEM AND START YELLING!”

     “See, you’re yelling,” said Seffie with an evil grin.

     “SHIT!  THAT’S NOT FAIR.”

     WWJD, I wondered.