LONG LIVE THE BICYCLE
EVERYTHING I KNOW I LEARNED FROM TWO WHEELS AND A FRAME.
I REMEMBER THE VERY FIRST MOMENT I rode a bicycle. I was at Uncle Dave’s place out “in the bush.” He wasn’t a real uncle, but rather one of those family friends who becomes a default uncle by giving freely of his time and lessons on life. He lived a two- or three-hour drive from Sydney in a small town, on a beautiful rustic property with a shed full of the things that delight a 6-year-old, and one of those things was a bicycle.
There were no luxurious training wheels, just two tireless men — my father and Uncle Dave — who would run behind me holding the underside of the saddle and keeping me upright as I teetered and tottered. It took ...