Always Crashing on the Same Bike

 It's the 17th anniversary of my dad's death. He was a nice man. Here he is trying to teach me how to ride a bike. I'm not sure he could ride a bike himself, mind. 

Blue Chopper

I was given a second-hand Raleigh Chopper for my birthday. Choppers had been a big deal in the seventies, but had lately been superseded by the Grifter and, ultimately, the BMX had become a phenomenon, so a Chopper, and this one had small patches of rust, was distinctly old hat. No bragging rights were attached, like a card in the spokes or handlebar tassels. I didn’t care. I couldn’t believe this thing existed and was mine. I could touch it. I could sit on it. I could be Erik Estrada. It was shiny and blue. It was big. It had three gears which you changed with a T-shaped handle, in a vigorous, macho fashion. The wheel at the back was bigger than the one at the front, like a farthing penny. I was mesmerised.

     I couldn’t ride it though. My dad took me to Victoria Recreation Ground in Portslade to teach me how to ride a bike. On cement. There was a lot of grass in the park, but we headed straight for the patchy, broken cement, with its scarred ruts and potholes. Perfect for skinning knees, chipping teeth.

     In fact, I got the idea quickly, which surprised both of us. I’ve always suspected I have undiagnosed dyspraxia, something I link to my inability to add, to drive, to accomplish snooker trick-shots, read a map, or know where I am at any given time. But I was able to ride a bike, my dad holding on, the Chopper by the useful handle at the back, then releasing me as I trundled on, eyes wide, knees like pink pistons.

     There were bollards in the park. Three of them, set at intervals. They might have been chain-linked once, but the chains were probably repurposed for the war effort. Three bollards, four feet apart, not even a narrow gap, at least a foot on either side as I rode my bike between them. But I didn’t ride my bike between them. I hit the bollards every time. Even when it looked as if I’d easily slip through, my safe trajectory assured, I’d abruptly jerk into them at the last minute. I could not miss. I was drawn to them, their siren song calling me. Every time. Thunk. And all the while my dad is watching me, as I pedal, pedal, pedal, and crash, crash, again and again.

     “Are you doing it on purpose?” my dad asked me. I vigorously denied it. His brow furrowed. I looped back and made another shaky sortie, tilting at bollards, crashing into them once again. The panic was starting to rise in me; I could feel the approach of hot tears. It seemed so unjust. I was riding well. Apart from all the crashing. It was just these cement bastards making me look shit in front of my dad.

      I took off, speeding across the park, on the delicious, bollard-free grass, a singular, high-speed, straight line. The wind was in my hair, the tears drying on my hot cheeks. I could do it. I could ride a bike. I just couldn’t do it in front of bollards. I just couldn’t do it in front of my dad. Here, free, on the grass, the weight of his stare no longer on me, I might as well have been Eddie Kidd.

     Obviously, I fell off. I was always going to fall off. But I fell onto beautiful, soft, green grass.

     I walked the bike back to my dad. He’d seen me ride a bike for about 200 yards, unassisted, for the first time ever. By the time I got back to him, I wasn’t crying any more. I’d ridden a bike. I’d achieved my goal. My dad had seen me fall off a bike and get up, unhurt, not crying, so he was pleased. I’d done something a proper boy should do. We walked home, quite happily. 

     Neither of us ever mentioned the bollards again. Never mind the bollards.