One more tiny story for mw&g – T on a bike

This is the last T story for a wee bit as the grapes are beginning to turn, and the animals need some extra attention with my grass going so much slower. It is still late summer ( I am quite determined about that) and that means harvest time in the pumpkin patch, prep time in the garlic beds, and then that wonderful job of clearing all the gardens, making the winter compost mountain. Then I have to sit in the barn and have a think about where I am going to fit everyone this winter. We do things slowly in the sustainably managed farm world. Plenty of time to think. And make sure that my little eco system of animals and birds and environment stays healthy.

When T  was little he wore a brown velvet hat with a floppy rim for almost 2 years. It was the most miserable, crumpled, stained and bent smelly hat you are ever likely to see.  You would use two fingers to pick it up.  In my memory it is a pale brown, dungy colour. We insisted that it was taken off at dinner times so we could see his face. He would always wait to be told then slowly drag it off his head and hang it pathetically on the back of his chair and  when he turned back we were blinded by that white farmers strip of untanned forehead.  We always sat around the big table as a family for dinner.  And we had to wait until everyone had finished eating and talking before anyone would leave the table. Some of these dinners lasted ages.  T ate very slowly. Because he was the quietest of the family I personally think that his slow eating was one of the few times when he had complete control over his brothers and sisters. He would methodically work his way back and forth across the plate, consuming with a dogged determination,  carefully cutting and piling and chewing. After the last morsel was tasted and chewed and swallowed, he would help himself to seconds and do it all over again. Then he would lay his knife and fork together as we were taught, and look up as though -oh goodness are you all still here. There would be a nod and with a wild screeching of chairs and clanging of plates into the kitchen we would be gone, and T would kneel up onto this chair, retrive his cherished hattie, pull it down onto his head right past his  eyebrows to the shelf of those long eyelashes, then carry his plate to the kitchen and if his name was not on my carefully crafted  absolutely fair roster for dishes or cleaning he would dissappear again.

So we had all these old bikes and T who was a very quiet but very determined little fella decided one day that it was time for him to learn to ride a bike. He never told anyone he wanted to ride a bike  he just decided that he would and proceeded. So he lugged a bike over to the launching rock, stood on the rock, clambered on gave himself a push off and proceeded to wobble and then crash about a million times. Up he would get, push the battered old bike back to the rock, the handlbars at eye level, climb onto the rock, mount, wobble, crash, his legs were too short.  He would tip his head back so he could see out from under the brim and attempt to push off with the tip of his toe, wobble, crash.

Now you will remember that we grew up in  a sprawling beach house right beside the sea in the North Island of  New Zealand.

Before I tell you the second half of T learning to ride a bike you need to be able to draw a picture in your mind of this location. The big rocks were right outside the back door.  My mother loved rock gardens. With big rocks. My Dad said to her early on I will place a rock once then I will shift it once, after that you are on your own.  Then there was a long tarmac drive, that sloped every so gently, down to the gate. We were not allowed out the gate without permission so we spent a lot of time walking on the gate or sitting on the fence. Anyway so imagine for me a straight line, unimpeded, the drive slopes down  through lawns and rock gardens to the gate, which was open that day, past the letterbox, across the footpath, over the road, across a grassy verge, then down an almost vertical steep  grassy bank, across a little more grass, onto the shore which begins as big rocks then smaller stones, soft duny sand then at low tide a wide expanse of hard sand and finally into the waves. We had gentle waves on this day. It was late summer. Low tide. You can hear gulls, and the ever present woosh of the surf. It sounds like a cool breeze in the trees.

My sister and I had finished the dishes and had come outside to sit on the fence and think about homework. Mum was in her bedroom, resting. Dad had his head stuck behind a newspaper upstairs.  We sat looking at the sea for a bit, listening to the clatter and grunts of T somewhere behind us. Soon we turned our backs to the sea and watched T instead. Because watching him fall off the bike again and again was a even more entertaining than spying on surfees changing under their towels.   Soon, we started helping him, picking him up and lifting him onto the seat, pushing him around a bit, as he held on, he could pedal if he was off the seat but for now he was happy being pushed around, and doing the turning. Soon we were pushing him at high speed around and around the rock garden. Great hilarity.

Then for some reason we pushed him right back to the big shed and turned and lined him up to go straight down the drive. Now here is the brake, you know how to use it, we will give you a push and see how you go by yourself.  We will catch you.  Fall on the grass if you have to, not into the rocks. No-one expected him to stay on.

He settled his hat further onto his head, sat on the seat with his knees up, bare feet gripping the bar. I arranged his hands on the handlebars, spreading his fingers to the brake, then we ran him  forward and pushed him off as hard as we could and he shot forward like he had been shot out of a rubberband. We chased after him.  Laughing.

He wooshed down the drive, brake, brake we are yelling in  horrified stage whispers so as not to bother mum, putting on barefoot speed to catch up with him, he hit the downward slope in the drive, roaring past his own reflection in Mums bedroom window, crouched over the handlebars like a little devil but did not  brake.  A horrified silence as we saw him shoot out the drive and into the road.  Across the road! Without looking! Bumped up on top of the grass verge on the other side, across the council grass and then straight over the vertical bank, he dropped straight out of sight, it was about 1o foot high this grassy bank with a goat track in it for climbing up.  Not a sound. We started to run, he would have crashed. We expected screaming and blood or at least the blood as he was a quiet child after all.  Then to our amazement he reappeared below us flying across the beach grass, still going in a straight line, tearing towards the beach, by now going at a terrific speed, hands grimly holding onto the handlebars, his body bumping about on top of his bike seat. Completely silent still. Across the big stones, through the little stones and out onto the sand, a missile of a child, aimed straight for the open sea, whistling along, upright now, legs flailing out,  trying to keep his seat as the sand picked at his speed and then water spraying up on either side, he hit the ocean and plowed straight in.  He stalled, wobbled slightly and stopped, holding his upright position, facing the ocean, no doubt grinning all over his naughty evil dirty little face, an evening stick figure sillouette, for that trembling beautiful breathless moment.  Then firmly attached to this bike, silently, like a long legged crab, he crashed sideways into the sea.

Now you tell me that little bugger did not do that on purpose!! See?  See how he was always getting me into trouble.

c