Cycling: a commentary

Sometimes I wonder if I just try to convince myself that I enjoy cycling. Closer to the truth is probably that I just enjoy spending that time with Ben, in whatever form it takes. Hence, cycling on my own is always distinctly less fun. I know the first statement isn’t true: leisurely, scenic cycling is a real joy to me. But the city. Shudder. Oh the city. Here's a blow-by-blow of my morning ride:

8.10am

Grumpy. I was supposed to have left 10 minutes ago and I still have to pack everything from my regular bag into the pannier bag, plus I forgot the map that I printed out for myself yesterday. The kitchen smells like butter and I don’t have any ambulance insurance. Did I pack pain killers? I need to pack pain killers.

8.15ish-am

Ben waves me off happily and I try to shake off an impending sense of doom.

8.20am

The chanting begins: “Down means up and up means down”. I have even more trouble with bike gears than car gears and can never remember how mine work, so I have to instruct myself whenever I’m going up a hill. “Up means down” takes longer than it should to process and my fingers eventually fumble the gear downwards. I try not to flinch when they make the awful crunching noise that means I’ve got it wrong. I swear. Lots.

8.22am

Giant scary roundabout. As this is my first day back on the bike, I don’t even attempt this. I get off and trot over to the footpath. I spot another cyclist turning left down Old Canterbury Rd on the footpath, and this makes me feel like less of a loser.

8.25am

Still waiting at traffic lights. Yawn.

8.30am

Must avoid the horror of Railway Terrace at all costs. Slightly disorientated between Lewisham and Petersham, I cross some roads with awkward self-consciousness, follow a street name I recognise and hope for the best. To my relief this takes me to Petersham Park swimming pool and everything becomes familiar again.

8.32am

I run out of gears trying to get up the hill to Crystal Street. Damn it.

8.35am

Bike paths! Quiet, tree-lined, traffic-free, wonderful bike paths. I heart ye. You make my journey so much less terrifying and stressful.

8.40am

My old hood: Stanmore. I glance at my watch in disbelief. It took me 25 minutes just to get to Stanmore?? Wow, that’s depressing. But at least it’s all familiar territory from here. Please, please get easier.

8.45am

I go up Trade St rather than Bedford St, because Ben says it is easier than Albermarle which has always been my Achilles Heel. I manage that ok but then realise I have to turn onto Albermarle Street anyway, just halfway up. Foiled! Stupid Albermarle Street. I swear some more.

8.47am

Camperdown Park! Puppies! Open space! The world is a nice place again. I see 2 French Bulldogs, and a Schnauzer with a red collar on that I briefly consider putting in my basket before pedalling away furiously. I don’t, though. Then I cross over into Prospect Street, and a lady on a Vespa lets me pass, smiles and says “Nice bike!” Thank God for Newtown.

8.50am

My favourite part of the whole ride is down Campbell Street, along the back of North Newtown Public School. I want to send my non-existent kids to North Newtown Public for no other reason than it is the best street to ride my bike down.

8.51am

Onto King St, down through Darlington, and in the home straight. It’s mostly downhill and I can breathe again.

8.54am

I am scared of the city end of Abercrombie Street, so I move onto the footpath until the traffic moves through. A taxi driver beeps like a moron; I’m not sure if it is at me. I was indicating right so he can just shut up. I mutter some colourful language at him.

8.56am

The new development of ‘Central Park’ looks interesting from here.

8.58am

I’m at the work garage, with 2 minutes to spare. Shame it takes me 10 minutes to get organised afterwards. Lucky I am not one of those people who need to look immaculate before work. I am sweaty and frumpy and my hair is greasy and my face is somewhat beetroot-like. That, I decide, is what I’m working with today, and I’m ok with that.

Eight kilometres isn’t very far, but it is the stopping and starting, combined with my vulnerability for the ascent, that frustrates me. I’ve still got to get home yet, and that generally takes a bit longer because there are more uphills, but at least I don’t have the added pressure of needing to be there before 9am.

So in closing: Yay! I didn’t die! Thank you Woodstock, you chic, overtly-trendy, inner-west bicycle. I know you want flowers and breadsticks in your basket. I know you want me to wear a short sheer dress with black stockings and look nonchalant. But I’m trying to be a bicycle commuter and I’m sorry. Your patience during this transitionary time means the world to me.