“Have you finished drying the clothes?” my mother boomed.
My skirt was wet. I’d spent the past hour wringing laundry under the blistering rubber estate sun, trying to hang it out to dry. My eyes kept darting to the front of the house.
There it was – Alex’s bicycle. He was inside, delivering something from his mother to mine – a regular ritual in the 60s. He’d take a while. I had to try. It looked so rideable.
I flipped up the kickstand and pushed the bicycle forward. One foot on the pedal, the other steadying me as I clutched the seat. It moved – briefly. A few painful attempts later, it crashed, dragging me down with it.
That brought Alex and my mother rushing out. He inspected his bicycle; she launched into a five-minute tirade before tending to my bleeding knee. I was eight – and short for my age.
For a year, I watched the neighbourhood boys zip by on borrowed bicycles. Girls rarely cycled. My father, who rode his Raleigh every morning, insisted I wasn’t tall enough.
The next year, I did it – monkey pedalling. A neighbour helped me balance on the horizontal bar. My Japanese-slippered foot pedalled as the other “step-walked”. I fell often, but soon I was covering yards – on top of the world.
Eventually, my father taught me “proper cycling”. My range expanded. By the following year, I was running errands. Still on his bicycle.
In my teens, I cycled to extracurriculars – rain or shine – until my father, proud of my school performance, finally bought me my own ladies’ bicycle. Stylish, priceless moments.
In high school, I dreamt of cycling to school in my prefect’s blazer and tie. But my father had other plans. He moved us to his home country for more affordable education. No amount of pleading changed his mind.
The place was decades behind in everything but schooling. Girls didn’t cycle – they walked or squeezed into packed buses. I did the same.
Years later, I returned home, only to feel out of place. I focused on finding a job (not easy), and later, a parent-approved partner – after a few missteps. Like many before me, I followed the familiar template: study, work, marry, raise a family.
Then, one day, I was nearly 70.
Like many seniors, I took up hobbies, part-time work and group exercise. At Tai Chi class, I noticed an elderly woman cycling. I lingered near her bicycle, full of questions – what I really wanted was to try it.
Instead, I convinced my husband to buy me one. Vintage ladies’ bicycles were rare, but we found one at a shop in the New Village. He test-rode two. I chose one.
One problem – I didn’t know how to ride.
I waited until dusk, then tried. Failed. Tried again the next night – wobbly, but I did it. Night after night, I rode farther.
By my 70th birthday, I cycled seven kilometres in 45 minutes. My husband filmed my finish and posted it on Facebook.
A quiet triumph – reclaiming a skill abandoned 60 years ago.
