Back and the bike and geared up for round two

Years ago, I stupidly thought I wouldn’t need a bike with gears considering we are the pin-up location for the flat earth society – even the Netherlands, the cycling capital of the world, has a few small rises here and there.

So I bought myself a gorgeous vintage bike, on which to look equally gorgeous after a bit of training – but was impractical as all hell.

Which I found out the day I took it for its first spin.

And not just around the block. From my Moama home near Rich River Golf Club to the centre of Echuca.

I was going for a massage and thought I’d leave 20 minutes before my appointment.

That should give me more than enough time to get there with five minutes to spare.

Well, I think I actually made it halfway down Perricoota Rd in that time, riding into a gale and grinding on with no gears.

Once I made it to Meninya St, a magpie decided to start attacking me and sent me screaming down the main street of Moama to take shelter in a nearby store.

By the time I’d made it over the bridge and to my appointment, I was an hour late and dripping with sweat.

But I certainly needed that massage.

That was the first and last time I rode that bike, later selling it to another unsuspecting buyer.

Since then, I have been meaning to buy a mountain bike not only to keep active, but ride with the kids and maybe even to work.

And what better time than now – when the coronavirus pandemic is restricting almost everything except exercise.

And with rules on social distancing and the fact I hate running, cycling is one of the best options to stay fit at the moment.

So with a bit more cash in my bank account, thanks to the government’s COVID-19 payment, I managed to score not one but two bikes.

One is a birthday present for my youngest, as she grew out of her last one in record time thank to a major growth spurt.

And the other is a black (like my heart) Shimano mountain bike, complete with seven gears, for yours truly.

Unsurprisingly, I didn’t come prepared. The bikes, although in flatpacks, were so big they couldn’t even fit into my reasonably large sedan.

Madly scrolling through my phone to find someone who could help me, I sheepishly called the girls’ stepmum Amanda (aka my ex-husband’s wife), who has saved me on multiple occasions.

On this occasion, she not only had a ute to transport them, but room to store them and a handy husband who could put them together for a financial reward.

Coming to my rescue once again, Amanda jumped in her Holden Colorado, telling me she’d be there in five.

As a distinctive looking ute pulled into the carpark, I wheeled the trolley over and started loading the bikes into the back of the tray.

Until a strange woman jumped out of the front seat, scaring the absolute life out of me.

“I think you may have the wrong car,” she laughed as my face turned bright red from embarrassment.

I turned to find Amanda pulling up alongside us, wondering what on earth I was doing.

The utes were almost identical, except for a black stripe along the stranger’s vehicle.

It would have even fooled someone of the Holden or Mazda production line.

But I won’t be fooled again when the bikes are put together – they are different colours.