My collection of wise, and not so wise, postings

Monday, 15 September 2014

Arduous Riding a Bicycle

This is a  picture I found online.
My brother had a deep purple bike like this.
I learned how to ride a bike standing under the bar on my brother's racerbike.
I must have been about 5 years old, so I fit pretty fine... even though my knees touched my chest and my bum hit the bar, every time one of the pedals peaked on top. The sight of me like this on the bike, noticeably concentrating, must have been pretty hilarious, but back then I just didn't care. I don't think something like what it looked like even crossed my mind. It was all about doing and achieving. I was thrilled by the speed. The warm feeling of self esteem, which runs through your entire body when mastering new skills, made me feel a year older, every time I could sneak away and go for a swift ride.
Of course I was not allowed; not because it was dangerous, but because my brother didn't want me to damage his deep purple, quite pricy, wonder. Back then a racer bike was still rare and unusual.

I used to push the bike uphill, to the barn, and then I would charge downhill, standing on the pedals, round the barn, on a rather poor, gravelled carriage way. When I reached the asphalted main road I would start pedaling. The speed was breaknecking, I couldn't reach the breaks. I was like Superman; stretching far in a primitive cage. Thanks to drivers with excellent reaction I am here to tell you this.
You have to love those old fashioned ladies' bikes.
This picture also from the internet.

My sister and mother shared a red ladies' bike. I didn't use that much. The seat hurt my lumbar when I pedaled, which is a pity, because you would break when pushing the pedals backwards. It could have been a slightly safer alternative than the crazed ride I was in habit for.

Oh well, finally, my 10th birthday. When in the 4th grade we were allowed to start riding a bike to school. A rule which in many places is still current. During the previous years we had to walk, but now we were allowed to ride a bike. Oh the joy, the expectation, the pure excitement of rising in the ranks. We would now enter the league of older pupils.


My parents had promised me a bike for forever, and I knew I would get one. Of course I would: I needed one to go to school!
All my friends and peers had gotten a silver ladies' racer bike, with gears. (At that age boys are not taken any notice of, not back then anyway; they had "boy-cooties". Whatever bike they had didn't matter.)

I was out on the fields, when I heard the family car back up in the farmyard. The new, dark brown Saab went silent, and I ran as fast as I could downhill to be there when they opened the trunk. I wanted to be there when the wonder was revealed.
It was my 10th birthday. I still remember the run, my border collie, Nell, was dancing around my feet as we ran.
I heard the cardoor open, I heard it shut. I was almost there.
Almost out of breath I got there in time, leaning slightly over to get the full view of the trunk when it was opened. And there it was: A brand new bike. All mine!

Hey, wait a minute... this was all wrong! I asked my dad where my bike was? "Silly you, this is your
bike. Isn't it nice?" "But it's not like the bike my friends got." I could feel my throat choking up. "No, this is different, I know. This is even better! This is a really solid bike; this will never be broken".

I don't even know if this bike has a name in English, in Norwegian it is called a "kombi sykkel" (= combined bike).
It was dark green, tiny tires, no gears and I was the only kid at school having one.
I can still taste the disappointment.
Later on another girl at school got one too, which I thought was pretty neat, cause then there were two of us at the far back when on a bikeride with the class.

I went everywhere on that bike, for years. I settled with the bike knowing it was that bike, or no bike at all.
And we became good friends, the bike and I. I still have it stored in the barn at the farm. My brother promised me he would keep it untill I come and get it. I might restore it, just for sentimental reasons... or maybe as a reminder to be grateful for what you got, even when it is really, really difficult.

13 years ago, after two pregnancies, I gained quite a few kilos. Having one son eager to ride his bike, and a 1-year old in a pram, I decided to buy a bike. I got myself a lovely, white ladies' bike with a basket up front and a children's bicycle seat at the back. I even got my first helmet! Both my kids loved our trips to the store. My thighs ached and my back hurt, but I was riding a new bike, my hair was waving in the wind and I was loving it!

I got a flat tyre, and had to fix it... after I put the tools away. When I got back outside my bike was gone. Stolen! My neighbor's fashionable, hitech, alloy bike was still parked outside his house, but mine was gone.
The lock was cut and left behind.

Some people are loyal enough to stick with their motivations. I am not one of them.
It took me years to get a new bike.

Displaying 20140817_202330.jpgSo, I got myself a new bike. Apart from the occasional bikeride with my kids, I left it alone. Standing in a corner in the yard with soft tyres and the bicycle chain turning more and more the colour of fall.

Now, on the other side of the world a man, not in the best of shape, got a bright idea about two years ago, or so.
Suddenly he posted pictures of himself on facebook with very revealing bicycle gear. You know: the proper shirt tight as sausage skin, bicycle shorts, helmet and a very impressive bike.
The pictures he posts show impressive mileage and a steadily firmer appearance.
The other day I sent him a message:
- You weren't this keen on riding a bicycle a couple of years ago.. mid life crisis? Bored?
The reply came swiftly: - Fuck off! and yes. I am so fit and loving it. Lost 30 kgs.

30 kgs. I could do with a weightloss like that.
Unfortunately my son refuses to let me ride my bike without a helmet, so I have finally bought one. One of these days it will arrive in the mail.


I can't wait! I love this!


And I am saving up to buy the bike of my dreams.

With the right equipment I'll look dashing in no time!

After all; we all know the right gear is what it takes to make a lifechangeing effort!





Sunday, 14 September 2014

Good enough is perfect

Every day I see, meet and talk with lovely, young people. Most of them are young men, still uncertain of their ways, not confident enough to straighten their back to the full length, but I see there is a lot of potential.

There is something beautiful about youth. The kind of beauty you don't acknowledge, or realize. There is this inherent doubt that it will never be good enough anyway, no matter what. Literature describes it as an amazing flower still a bud. Which is actually a very appropriate description: Regardless of their baggage and background they have not yet reached the full potential of all the facets they hold as a person.
Some say: "I have seen it all. There is nothing you can say or show me I haven't heard or seen before". Usually, they have not yet seen, felt, experienced or heard the finer things in life. They think about life as tough, and the world is a rough place to hang out.

I am grateful I will never be a teenager again. It is a lot of work to be young. Young people are so opiniated; eager to share their headstrong knowledge and logic. They oppose, argue, negotiate... especially negotiate. EVERYTHING is up for negotiation, they think. And most of us adults fall into the trap and actually participate and play along.
Young people stretch the borders. They seek borders to be guided, only to find us, the adults, just as bewildered.
They want to be protected, often, to my surprise, from themselves. They want us, the adults, to carry the responsebility and hold the right answers.

They are conserned and worry about the future, they try to figure out their values and react to unfairness, but most of all they worry about coming too short. Demands are too many and often too much since noone really prepared them for the expectations they would face later in life.

I know I spent a lot of my young years being insecure. When I had the chance to be wild and vast and free, I found myself wondering, almost at a halt, in a crossroad trying to figure out what direction I should choose. My insecurity so overwhelming it battled my courageous attempt to be a person with values I could be proud of.
I felt like an ugly duckling, knowing I would always stay an ugly outsider, and never be a swan.
I have pictures. Pictures from school: Early 80s and they all wear something dark blue and have a really straight haircut... I am wearing a red jacket, totally out of fashion. And I have shaggy hair pointing in all directions. And I am the only one smiling. Back then I felt it hard to stand out; to be the one always different. Today I look at the picture and see: in spite of everything, I had a beautiful smile.

Being young is brutal. You manage, fix, cope and master; friends fail and let you down. Love passes just as easilly as it occured. Parents and society are pushing and pulling in all directions, not allowing time to take a breath and think things over... you are just carried on, not really following the flow, just unable to fight it.

Being youth passes. As do being a young adult. Suddenly, almost like by magic, you look around and realize you are no longer insecure, you are given more space, it is no longer a punishment to take on responsebility for your own actions.
The bud will bloom and turn into a beautiful flower, not always a rose, not even a sunflower or a tulip, but ever so beautiful in its imperfection.
Maybe not a perfect adult, but perfect for someone.