The Agony of Misplaced Idealism.

It's not easy to travel with teenagers. I have children with a span of 6 years between them, and I find I spend a lot of time figuring out how to satisfy and combine everybody's wants. Of course, at the time when we got them, we didn't know this would be a challenge. We were just happy they were absolutely gorgeous and cute and adorable. Little did we realize they would grow into mindstrong individuals... not to mention: TEENAGERS!
At home we have lots of rooms and doors; when on holiday that is not a priority. After all: we go on holiday to spend quality time together, right?

A few years back we invited our oldest son's friend to join us to the Middle East. It turned out a great success. The two friends were totally content having a peer, with mutual interests and priorities, around as a fellow allied. One of the standout causes they insisted on including to their list of what teens MUST do when on holiday was (and I have to admit this was our biggest challenge) their sleeping habits.
No matter how early or late they went to bed, they slept through the best hours of the day, every day.
We didn't get to go anywhere untill after lunch, which was sometimes very annoying and a stressfactor. By pure luck we stayed at a hotel with a nice pool the first week, and then we stayed for two weeks at a holiday resort with all facilities available. So while the young and the hopeful had their long sleep, we got a tan and learned how to swim.
And yet, when they DID get up: The patience they showed our two youngest sons was admirable.

Once they were up they were ready to go places and explore. Never even asking if we had any plans, they would stand by the door, hand on the handle and ask: "So? Are you not ready yet?" They loved to bargain at the market in old Jerusalem, they enjoyed and played in pools and the ocean, they played cards with the rest of the family and wandered through numerous, ancient ruins as well as experienced the adventures of other typical tourist "traps".
So, I swallowed my annoyance and took pleasure in beautiful, well behaved kid, when we went for another adventure in fascinating Israel.

Before we left home, we totally agreed on no internet. Quality time together, remember? I even deliberately left my laptop at home, bringing only my tablet.
It's all very good, and noone neither argued nor complained about it, except...: I am not very good at sleeping.

I have been thoroughly exposed in that aspect, due to social medias. People can see when I am online, and comment upon it. What they are doing online at those godforsaken hours I never ask, but since I've heard the comments so often, I find it annoying. If you wonder what I am doing online at late hours ask me then and there, don't bring it up three days later after having pondered and wondered and created possible scenarios about it.
Going on holidays, especially in summertime, is really the worst time to pull through my sleepless hours.

Small living units like holiday apartments really aren't suitable for me time. The slightest sound might wake up the rest of the family, and they all are sound sleepers who need their full eight hours, or more.
I have a wonderful tablet, but even with an external keyboard it really isn't a good tool for me when it comes to writing. And writing is more or less what I find appealing doing when I can't go online and I have read all the books I brought, and the book I bought yesterday was read last night.
Candy Crush is captivating for limited time only.

So I tip toe around the flat, wondering what to do. Lurking like a neurotic thief, anxious if I should bump into a light chair (which would cause a deafening noice scraping two inches across the floor) or the squeek of a door.
When we arrive I always listen and learn the sounds of a room: which door squeeks when, which step in the staircase creaks, can I hear water running in the next room?

Going for a walk is always an option, but my family doesn't feel comfortable knowing I am wandering about in the streets alone at dusk. I could lie, of course. Thing is, though: people have dogs, and dogs bark when they hear footsteps not supposed to pass their property... believe me, I have tried, and I still shrink with bad conscience thinking about the light which was turned on in a window upstairs. And what if someone called in an emergency call, stating a delusional, very confused woman is on the loose? You never know, right? And by the way; who would I tell? No wifi and Facebook really isn't an option, not untill we get to a cafe or something, and by then it is too late. The novelty of my soulful "me time" is gone.
Not to mention what my selfie would look like: no make up, no sane hairdo... much like a normal mug-shot. That is what happens when you delay your morning shower because you want to avoid hissing in the pipes this early.

I love silence. It is my favourite sound, and I can listen to the silence for a very long time, but I have discovered it is not so calming and certainly not such a relief, when I am overly aware of how I disturb the universe.
So there I go, the only thing left to do is to sit on the balcony, drink coffee, try to write on my tablet and curse my excellent idea of depriving the kids from the internet, online gaming, streaming movies and chats.

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.

So, 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!