EDGE RUNNER

It started back in '79 when we owned a little white bicycle and lived in a house upon a hill. Actually it was a block of flats and ours was on the third floor. Also, it wasn't a countryside sort of hill, but rather a road with a very steep gradient in a busy part of the city. Our closest family friends lived five minutes away while some kids that went to our school lived in our building. I remember the weekends vividly. My sister and I would take our little white bicycle downstairs where our friends would be waiting. Then we would take turns cruising down the hill, at break-neck speed no doubt. If you happened to turn and look up, you might catch my mother's head peering out of the window and hear her anxious voice calling out, "you people should be careful. Must you play on the road? Watch the cars!" Her voice would float on the lovely summer breeze and come as a whisper to my ears. "Okay... yes mum... yes aunty..., " the different voices would respond. Then her head would disappear back into the house and we would be left to ourselves for a few hours. What fun we had. Absolutely.

These days I feel wistful when I observe how unenchanting are the lives of children today. They seem bored, lonely, frightened, and their lives just do not compare with ours which was a real life adventure. Fond memories emerge from parts of my brain where they have been boxed up for all these years. Recollections of a fun childhood. That was the last time I ever road a bicycle...

That is up until now, virtually thirty years later, when I am relearning how to ride a bike. With my husband's patient instruction and lots of practice I am nearly ready to take on a hill. We could not find adult training wheels, but he no longer needs to hold the seat of the bike whilst I pedal. Instead he runs alongside me on the main road and I am yet to fall off. By myself I practise in the safety of the backyard. Today was exhilarating. The Georgia skies are so blue and the fluffy white clouds roll effortlessly by. My bare head absorbs the intense warmth of the sun as my feet push down hard on the pedals. Bump, bump, bump as I ride over tree roots that have penetrated the surface of the ground, and dodge overhanging branches laced with masses of pale green moss swinging about in the gentle wind.

I try not to crash into an old motorcycle parked on a concrete slab by the back door and maneuver around flowerpots, whose plants struggle to survive, without falling into holes dug for the planting of apples and transplanting of palms and pine. Speed picks up and, with barely an inch to spare, I miraculously make a sudden left turn that averts a collision with the steel barbed wire fence at the back of the property. Surprisingly the neighbour's dog remains in deep slumber, oblivious to my squeals. Yesterday he had barked whenever I rode too close to the back border that we share. Well, even a dog is permitted to enjoy a lazy hot summer day. Only that this is really just the start of spring.

The bicycle on which I practise is one of my husband's. It has a light-weight aluminium front suspension with black handle bars, seat and tires. Finished in grey, there are short segments of a nice polished red colour that attach the frame to the wheels. The seat easily adjusts to accommodate my comfort level and the direct pull cantilever brakes (aka V-Brake) is a simple design that uses a single cable. This mechansim supposedly boosts the brakes' mechanical advantage. Suffice it to say that I have grown to love this bike. It is a durable mountain style bike and presumably great on rough terrain. I continue to ride in preparation for a bike trip to Stone Mountain that my husband talks about. The alloy rim of the back wheel is slightly, yet noticeably, bent out of shape and certainly affects every motion. Eventually this must be replaced. Not the bike, just the rim I mean.

Stone Mountain is a granite dome inselberg elevated over fifteen hundred feet to its summit. Nevermind the portion of granite extending for a few miles underground, this is said to be one of the largest exposed granite landscapes worldwide; comparable to the even larger Sierra-Nevada Mountain range. In actual fact similarity in colouring is responsible for much confusion. Contrary to popular belief, this rock is truly quartz monzonite and not granite. Approximately two hundred and sixty four miles away from Stone Mountain, Georgia, the sun gets unbearingly hotter and I am forced to stop riding. My parched throat sends me indoors for a quick drink. Returning, I gaze with endearment at the bike leaned up against the thin trunk of a small bare tree. The tree looks nude as it gracefully supports the bike gleaming in the sunlight whose rays play nicely upon the bright metal. Clearly visible is an inscription etched into the aluminum frame in bold black lettering- EDGE RUNNER.