‘Bicycle: a vehicle consisting of two wheels held in a frame one behind the other, propelled by pedals and steered by handlebars attached to the front wheel’. Just in case you didn’t know that. Although I swear that definition is flawed. I mean, the pedals don’t propel the bike, a human’s feet pushes the pedals to propel the bike. It’s not like a self-playing piano. That would be a nightmare. Especially because the definition states that the handlebars, and not the human, are steering the bike. Talk about Y2K.
Can I ride a bicycle? No. I wasn’t taught to ride a bicycle, and to be fair, if I had children, I couldn’t be bothered teaching them either. ‘Daddy, I want to ride my bicycle’. I’d probably just start singing Queen’s Bicycle Race.
I’ve never had a need to learn to ride a bike. Just like I’ve never needed to swim. I would never use a bike. Anyone I’ve ever known has been within walking distance. Or, if not, I make do with a phone call every couple of months. I don’t need to ride a bike. I don’t need to swim. If there’s no need, there’s no want. And don’t say ‘exercise’, because there are other ways to get fit. None of which I do. Ahem.
I did attempt bike riding when I was a kid. I had stabilizers on my bike. Unfortunately, I shot off down the road and dad couldn’t keep up. I lost control of the bike and it started swerving left to right. The left stabilizer gave way and snapped and I went face first into some rather hard concrete. And tumbled. And rolled. And kept going. And going. And going. Until I went through the wooden fence of a neighbours’ front garden and ended up in a heap in a prickly bush. To say I nearly killed myself is a colossal understatement.
And from that moment forward, I vowed never to get on a bike again.
And I never have.
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