Riding into town for the first time made for a great birthday, Calvin Oaten writes.
September 11. My birthday. It was cold. I was 11 years old. I arose and went outside.
There it was, standing/leaning against the house. A bike, with handlebars largely rounded and pointed back towards the rider, looking like a goat. The seat was ridiculously high. It had a bell, a light and a dynamo fitted to the front forks, to click onto the front tyre.
A thoroughly sound conservative man's bike. Dad had bought it from an elderly man who lived down the road.
''What do you reckon?'' asked Dad.
''You've bought yourself a bike,'' I said.
''No, it's for you, on your birthday.''
''Wow!''
A bike, for me? Could this be the birthday of birthdays?
I looked again with renewed interest; this was a dream come true.
I went to the shed and found a spanner, undid the bolt holding the handlebars, removed the bell and took the bars off, turned them around and put them back. They now pointed forward like a rampant bull.
I lowered the seat and its whole ''persona'' changed. Now I had a bike with ''chutzpah'', and if I wanted, I could lower the handlebars to make it a racer!
Gotta try it, I thought.
''I'm going for a ride, Mum,'' I shouted. ''Be careful then and don't be too long,'' Mum replied.
And off I went, down the gravelly potholed road to Normanby. From there it was tarsealed all the way.
This was my first lesson on wheels and gravity, down the valley past school with the ever-present soldier sentinel on top of the memorial arched gate.
On down out of my comfort zone to the Gardens. Then into an alien world along King St over the humped Leith bridge and past the North Ground.
I was really in foreign territory by now, but still pedalling happily.
I passed S. Larkins the carrier with his horse and cart, along to Moray Pl, up Stuart St to the Octagon. I'm thinking ''Mum will be furious!''
Oh well, it's my birthday, and anyway, she doesn't know where I am.
Turn right into George St and I ride along the tram rails until Frederick St, Knox Church on the left.
I remember reading or hearing that the top of the spire was the same altitude as the Normanby terminus. Gee, that looked awfully high to ride a bike up.
Along to Regent Rd, then I met my second lesson on wheels and gravity. This time it meant puffing away at the pedals up the rise to Howe St, along to Woodhaugh bridge, then back to the gardens.
Good old valley, seemed like home, even though I still was away from my zone.
Back along the North Rd, ever uphill, proving the old adage that what comes down doesn't necessarily go up without effort. The No. 2 Normanby tram was going along so I grabbed hold and it pulled me up Chingford rise to the terminus.
I puffed up the gravel road to home, arriving hot, flustered and incredibly happy. I put the bike in the woodshed and said I'll see you again tomorrow. I swear it wiggled its mudguard.
''Hi Mum, I'm home,'' I shouted.
''Where on earth have you been,'' she said. ''I've been worried sick.''
''I've been to town and back.''
She didn't believe me, so I said no more.
''Get in the bath, tea's nearly ready,'' called Mum.
It was the birthday tea with jellied sponge and I had three pieces. Well, it was ''my'' birthday.
I was done in and sneaked off to bed. Lying there in the dark thinking over my day I had to ask, ''Was that a birthday or what?''
And was that probably the best day of my life? I reckon so.
• Calvin Oaten is a retired refrigeration and air conditioning engineer and retailer
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