I still have nightmares about my first brush with the law which arose when I was almost nabbed for riding my bike on the footpath.
My bicycle law breaking came about soon after. It was a Sunday afternoon in Timaru in the 1950s and I pedalled blissfully along the deserted streets and swung sharply into the Royal Arcade, a narrow tunnel-like shortcut to the main street.
What a thrill to breeze past the small shops with no shoppers in the way but then, as I neared the Stafford St end, I made out two, burly, blue-suited figures adorned with helmets. Policemen.
There was no escape, so I slowed a bit but pedalled on, hoping they would ignore me.
Now, a Sunday afternoon patrolling the streets of a small town was hardly the glamorous Scotland Yard life portrayed in the films which had attracted these men to the force. The appearance of a boy on a bike provided a welcome burst of excitement.
A strong arm reached out and grabbed my handlebars, a finger pointed to the wall behind me, and a stern voice said, ‘‘What does that say?’’
A couple of signs adorned the wall, so I played safe and read out the words of the one which said, ‘‘Milady’s Millinery for Your Crowning Glory.’’
‘‘Don’t be smart with me, sonny. The other sign.’’
It was not a large sign, but it stated quite clearly, ‘‘Cycling Prohibited.’’
‘‘Don’t they teach reading at your school, sonny. It says, ‘Cycling Prohibited’.’’
‘‘And you know what that means?’’ asked the other cop, keen not to be left out of the day’s big crime.
‘‘No,’’ I lied, the voice quavering as always happens when I’m under police interrogation.
The guardians of the law were, I sensed, a bit deflated but the first made the best of the frustration with a curt, ‘‘It means no riding your bike in the Arcade. Now, get off and on your way.’’
I turned into Stafford St and biked off, keeping to the road on the off chance that the footpath there might also be adorned with a sign I could no longer claim not to understand.
Granddad’s bike also featured in my next contact with the police force.
When I started working on the wireless I was still a bicycle rider. A night shift meant parking the bike outside the studio at 6pm and concentrating on Melodies with Mantovani, The Motoring Session with Sid Grey, The Black Museum and other delights of 1960s radio until closedown at 10.30pm.
As the strains of God Save The Queen echoed along the corridor I would mount my trusty steed and pedal home.
But one night the steed had bolted. No bike was to be seen, and the next day I reported the disappearance to the police.
Such criminal activity was taken seriously in those days and full details were noted in the police station incident book.
I was reduced to walking to work and almost forgot my cycling days until a call from the police stolen property officer suggested my bike had been found. At the rear of the police station was a large shed crammed with bicycles and mine was there.
‘‘They found it in the harbour,’’ the constable told me.
‘‘Pretty common, really. These seamen on their way back to the ship after a night out often grab a bike to shorten their journey and then chuck it off the wharf when they get to the ship.’’
By then the villain who had stolen the bike was probably on the other side of the world and had forgotten entirely about his crime.
I have often wondered if that stolen property bloke might have been the same guardian of the law who gave me a ticking off for riding in the Royal Arcade only 10 years earlier.
Sadly, six months in salt water had done the old bike no good and I stuck it in the tool shed and started saving to buy a car.
Today, when I feel the urge to ride a bike legally on the footpath all that stops me is that I don’t have a bike and can’t seriously claim to be under 12 years of age.
• Jim Sullivan is a Patearoa writer.
