and this morning: foggy, about to rain, a sunless dawn; appropriately, rode up the hill to Reservoir, which I can't believe is only half an hour's ride from my home. another world of long grass growing through car chassis in front yards, burned-out squats. admittedly that is the main road, which is probably worse than the side roads. I didn't go down them to look. the notion of pit bulls occurred to me and I turned back down the St Georges Road hill to home. yappy hew near.

oh, and I forgot to add: where the tents were set up on the riverbank for New Year's eve: two security guards, one dark, one white, sitting in one tent with a big sign above them: LOST CHILDREN.

new year's eve; awake since 5 am with the heat and an annoying issue that threatened to force me to work in the holidays, which I detest. rode in along the Yarra - too warm for mist this morning - carrying 2010 in my pannier. scored a coffee and sat on a bench outside the market scratching away with a pen on bits of purple sticky note, consulting the diary, organising and planning for the year to come.

random ride, coffee-driven; in to the (closed) market then up to Ti Amo. then down Johnston street to the river trail, just to add distance. where (in Johnston) I discovered a little gallery with a show called Street Level, that doesn't even have a site I can link to, all about maps and grids, which I have written a lot about. the words "street level" were pasted up on the window. the letters had been cut out of the Melway.

Sunday morning: out in the country for a change. on the cheap and nasty country bike, but all the same: the morning sun cutting through the cool shadows of the gum trees. the faint whiff of earth from the old diggings on either side of the road. rabbits. millions of rabbits. easy hills bending left or right as if to add a bit of interest. a bike ride in the shape of a capital "Y" - down the Vaughn road, turning back at the top of the steep hill I didn't want to ride back down, then left and a little way down the Guildford road. then back again down the trunk of the Y to Yapeen, where the family was still sleeping in the old stone cottage, the trees needed a drink and the rabbit proof fence was awaiting repair.

three mornings, three moments:

a few days before Christmas, coming into town on the Yarra trail; the rowers out early, as usual. a girls' eight, rowing in red reindeer antlers. and the cox, gliding along behind them wearing a Santa hat. the coach on the shore on a bike. no decorations at all.

the Monday before Christmas: the market was supposed to be open today. maybe it was. but not by 7.10 am, when I needed my coffee. institute emergency procedures and head north to Ti Amo. thank God for the Italians.

this morning. Christmas. a poor sleep; up late wrapping presents from Santa (the kid is only 6). next door's dog barked after midnight, waking me and the kid, who then realised that his stocking was full and the reindeer's carrot had been chewed. Santa's been already, he said. and I said, yes, that must be what the silly dog was barking at. it took an hour to get him settled again and get to sleep myself. and then I woke at 5.30 am with a full day of Christmas hosting before me. rode aimlessly, through town, down Collins Street to the harbour. crossing King Street, I noticed a cop car outside a strip club. about 20 men, probably late 20s/early 30s, milled around on the pavement. a couple were getting into a cab. there was no violence, but there was its possibility. I watched from a good distance, and wondered; it's Christmas. these men are not homeless, or poor. why are they here? why are they not home with their girlfriends, mothers, even sisters? and thought about the dangers of men with no attachments to the world, nothing to give their lives meaning, to make a place for them. I left before the cop car drove off, and rode home to my child.

nature day Saturday: a small, greyish baby bird, sitting on the very steep path past the pipe bridge. bikes come down that path super-fast. there's a netting fence around it to stop people short-cutting across the erodeable slope. bird was sure to be skittled. so I stopped, put my rain jacket over the soft squirming thing (some nestlings fight: this one was either gentle, exhausted or terrified) and put it on the other side of the fence. It was still there, a metre or so away, when returned. I hope its parents will find it and feed it. either way, I have learned that it's not a good idea to bring baby birds home. they just die. i did what I could.

and then, ten minutes later, I looked down and there was a big COCKROACH on my right knee! reflex kicked in and I slapped my knee just next to it, knocking it off. ouch that stung.

adrift in the scrubby trees before the Big Hill on the Yarra trail: three green balloons, tied together, decorated with Happy Birthday in white.

coming back: a boy with I think his grandfather. aged about 10-11. kicking a stick into my path and glaring at me. again, there are things in the world that affect us, but we can do nothing about. I wonder what his story is: clearly an unhappy, angry boy, possibly struggling with existence in general.

waiting for cars to pass at Bulleen Road: a huge purple cement mixer goes past, blows a rush of air into my face. the driver probably didn't even see me. at the top of the hill past the golf course, a motorbike with its light on goes past, equally close. I feel invisible.

this morning: out on the racing bike, caffeinated. coming down a hill, I see a bird ahead. I think, well, bird small, world big. better to hit the bird than the planet. and I think about how the bird is really part of the planet, and so am I, sliding down this road at 40 kilometres an hour, harnessing gravity and the air rushing in my face and for a moment I really am part of everything and it's bliss to be a living thing.

not strictly a biking moment, but...after going the long way into town (around Richmond on the river trail) I arrived at the market at 7.18 am desperate for that first coffee. I ordered a coffee at the sausage stand (they make the best), then someone else ordered a hot chocolate after me. Then I noticed that the other person got her drink first, and a little jar of mustard as a Christmas thank-you to a regular. Hmph, I thought, and considered politely inquiring why my coffee had been bumped.

then when it came, I got a little jar of mustard too. another lesson in not getting grumpy too quickly, I suppose.

now, if only the donut van would change back to being open before 8 am...have been getting serious withdrawal symptoms. and was reduced to munching on a healthy banana this morning.

Friday morning: on the Yarra Trail there is a very steep hill leading west past the Golf Course of Silver Luxury Cars. I get up a bit of speed going down this hill; so when I saw a large white feather on the ground, I didn't stop for it. I thought about it all the way out to Burke Road and back, and as I rode up the slow incline back towards the hill, I saw three big white cockatoos cawing and fighting their way across the freeway.

The feather was still there. It was 20 cm long, edged faintly with yellow, completely intact with a transparent white shaft. I presented it to my son, who's six, and told him the birdy gave it to me for him. He answered, no, you found it. But really, what's the difference?


Saturday morning: a shortish ride for this time of year - the kid keeps waking early, eating into the pre-day-starting riding time - just an hour, up to the old Pentridge Prison (now housing; twisted if you ask me) and back, along the Merri. I like riding upstream first, then coming back just that bit faster with the fall of the land, moving with the water.

This morning, Sunday; the Kew Boulevarde on the bike I think of as the racehorse to my usual bike's trusty donkey. It's red, weights almost nothing, moves silently, gains speed frighteningly fast (my maxiumum speed is about 51 kmh, but it would go faster if I let it). I like the feeling of control I get on it, simply because it could so easily skitter out of control. The Boulevarde was full of the usual Sunday morning types; Sunday cyclists, packs of lycra boys. And for what might be the first time in 15 years I've been riding up there, a black man; surprising in his contrast to the pasty-skinned, brightly clothed middleaged men I usually see there. He was wearing a dark top and black shorts, too. And I thought, what a cruel joke God played on us, to make us so different from each other. It's asking for trouble, really.

riding behind some unfortunately dressed men (white shorts - erk - see through!) - I twigged to the appeal of the Lycra. superhero outfits, plain and simple.

another early morning. this time the kid woke up as I was about to leave, so I stayed around a bit longer, then went to the market the slightly shorter way (only 40 minutes instead of 1 hr 30). busy morning of pre-Christmas stocking up. take off with the panniers fully loaded, feeling like I woke up at 5 am. oh, right, I did. now, it's hard to stop quickly on a fully laden bike. you have momentum. so when a taxi pulled out in front of me, with the driver's side window down, of course I shouted "OI!". He looked at me and said "what's wrong?". so I said: "you pull out in front of me and you're going to hit me, that's what's wrong."

I mean, what else would be wrong? did he think I was alerting him to a broken wing mirror? You. Are. Trying. To. Kill. Me.

oh, that.....

this time of year I wake up early and get a lot of riding in. so the same old rides get boring, I look for new ways to go. this morning I added a tail to my usual Yarra ride, turning north up the gravel path that runs through Templestowe.

This is the territory of the Impressionist painters of the Heidelberg School, and this morning it looked like it too. Some authority has helpfully put up signposts along the way showing some of the impressionist works, at the points where they were painted. The trail runs through scrubby trees and near-farmland; there are even a couple of horses.

I reached a road, and turned back. As my wheels crunched along through the gravel, I glanced left and suddenly realised I was right beside the river, visible down a steep bank. It was invisible from the other side of the path, and I felt a little shocked, as if it had been lurking there.

in a busy life, I need all the incidental exercise I can get. last night's mission: rescue mis-returned video from Shop A, return to Shop B, and be home in time for Dr Who @ 7.30. Shop A is near the busy Westgarth cinema. you just can't park there in the evenings. so despite already having clocked up 2 hours and 15 minutes of cycling, I dragged the bike out. elapsed time: 25 minutes. probably about the same as in the car.

this morning: noisy native parrots perched on grey dead branches on the hill at Fairfield. it's breeding season still; their heads are a violent purple, their chests Rothko-like panels of orange and yellow. their wings are the green of new foliage.

first post

some French theorist said something like: walking in the city is to the map as speaking a langage is to the dictionary. parole, not langue (sp)

and I say: the nice thing about blogging (as, say, compared to writing a book or a masters' thesis) is that you can dispense with references and correct attribution.

and you can make the topic whatever you darn well please.

my topic is the moments that come without warning from the practice of moving around the city. the city, in this case, being Melbourne. and my chosen language being the bicycle. the velocipede: fast-feet.

as for my title, it's Wordsworth:

Surprised by joy -impatient as the wind
I turned to share the transport

Sunday, December 6.

Awake: 5 am. Riding: through the city to St Kilda and on down Beach Road.

I saw: the balloons rising one by one over to the west, probably from Princes Park. they emerged from the suburban horizon like a chain of slow-moving bubbles. A giant underground fish, breathing out coloured globes. later, I could see them far off to the east, over the hills.

I saw: on Beach Road, heading south as I rode north; a woman in her 20s try to get off her bike while it was still rolling at what must have been a minimum of 10 ks an hour. she lifted her right foot over the frame and was suddenly running, or trying to, beside the bike. the bike threw itself over her and she became a hunched tangle on the ground. I did a U-ey and asked if she was OK. She said "I must need more practice." She tried to get back onto her bike, shaking and bleeding from the hands, saying she was fine. I said, using the authority of someone who hadn't just fallen off her bike for no reason, and throwing in my middle-aged motherly act as well: "sit down and have a drink before you go. rest." and she did, making a seat out of the gutter, and I turned again and rode north, glancing back at her a few times as I went.

I saw: behind me, as I came off the beach bike trail onto Beaconsfield Parade in St Kilda, hundreds of runners, starting a race in a brightly coloured mass, bobbing up and down. One red car drove slowly in front of them. I rode for a while along the bike trail beside the road, looking out across the bleached sand to the bay, then I stopped to let the runners catch up. They were the women's race, and one women in blue shorts and a halter top was 30 metres ahead of the rest, running into the wind. I tracked alongside her for a while. She was running at about 22 kilometres an hour, leading those hundreds, winning the race.