overheard...

...on the Merri Creek bike path; one very large middle aged man saying to thin air (on the phone) "maybe when I burn out a bit I will..." and a woman saying to another woman as their small dog runs in the grass nearby: "It's protectionism."

these fragments of conversation are part of the aural landscape of the bike rider.

good cycling news: these horrible steps, which are hard to haul a loaded bike up, are being replaced! hooray!

Nicholson St/Park St bike path, 7.40 this morning: car goes straight through red light, nearly skittling three bikes who were crossing on the green.
Footscray Road, 8 am this morning: three cycle-cops lurking behind the Costco waiting for a bike to cross against the red. when one did, swooping on him and demanding his licence. 8.10 am, further down Footscray Road: another three cops doing the same.
Yes, I know crossing against the red is illegal. But could the word overkill apply to this situation?

riding back through the city from Black Rock - Anzac Day was a perfect clear morning, with the rain just brushing the peninsula at the point where I turned back - I crossed Spencer Street and rode past the massive, bright facade of the casino, scootering carefully past tourists with wheely bags and packs of thickening men in their 30s who might have been up all night, or might not (it was 9 am). I took the footpath that runs across the grand casino entrance, and had a small and probably futile sense that I was somehow reclaiming, for a moment, a part of my city that is not how I'd like it to be.

Sunday morning: a bike path in Brunswick, where it runs between the creek and a market garden: on the fence between the path and the garden sits a young man, probably early 20s. He has long blond hair in dreadlocks and is wearing a jacket that from a distance looks like a worker’s safety jacket; up close you can see that it’s actually jagged orange and yellow stripes on a white linen suit jacket. His orange bike has been dropped right across the path. He’s staring out across the vegetable plots, talking and pointing. He’s alone, and not talking on the phone.

Saturday; from the kew boulevarde, looking across the park to the city. 3 or 4 balloons landing, so they appear in front of the city skyline, bulbous and colourful in conrast with the grey glass towers. one has already landed and just its top half can be seen, white silk jellyfishing up from between the green trees.

Sunday morning at the Merri Creek: a woman squats at the steep edge of the creek, hauling a big wet brown Labrador out of the water by its front legs. I stop to watch in case she falls in too. The dog finally struggles up the muddy bank and bounds off, delighted. She follows, not delighted.

quick notes:


the HOusing commission flats shining gold in the dawn light, a mauve sky behind them, grey clouds dipped in orange dust.

the girl with dark hair and skin running up a hill in clifton hill after a small white dog; carrying it back down.

"slow down traffic hazard ahead" sign on the new bike bridge over city link. a/v equipment being set up and I guess they're officially opening the bridge, which means politicians. hazard indeed.

on Footscray Road, a lone bike in front of the waiting trucks and cars at the red light inbound: balancing perfectly on two wheels.

yesterday outside uni, a cordial conversation with a lovely young man about why I wouldn't give him money for the Lost Dog's home; because it encourages it (street solicitation), I said. he thought I meant more people would ask me specificially; then he said well yes, it is the most effective means of getting donations, which kind of proved my point.

and this morning, a conversation at the market (location and name changed because it's real)

Man A, working: "Because today's... not a good day"
Man B: "Why not?"
"It's Alison's daughter's anniversary."
....
"And I'm here and she's not." (ie Alison, who would normally be working on that stall.)

...shadows of death and loss and grieving over an everyday transaction at a market stall.

near my house there's a big old building on the bike track. it was empty for years, being owned by a clueless council. then a bike repair place started to move in. they did up the interior and cut big windows in the brick wall facing the track, in the process cutting through a gigantic dinosaur mural. I thought, well, that can't be helped. then a few days ago I saw they'd painted over the dinosaurs a blank white, and I was furious. my kid loved those dinosaurs. I considered getting some spray paint and defacing the white with "bring back our dinosaurs." I decided I would never go to that bike shop.

this morning, I saw a new mural, half-finished; funky robotic 21st century dinosaurs, riding bikes. and I liked it. very much.

tired and a little headache from 3 hours riding...all the way to Mentone and back before 10...huge packs of cyclists, amazing how many there are, where do they all train during the week?

glad to have done it; longest ride in years. should do more, hit those muscles hard, get some proper fitness happening. none of this half-arsed 60 minutes a day...

think I might go for a swim now. whoever said you can't stay fit with kids was lying. all you have to do is neglect them and make your husband take them for swimming lessons on Sunday mornings. in other words, to insist on having a life of your own too...

this morning a flock of birds rose over me as I rode beside the railway line near the zoo. they screeched and panicked and the tone of their calls rose with their height.

hot and windy: why do the amateur or occasional cyclists come out on these days? they're the worst possible days for riding.

edging down hills I usually whip down, hands over the brakes, left foot out of the clip, wary of the gusts of wind blowing leaves and bark across my path, gusts that feel like they might blow me off. climbing the hill near the old asylum, thin threads of spiderweb glowing bronze, stretched out horizontally across the path by the wind.

times like this all the training takes effect; that I go out at all (habit) and that I manage the hour-fifteen ride without collapsing, even passing a few of the boys for a change. (fitness and bloodymindedness; once I start a particular circuit I almost always do what I set out to do).

have just finished reading Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running: apart from the fact he clearly hates cycling and is as much a runner as I am a rider, I understand what he's saying: that discipline and practice matter in any field. and sometimes just doing it each day (like writing) is enough.

he treats his body as a kind of third party, his muscles as something he communicates with by means of using them: I do this much work, you grow that much, kind of thing.

no great insights this morning - are there ever? - only questions.

why do men wear so much cologne to exercise in the mornings? some of the cyclists who pass me have such a chemical cloud around them, it makes my tongue and sinuses numb.

why do people wear headphones when on bike tracks, or indeed while outdoors at all? do they not value their physical safety? or appreciate their chance at silence, contemplation and real being-in-the-world?

and should I ring the RSPCA or the security company that appears to be responsible for the two constantly barking dogs locked in a shipping container in Northcote?

the balloons following me around in the cool violet dawn, glimpsed out of the corner of my eye, their half-sunlit curves like maverick moons.

- the man rolling on the ground ahead of me. as I passed him (he was by then back in the saddle), I asked if he was OK and I said: "I didn't see you fall, but I saw you roll, eh?"

- the graffiti on the hard-hat sign on the construction site; they'd used Texta to add a droopy Village People gay moustache.

- the river appearing to flow backwards, quite vigorously too, just upstream of the junction with Gardiners creek.

- clouds reflected in the greenish still water around Herring Island: the depth and tone of an X-ray image.

saw an electric bike this morning and got thinking about how much charge there might be from a cyclist's unused energy, or even from adding 10% of effort to a regular ride. too slack to actually look it up. but an idea: the bicycle-powered world. batteries that can be taken off the bike and plugged in to cook, create light, and so on.

a week by the coast; riding along with the heathland on my right and the open ocean roaring on my left. sailing down wide empty roads, apart from the times 4wds/tradey vans/clueless Swedish tourists in hire campers try to sideswipe me. clouds and mist rolling over the hills, wetting me and rolling on. bright spots of sun out to sea. the Big Hill near Lorne (99 metres above sea level). almost making it to Lorne but not quite. riding an hour return each morning to get the paper.


...and this morning home. stopped at Docklands to swig aspirin water (have done my shoulder in) and stare at the murky water, missing the ocean. turned back and there was an old green and yellow W-class tram rattling down the Bourke St extension. it stopped and the driver actually turned the destination roll (white sans serif capital letters on a black waxy canvas) through all the suburbs - Elsternwick, South Melbourne Beach and so on...to Not In Service. and off it clanked.

coming back along the railway line near the zoo; two Chinese people, male and female, doing stretches that involved putting their arms out stiffly and waving them about. resisted the urge to wave back. but I waved on the inside.

this morning have a seminar in town. tossing up tramming in or just being very Melbourne and locking my bike up outside the State Library for the day.

exploring a new trail on the far side of the Yarra on a warm morning. a splash. another. ripples in the brown water. I waited and watched, but the fish didn't jump again.

uncertainty and suspended particles: the Merri Creek muddy and yellow with washed-down soil from the day-before-yesterday's floods...and the air so misty that the high-voltage pylons crackle and chatter with leaking trickles of electricity.

getting over a migraine; the tightness and wrong-feeling in my back, neck and shoulders make bike riding less of a joy. but not as bad this morning as yesterday.

riding on a cracked pedal, secured with tape (the bike is 17 years old and I love it to bits, literally), down the hill past the calling wild beasts at the zoo. a fine mist draped like a curtain from the clouds to the west; a hint of brightness on the country visible behind them; thought of an art student I shared a school studio with once, who made those dark scratches of rain with a fine-tipped needle. they never reach the ground, those rainfalls. they just hang there, dark and purple from the clouds.

everyone in the eastern suburbs, particularly the older types, has made a new year's resolution to walk and/or cycle more. how do I know? they were all over the path this morning when I rode to Springvale Road, displaying a general lack of experience and common sense. and some of them were of the patronising-older-male variety that say things like 'young lady coming through" when I pass. sheesh. can't even be 43 years old going for a ride in a shapeless windcheater without being hassled. some people might find it pleasant socialising. I just find it annoying and distracting from my Very Important Thoughts.

parked on a football oval somewhere in the east: the helicopter ambulance. no sign of movement, but presumably someone really, really needed it.

the river: tan, clay-coloured, with swirls of clearer water. heavy rains the past few days. the suspended particles of soil gathering around any solid object, like a tree branch, creating trails of darker colour downstream.