I like a little ding ding.

Bicycles are a fun time. They’re a really fun time. They’re a two wheeled tyranny of terrific transportation. Alliteration is also a bloody ball.

I’m one of those people who, come January, whacks ‘Write Goal List’ on my ‘To Do’ list. I am the least-listless list-writer and for nearly three years, ‘GET BIKE!’ was on mine. Capital letters, underlined three times and finished with an exclamation mark, the works – until that got a bit ugly and I ripped it out and re-wrote it neater.

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On the cork board it went, and this year I thought YES THIS IS THE YEAR MY YEAR MY BIKE’S YEAR THE YEAR OF ME AND MY BIKE! And it is. This ain’t no story of failure, matey. This is a story of lust.

It was like kiss and catch, but mostly I was the boy in Year One and my dear old bike of dreams was just too fast, too far away or too expensive, and I was not prepared for such a high maintenance relationship. I just wanted to bike, gosh darn it. No bells and whistles. Wait, keep the bell. I like a little ding ding.

They say dreaming of a bike means you’re having to forge through on your own, mainly because bikes, by their very nature, are designed for just one person (whoever ‘they’ are must be pretty bland and boring and have clearly not participated in the  struggle to stand on those bits of bike near the back wheel which mainly result in grazed knees but an overall grand time). Regardless, ‘they’ also say that bike dreams symbolise moments when you tend to do things your own way.

THIS I relate to. And so must my family, since as it goes, on quite possibly the most inconvenient day of the whole year, I drove to Sydney and bought my bike. “Nope!” I said to the haters (Dad). “Today is the day!” I sang Taylor Swift the whole way and also R Kelly’s Ignition Remix (fun fact: an original Ignition exists!). I also got the bird by an angry taxi driver who obviously was not in the right headspace to deal with lost yet enthusiastic P-Platers the day before Easter (read: traffic).

Ten minutes before closing time, I arrived slightly puffed and flustered, but nevertheless in style.  My bike was waiting patiently for me. Finally, it was ready to be caught and kissed and smothered in bike lube (it’s a real thing). And when my big dear old two wheeler fit gently into my small old four wheeler (without a a teary call to Dad for him being right to bring the big car), I knew we were ready to take it to the next level.

I ride my bike to yoga, I ride my bike to work, I ride my bike when I’m sad and I ride my bike when I’m craving a pleasant wind-through-hair sensation. I look at my bike when I’m watering my herb garden. When I ride my bike, I am the most pure person who has ever stepped foot on the humble earth. Not just because it is saving the planet and making my quads burn, baby, burn, and has a polite-sounding bell that makes people turn around in delight, but because it was I made all these things happen with a simple OCD-riddled list of goals.

Some people call my bike Percy. Other people prefer Gerald. I myself like to call him WATCH OUT 2019 YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT’S ON 2016’S GOAL LIST.

Or just MISSION ACCOMPLISHED for short.

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