Читать книгу Cycle of Learning - Anne Fitzpatrick - Страница 6

The rush of wind and the roar of traffic drove me to pedal harder and harder along the path to work. My new bike, with a wonderfully light frame and pedals that my shoes clicked into, took me to speeds I’d never experienced before.

I felt unstoppable. This new bike made me feel like I was flying. The clunky blue bike which I’d retired with the purchase of this smooth and speedy silver one had served me well for years, carting me across town, between university, casual jobs and social events. It was slow but steady, towing me and my changes of clothes, books and day’s food supplies wherever we needed to go.

Six months ago, I had been pushing my way up South Road on Clunky Blue while mulling over my plans for the coming year. My brain has a particular gear that it slips into when in steady motion: I get my best thinking done when I’m coasting along by train, bus, foot or bicycle.

As I slowly pushed up the hill, dodging the broken glass near the curb, I realised I didn’t want to go straight into a teaching job after my study. I was almost finished a Bachelor of Education, and happy with the plan of being a teacher at some stage of my life, just not yet. I wasn’t ready to be tied down to a job, a place and a routine.

I slipped past the line of cars waiting for the lights to change and considered saving up some money to do something else for a while after graduating. Maybe a bike ride. I could carry a tent. How far would I go? I could go part way around Australia. No, that would be just stupid. Why go part way around anything? I’d have to go the whole way! And, if I did that, I could raise money for PEAK, a program in India where I had spent time volunteering a few years ago. I could visit schools along my ride and tell the students about the young people I met in India, and how education was helping them.

I made the decision within a few kilometres of congested South Road. The next year I would ride my bike around Australia and raise money for PEAK.

The wheels started turning. I travelled back to south India in the mid-semester break to meet with PEAK once again. I started contacting schools, community groups and the media. I tracked down equipment and a new, less clunky bike. This sleek, silver Shogun made cycling so easy that, as I raced towards work that afternoon, I felt like Around Australia was going to be a piece of cake.

The grin on my face lasted just a few seconds before a flash of movement in my peripheral vision warned me to slam on my brakes. I wobbled on the spot with the hybrid terror of being centimetres away from riding into the path of the car and not being able to get my feet off the new clip-in pedals.

I finally crashed to the ground, landing sandwiched between the bitumen and my bike. As I untangled bike and body parts, avoiding eye contact with the driver of the car, the enormity of what I was planning to do settled back on my shoulders, a load heavier than that piece of cake I was just contemplating. I had three unfinished assignments to complete in the next week, only $3000 in the bank to cover food and accommodation costs for the coming year, scores of letters, emails and press releases to write to get my fundraising organised, a chronic lack of sleep – and somehow I was expecting to ride this bike solo and unsupported around Australia. I couldn’t even ride it to work without embedding bitumen into my knees and grating strips of skin from my forearms. What was I thinking?