My love for bicycles started during the long pillion rides with my brother, to that old mill in Jeppoo where our wheat was to be ground, every week. Even pillion riding in the ‘upsy-downsy’ Mangalorean streets were a challenge in itself, because you had to hold tight if you were to survive. On one of these ‘upsy’ streets, I had slipped from my brothers bicycle carrier one day, sliding down the ‘madgad’ (isn’t that supposed to be called ‘mud-guard?) and my brother didn’t even notice, until a passer-by had alerted him that his little brother was left on the street far behind with the wheat bag on his face and ‘downsy’ (in fact, my brother was still carrying on a conversation with me about the elegance of Grover’s batting style!).
Brothers teach bicycling in strange ways. Take mine for example. All he did was take me to the Kadri grounds, shove me into the seat, and give such a massive push, that I was actually ‘riding.’ Hey, bicycle learning was that simple, at least, at that momentary time, until, of course, when the cycle slowed down and came to a grinding halt. Far behind, I heard my brother yelp ‘peddle, peddle harder’ ? well, how can I ? he never taught me to?and in the next moment I glide on the asphalt felt, with my ankles inside the spoke wheel. Thanks brother…next you should teach me ski-diving.
Yet, knowing my brother and his tremendous will power, I was sure that he would come up with another idea. This time it was cycling downhill. That way, he assumed that I didn’t have to do the ‘peddling’ part but rather focus on the ‘balancing’ part. You know, some things work fine in theory. Then you go full throttle, my brother running behind me and cheering me up, until, my bottom thundered under the sudden undulation of a massive Mangalorean pothole (Boy, the Municipality should know that at a tender age our bottoms are no shock absorbers).
The next thing I know, I was right behind the bumper of this huge Municipality dump truck (with four painted faces taunting me ‘Sukha Samsara, Manasige Aadhara’). I could hear my brother panting behind me and shouting ‘Breaks! Breaks, put on the breaks! Thanks, once again brother for reminding me (and soon you can visit that Jeppoo symmetry and read my epitaph ‘His life came to a stinking halt because he did not know when to stop!). Well, luckily for me, the Mangalore RTO had placed this huge hump on the road (and, as per the age old tradition of RTO marking white stripes on road humps are a taboo!), and I went flying face first onto the steps of ravianna’s goodangadi. The only benefit of that was to get one of Ravianna’s bottled soda for free. Dear brother, indeed, your cycling pedagogy should be institutionalized.
Years later, it was my turn to teach my sister to ride the Kinetic Honda and I had this great temptation of using my brother’s educational model. Well, you can’t deny it. It hurts, but it works. And when you don’t have younger brothers, younger sisters are useful substitutes. They may not be as strong, but they are as much fun. So, I took her to the Kadri Grounds, sat on the back seat and guided her. ‘Easy sis’ I cautioned her. ‘There is only one light pole in this entire ground, and hence only 1% chance of you colliding with any object , and what more, that light pole is behind us (which makes it a 0% chance, statistically). So just start the bike, hold the breaks, don’t wobble, concentrate in the front, and I’m right behind you.’ Before I could finish my lecture, off she went. The next thing I know, my sister takes this 360 degree turn, right around and bang into the light pole. Wow! Wasn’t that spectacular. How in the world did she do that?
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…My sister had finally inherited my family tradition of the new point guard in ‘two-wheel adventury.’….
With this humiliating experience, my sister had enough of me and vowed to teach riding herself. Two days into the baptism of the new Kinetic Honda, she had skillfully landed the two-wheeler into a gutter twice in a row, although she escaped without a stitch. Perhaps, someone could make use of her for testing those new ejection systems in fighter jets! And with accidents like these and so frequent, they should not be calling them ‘accidents’ anymore. Perhaps, they should call it ‘intentional incidents’ or ‘happy coincidences’ (based on how you feel when you fall).
With a few more damages to my Kinetic Honda, and with my sister finally ready for her driving test, it was time to take her to the RTO. There, the inspector had mentioned ‘Alli Maidan circle tirugi banni (take a turn at the circle right there and come back). And as we stood waiting, my heart skipped a beat, as my sister did not turn at the designated circle, but went straight ahead. Half an hour, and with no trace of her, the inspector grumbled ‘Yelli hodrappa, ivru’ (where did this person disappear). After fretting and fuming for another fifteen minutes, there was a glimpse of relief. I detected within the large traffic, there she appeared with her ‘Binaca’ smile (thank God, she looked to be in one piece). Well, in the excitement of impressing the inspector mama she had gone further from the Nehru Maidan circle, driven all the way to the Pumpwell circle. Well, I understood her excitement, but not our man. He sat fuming. My sister had finally inherited my family tradition of the new point guard in ‘two-wheel adventury.’
Author: Newton Dsouza- USA
