A LOVE LETTER TO CYCLING

Build up breaks us all down eventually, and when sweat sticks to skin like mortar to bricks there’s not much to do but take up cycling. Wandering through the clammy shade of the underground carpark, where my bike is locked despite signs scolding against it, I look over my chariot. Rescued from a private junkyard in Virginia for less than the cost to repair it when I realised everything had rusted shut, it does the job as advertised. Sure, there’s no fancy stuff, no flair. Mounting the curb breaks bones in arms and wrists, and changing gears is a subtle art only I have mastered, but it gets me where I need to go.

Taking off into the sunlight is like diving into the core itself, but when I dig my feet into the pedals I start to feel a whiff of air. This is why I cycle. That mild breeze ruffling hair like delicate fingers, releasing sweat from every strand as the wheels turn. Making my way to the foreshore, that little gust becomes a gale that makes my ride feel more bird than bike. That well-worn path could be a steely raincloud for all I care, skating along on magic and momentum, leaving a slipstream in my wake that even walkers thank me for.

I’ve made my way along those cliffs a thousand times in a life spent trading seconds for sweat, but I still find new things to look at. Seagulls harass novice chip-eaters at the picnic tables. Children wobble dangerously on whatever the newest version of the skateboard is. Lovers hold hands and pretend it isn’t much too hot to do so. Maybe love keeps them cool, but I’ve always found the opposite to be true.

Eventually I approach my destination, the sweeping cliffs of Dripstone, offering views unparalleled of sun, sand and sea. Today is a low-tide day, and the sand stretches out before me bathed in the afternoon light. Snappers capture shots of yet another stunning sunset, but I’m content to just look it over. Like most Darwin dwellers, I’ve seen better.

Perched precariously on my bike on the edge of the abyss, I wonder if in twenty years I’ll still be able to sit here. People are planners and always they mutter and murmur of new things in the middle-distance. One day maybe there might be high-rise dwellers looking out over this coastal plain, waiting for the monsoon to finally roll around. The clouds will build on the horizon, and cyclists down below will wonder if there’s time to go a little bit further before the drenching. They will turn their faces to the sky as the first drops fall, and remember all the steamy afternoons they pumped the pedals hard, making their own breeze, just waiting for build up to break down again.

And then what’s really left to do but turn around and cycle home again.

Oceana Setaysha is an occasional wanderer with a passion for taking photos, drinking coffee and rising early to try and squeeze some words out before her life gets in the way.