A Bike Called Betty

I cannot ride a bike. I failed my cycling proficiency test because the lady in charge hit me when I refused to take my hand of the handle bar to signal and since then I haven’t got back on a bicycle. Or a tricycle. Or even a little scooter. In fact I’ve got to the point where I can’t even begin to imagine how it is possible to take my feet of the floor, balance my big bum on a little seat and sail off into the wind…

And now I’m a grown up I just think stabilisers would make me look silly…

But I’m so in love with the idea of riding a bike, though shamefully I have to tell you that this has got nothing at all to do with getting from A to B in an eco friendly fashion and absolutely everything to do with harbouring fantasies of myself swooshing down a hill, pink welly-clad legs in the air and a spotty skirt flying around my hips like a parachute. it is about visualising myself cycling to the flower farm and filling my floral lined basket with roses and arriving at the bakers, leaving my lovely little bike leaning against a canopied window and popping a french stick still warm from the oven into the basket with the flowers and no doubt, a string of onions.   

Don’t worry I find myself as ridiculous as you do. Let’s face it I haven’t worn a skirt since I was six and even if I did own a bike as glorious as the ones the Electra Bike company make, by the time I’d made it to the flower farm in my dreams you’d probably have to call the paramedics to monitor my horrified heart.

Dear me. Must I harbour these ridiculously romantic fantasies? Well yes, I really think I must. Especially seen as the clutch in my car has died and it’s World Car-Free Day today.

Perhaps I could get me a second hand bike, pretty it up (ideas please!) and accost a handsome stranger to teach me how to ride it?

Now there’s a plan and a half. Happy cycling Housekeeper!