There are loads of occupations that have their busiest times in the summer. Deckchair salesmen. Lifeguards. And north of Hadrian’s Wall it’s a great time for umbrella manufacturers.
But this weekend I realised that there’s another, less obvious, field that must see a sharp upturn in business: the osteopath. Just go down to any local park and you’ll see dozens of parents hobbling around clutching their backs and wincing. They’re all suffering from an excruciating medical complaint brought on by indulgence in an extreme sport: bike training. As soon as summer comes, the stabilisers are off. The result is a posse of preschoolies wobbling up the pavements on their Barbie bikes, swiftly followed by whatever parent lost the toss of the coin, bent double, clutching Evel Knievel’s bike seat and running as fast as their flip-flops will take them.
Husband and I have been dreading the two-wheel challenge for months. Cal, may only be four, but he has the adventure cravings of Buzz Lightyear on Buckfast. He announced last week that he wants to go mountain climbing. Where did we get him from? It’s not as if the rest of the family are hyped-up adrenalin junkies – my idea of a death-defying stunt is waxing my legs without a general anaesthetic.
I know we should be thrilled that we’ve given birth to a child so fearless, but somehow it doesn’t seem like such a good quality when he’s doing triple-back somersaults off the roof of the garage.
Last weekend, though, we realised that if we didn’t take the stabilisers off then Cal would do it himself. And last time he managed to get hold of the toolbox he dismantled the bathroom sink. So, with much plucking up of courage and a rising feeling of impending doom, the stabilisers were abandoned. Fear in our hearts, we trundled down to our local school playground, having already taken every emergency precaution: the Southern General had been alerted to have the casualty team on standby, the first aid kit was within arm’s reach, and Cal was decked out in elbow pads, kneepads, a padded jacket and his Action Man crash helmet. He looked like a disturbing combination of Chris Hoy and the Michelin Man.
Husband and I had already agreed in a democratic and mature fashion who was to be Evel’s assistant. ‘If you don’t do it, I’m cancelling Sky Sports.’ I could have barbequed our dinner on the sparks off his heels.
‘Right, I’m ready,’ Cal announced, Batman trainers flashing with glee. And off they went, three times round the netball court at breakneck speed. Husband was holding the back of the saddle, but I’m not sure whether he was providing added stability or clinging on for dear life.
‘Let me go, Dad, let me go!’ Low junior screamed with excitement.
Dad did as he was told.
Crash, bang, and then the screaming started – all of it coming from the direction of husband who had somehow managed to trip over his own feet and was sprawled out in the goal circle. Cal got up, dusted himself off, repositioned his crash helmet and climbed back on.
Husband wobbled back over to my viewing position on the packed-lunch bench.
‘Your turn,’ he announced, ‘hamstring’s pulled.’ Ah, the old football injury. The one that usually rears its leg in times of shopping trips, wallpapering and anything to do with a lawnmower.
I had two choices: step up to the skid mark or let Cal go it alone. Only the fact that I knew there was nothing more than ten Winnie the Pooh plasters and a bottle of TCP in the first aid kit spurred me into action. Must remember to stock up on leg splints, crutches and a mobile stretcher.
Off I shot like an Exocet missile. Or, at least, what an Exocet missile would look like if it were bent double, terrified and flying in circles. Round we went until that joyous moment when I released him and he streaked away from me.
I watched him go, tears prickling my eyes.
‘Okay, you can straighten up now,’ husband declared, peeved that I’d been the one to achieve success in our son’s latest milestone.
‘Can’t. Back’s gone. That’s why I’m crying.’
Five days later, my osteopath is fifty quid richer, and he’s touting for even more business. ‘You know, you really need to get out and exercise,’ he announced over the noise of my cracking spine. ‘Have you ever thought about cycling… ?’