I shouldn’t have pestered for the bike. And normally I didn’t nag Mum for new things. I wasn’t a pain like that; I knew we couldn’t afford much. And I was easily pleased as a child – it never failed to amaze me that I could walk out of a library with a bag full of books for free. But something changed when I was seven years old, when I decided I must get my hands on a bike. I knew the chances were slim, that it was unlikely we would have the kind of money needed to buy a bike, but I longed for one in a way I’d never longed for anything before. I talked about it so much that Mum tensed at the mention of the ‘b’ word. She must have told a friend about the situation because one afternoon I was marched to the garage of an older boy’s house and was told to sit on his bike, to see if it was a fit. The bike was too big for me, even with the seat as low as it would go, but not too big that Mum could turn it down at the price it was being offered. The sale was agreed, the garage door slammed shut, and I was told I wouldn’t see it again until the morning of my birthday. I was delighted with the bike. The fact that there were dirty stickers stuck to the frame and the handlebar grips had long since started to wear away didn’t bother me at all. That it was battered and too big didn’t come into it. It was a bike and it was going to be mine. I finally gave Mum’s ears a rest and waited impatiently for my birthday to arrive.
The morning of my birthday I was more excited than I’d been in previous years. I wanted to get out and start riding. Feel the wind in my hair. Ride along with the front wheel up in the air. Skid to a stop on the waste ground behind our house, scattering stones in my wake. Before any of that could happen I was called into the kitchen to eat my breakfast, which I wasn’t even hungry for. ‘The sooner you eat, the quicker you get your bike,’ Mum said. I sped up and worked my way through the toast whilst Mum sat opposite fiddling with her camera. I should have guessed something was up when she followed me into the hall to the bike under the dustsheet with the camera in her hand. I lifted the sheet up and stopped mid-reveal. I was looking down at a new black tyre, shiny silver spokes and a bright red frame. No rust anywhere, no stickers or scratches, not a blemish in sight. I must have stared for a while because Mum became impatient and said, ‘Come on then Donald,’ and pulled the sheet from the rest of the bike herself. She uncovered a bright red, brand-new Raleigh. I was stunned. She took a picture of me, standing there staring, like I was seeing something I couldn’t quite understand, but the next photograph must have been from a few minutes later when I’d come to a bit, and I’m stood holding the handlebars of my new bike, a beaming smile plastered across my face.
I was well aware that most boys and girls my age had been riding bikes for years before I got my hands on one. That was partly the reason I wanted a go. I’d watched them shooting up and down the street, chasing each other around, getting shouted at by neighbours, beeped at by cars. It looked great fun. What I hadn’t considered was that a skill was required; that there was a knack to be mastered. I’d seen kids fly past my window and I wanted some of that. I wanted a go and I thought that once you got yourself sat on a bike, the battle was won. So after the euphoria of pulling the dustsheets off and discovering the new bike underneath came the disappointment when I realised I was completely unable to do anything with it. I wheeled the bike out to the track that ran down the back of our house and sat on it and had no idea what to do next. I lifted one foot off the ground and placed it on a pedal, and then as soon as I lifted the other foot up, the first foot shot back down to the safety of the earth. I must have done this over and over again for about twenty minutes. Riding a bike seemed as impossible as flying to me right then. I went back to the house and asked Mum how it was done, but she shrugged at the question and I understood, her part of the miracle had already been performed.
In the afternoon I hit on the idea of taking the bike round to the front of the house and using the kerb to help me along. I kept my left foot on the ground and pushed the pedal forward with my right foot. I shuffled the bike along and I was moving at least, and movement felt like progress. As my confidence grew I could do a couple of revolutions of the pedal with my right foot, lift my left foot off the ground for a couple of seconds in the knowledge that the kerb was close by to save me. By the end of the first day I could wobble my way forward for a good two pedal revolutions. I was out until the street lights buzzed on and Mum dragged me in. I was shattered at night, but I went to bed knowing that I was further on than I had been that morning. By the end of the second day I was riding in a wobbly line for a good few yards. Turning around had yet to be mastered and I couldn’t see how it could be done, so each time I wanted to head in a different direction I dismounted and turned the bike to face the way I wanted to travel. But it came in time. When I finally managed a circle with no feet touching the ground it was a great moment. I’d taken my bike to the piece of waste ground at the end of the track behind our house and did the turn, which was so gradual it had the circumference of a cricket pitch. As my confidence grew the circles became tighter and faster and I made myself dizzy and had to sit down to let the spinning subside. Two weeks later I could skid and wheelie like any other kid. I spent most of that summer on my bike. I wasn’t allowed to stray too far so it was mainly up and down the road to number sixty-five and down the back track to the waste ground behind the houses. I’m not sure what happened to the bike in the end – it didn’t come with us to Raithswaite but I don’t remember leaving it behind in Clifton either. I do remember that the police had it for a while. Maybe they never gave it back. Maybe it’s still in a room somewhere in Clifton, covered in dust and rust with a faded evidence tag tied around the handlebars.