Treadly and Me

You know something's up when you receive Spokey Dokes for Christmas, and pink handle-bar streamers for your birthday. They weren't given as a novelty gift or accident, you actually wanted them. Correction—your bike wanted them. Needed them.

Bikes have made a comeback. Just in case you're not up to speed, owning a bike is suddenly cool again—just like Dunlop Volleys, Sunnyboys and Ray-Bans. And judging by the crowded bike racks and helmet-hair around the place, us Melb Uni kids are finally embracing the trend and getting into some healthy two-wheeled transport love.

Surprisingly, 2006 was the first year in which bike sales outnumbered car sales. This means that for every Toorak-mum that upgraded her Land Cruiser, some uni-student scammed a cheap bike in the sales, and a pudgy but optimistic retiree spent their entire life savings on a shiny mountain bike and matching lyrca. Thanks to their newest purchase they will hopefully come to realize that owning a bike can be so much more than just useful, it can be an obsessive love affair. Trust me, I know.

Most of us got our first bikes when we were in primary school. Mine was a bright green thing, complete with wonky training wheels and a toxic hot-pink flowered foam helmet (it was all the rage at the time.) I rode that bike everywhere; to school, the milkbar, the park, and up and down the carpets when the babysitter was over. I would never have guessed it, but that humble bike was the beginning of a life-long love affair with two wheeled transport.

My love affair almost ended when I reached the age where driving was the cool way to get about. Spluttering up and down abandoned car parks, slamming gearboxes and generally fearing for my life, became an obligatory feature of initiation into teenagerhood. Alas, my bike was relegated to the garage in a box next to the Barbie dolls. It was a soul shattering moment, one which resulted in my immediate formation of an unfavorable bias toward any form of transport with a motor other than my own legs. I started glaring at parked automobiles, snarling at trains, and considering any delay or cancellation as further proof that all motorized transport is inherently evil. I couldn't, and still can't get myself used to driving. Every time I walk towards the car with my crash-helmet and ambulance membership, I am reminded of the relative safety of my graceful bike in comparison to the horrors of freeways, hook-turns, and intersections. Thus, I ditched the driving lessons and bought a new bike. Her name is Francis.

Francis isn't JUST a bike, oh no. Francis is my baby. I get pangs of guilt as I tether her curvaceous sunset-hued frame to the battered bike-racks outside the library. Even if we are separated only a few minutes, I fear that it will rain on her, that she will be scratched or stolen. Such a cataclysmic event would irreparably break my heart. Society these days is just not to be trusted with objects of such splendor. In the days of general civility, respect and gallantry, bikes had immunity to being stolen. You could leave it on the neighbours lawn until grass grew through the wheels, outside the milkbar while you spent your pocket money, or in an open garage overnight. Dad's tool-kit might get nicked, but your precious bike would still be there. Guaranteed.

Such is the obsession that I've even started becoming attached to bikes that aren't even mine. As yet, I have not yet seen one prettier than Francis, but I still keep an eye out at uni—perving on the metallic turquoise low-rider near the Medical library, the beat-up purple rustbucket near North court, and the bike barely visible under the 'One less car', 'Magik happens' and 'Lesbians Against Logging' stickers outside Castros.

So there you have it, my confession. I love bikes, and I'm incredibly glad that they're cool once again. Because while no-one has (or will have…) a prettier bike than my Francis, I'm still glad that fellow riders can experience the same adrenalin rush zooming past the crammed trams on Swanston Street after the last lecture of the day. Funny how something so simple (metal and wheels) can make one so happy. Go on, fall in love—get yourself a push-bike.