Trials

The boy won another eisteddfod, and being sick and tired of the medals and cups, asked his mother if he could buy a motorbike with the winnings. She agreed providing that he would do his best, concentrate and try to place for a final time. It was difficult to sit still for him. restless, aways moving, kicking the chair in front or tapping his foot. It seemed that wherever he was, he was always thinking about the next place, the next destination.

Movement was just so important. He loved the movement of dance, the movement of running, the movement of a car, or his push bike. It was this that made him less stressed, fresh air, the lack of confinement of a room , building or authority.
He pestered his mother for the mini bike he saw, but she did not budge, she said she would investigate other bikes before making a purchase. She was good at this- finding the right thing at a shop. It did not matter if it was clothes, antiques, cars or even motorbikes.



A week later, as the boy disembarked from the 4.27pm train at Ingleburn Station- there it was! Yamaha trials bike. It was nothing like he imagined, in fact he had never heard of "Trials". His mother explained " the man at the bike shop said this would suit someone who likes to compete with himself, someone who is not interested in racing, but doing better on his own." "Its quiet too, so you will not disturb the neighbours".. The boy could scarcely contain himself. Begged his mother to allow him to wheel it into his bedroom. He could not take his eyes off it. The narrow lines, small petrol tank. She was slim, petite but purposeful.



That next morning he took the Yamaha out into the back yard and as with most things began to teach himself how to ride. He followed the instructions- checking the oil reservoir under the seat to be sure it was full, fill the tank with fuel, turned the fuel cock to "on". Flicked the starter switch to on, pulled in the clutch lever, swung the kick starter out, and gave the bike three generous kicks. On the third it fired up and settled into a steady 2 stroke idle. The smell of the fumes was intoxicating as he clicked the gearbox down into first. It clunked with a reassuring thud. He slowly released the clutch. Stalled.
Again he repeated the process until he was away, unsteady with every bump further opening the throttle. He then realised he had no idea how to stop- there was just too many things to consider, so the boy just let go and the bike fell over. Again he tried and again he dropped it.
It was a wonderful feeling- totally absorbed in the moment, unaware of anything else.

That afternoon the boy was riding, unsteady but riding. It was a feeling of freedom that would never leave him.