We are not a cycling family. When we first moved to the Chilterns, 15 years ago, I rather fancied the idea of whizzing around on two wheels. I hadn’t ridden since I was a student, but my dad had an old bike he was happy for me to have, and I enjoyed a few runs into town on it. The slog back up our hill, however, was less fun, and with nowhere sensible to store it, maintaining the machine’s condition was no easy thing. After a couple of years of its tyres gradually deflating, I realised I was happier on two feet and took the bike to the tip.
My wife hasn’t had a bike since she was a child, and my daughter outgrew hers two or three years ago. That bike was inherited by her younger brother, who learned to ride during the quiet pandemic, then promptly forgot how to do it – undermining one of life’s great assumptions in the process.
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