the endless conversation

“Where to?” A rhetorical question because we both know that we will ride up to Mt Dandenong. The only issue is whether to ride the loop clockwise or anticlockwise.

“The north end?” The Tourist Road is a harder climb than Mountain Highway, but the highway is a more technical and exhilarating descent.

“Sure.”

We wheel our machines past Rock’s big brute of a ute in my driveway, click in, and sidle down my road through Croydon to Kilsyth. Conversation is one-liners as we pull up at traffic lights or I pass him on the downhill.

“What will your daughter do this year after her VCE?” “Forgot to oil my chain, damn it.” “I think I’d like to fuck a black woman.” “I’ve got some nice cantaloupe when we get back.” “What do think about the Roebuck thing?”

We warm up our legs pushing up to Montrose, then the serious climb begins. I find a rhythm quickly and keep it all the way to the top at Olinda. When Rock catches up I propose that we go straight over: clouds now obscure the sun, and I don’t want my back cooling down.

  

We set no records; neither of us is in good shape or good form. We aren’t pedalling often enough. The cantaloupe is good. Rock knocks over the teapot. “I’m losing it,” he says. No other word is needed. When you’re young such a thing is just an accident. After 60 every such event is liable to be seen as another sign of mental and physical deterioration.

The kitchen conversation is about what it is to be human, as it always is. After midday Rock slings his bike into the ute and goes.

 

Brendan, the property manager, rings me. I tell him I’d like to meet. He doesn’t want that. He asks if we want to manage the place yourselves: thinks it’s a good way to go. He doesn’t make anything out of managing our owners’ corporation. He’ll happily hand over the books and bank account.

Rock on.