“Where? What happened?”
“Can’t talk. Can’t breathe.”
“Which hospital? Box Hill?”
“Yeah.”
“Look, I’ll call you later.”
Before Christmas six of Rock’s
friends and relatives ride from Khancoban to Mansfield over four days. It’s
broiling but his brother-in-law wears two layers of clothing. I ask him why. If
he comes off the bike, the damage is lessened, he says. Rock and I report to
him that our strategy is to never come off the bike. We know that’s impossible.
Rock seems better when I speak to
him in the evening. He has a broken rib, painful scapula, bruises and
abrasions, looks lop-sided in the mirror, but talks normally. He was riding
Lysterfield with friends. The boys with him are taking a jump and urge him to
have a shot at it. He thinks better of it, changes his mind at the last second,
and crashes. The front wheel digs in and over the bars he goes.
“Sixty-one and a half years and
93 kilos,” he says. “You’re going to hurt.”
When you’re young you bounce;
at our age you hit the deck like a sack of shit. I feel for my friend but there’s
nothing I can do. I think about my mountain bike, hanging on a rack in the bike
room. I should get rid of it, I think. I hardly ever ride it. My last serious
get-off is on that bike on the bushland trail around Bendigo. I land on a stump
and damage ribs.
At 8:13 this morning I text
Nicky and postpone today’s ride. A thick wetting drizzle settles over Croydon.
The Dandenongs are lost in cloud and mist. The Bureau predicts it’ll be clear
in the late afternoon. At six I throw a leg over the Cervélo. It rains gently as
I pedal through Kilsyth and Montrose. I can see the squalls brushing over the
face of the hills.
Up the Tourist Road I chug. At
Kalorama I attach a rear light. It blinks brightly in the murk. The rain starts
again and I curse the Bureau. Water drips off my helmet; my glasses fog up. At Olinda
I wrestle myself into my windproof jacket and turn back down the Tourist Road. I
reach home on slushy roads, wet through but upright.
Rock on.
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