But I did have a trike - one of those little three-wheeled affairs with pedals fixed to the front wheel, solid rubber tyres and no brakes. It was very basic, with a low centre of gravity that was supposed to prevent you falling off. Well, I managed it, an impressive somersault over the front handlebars that split my chin open. On that occasion, I rewarded with stitches, was and couldn’t wait to get the sticking plaster off so I could show off my injury.


I never had my own two-wheeler

My parents must have had foresight. I used to borrow my mother’s bike sometimes, an old-fashioned black thing with no gears, but it did have brakes, and a basket on the front. My bestie and I used to cycle along the canal with a transistor radio in the basket on a Sunday, listening to Radio Luxemburg until the signal started to fade and broke up. We didn’t have safety gear in those days - no helmets, no elbow pads or knee pads, no gloves, no body armour - no lights either, and you were lucky if there was a rear mudguard with a reflector on it. If you fell off, you dusted yourself off as everyone jeered, and got back on. Scabby knees were common. (Oh, the delights of picking one off and waiting for a smaller one to grow, and picking that off as well, until it finally healed up!)

I came off that bike too – taking a side turn, an old fella on a motorbike didn’t see me and struck the front wheel. I was more frightened that I had wrecked my mother’s bike than I was about my own injuries - which were minor – and I bawled so much, nobody could get any sense from me, so was carted off in an ambulance. Oh, the shame, as the lad who witnessed it all – even the crying - was a boy at my school who was a trainee with the St John’s Ambulance Brigade. I could never look him in the eye again. It was just bruises and a cut finger that time.

Adding in a little engine

Moving on, as an adult I ended up in Bermuda for a while. The Husband and I both had mopeds that were probably only just faster than running, but nothing beat moving along in the sunshine with the breeze dusting the sand off your feet. But nothing was worse than shivering in the pouring rain while struggling to fix in a dry spark plug at the roadside looking like a contestant in a wet T-shirt competition. Mine was an old second-hand Honda 50, that had pedals you could use to add a bit of power to get up hills with. Basket on the front again, which was handy for shopping, and tying your helmet too when needed.

Well, I came off that twice. First skidding on a wet road, ending up with a wet backside as a taxi driver shouted abuse about blocking the road. Second time I managed to steer into a merciless rock wall. Don’t know how I did it - the wall was about 10 metres high and you couldn’t miss it. Came off lightly with that too, just skinned knuckles and a few bruises.

Bigger Bikes

Bigger bikes came along, but now I was – probably wisely - just the passenger. This time, it was full protection, helmet, gloves, leathers, body armour, steel-toed boots - I wasn’t taking any chances at speeds that watered the eyes.

The moral of this story? I suppose more care should be taken with safety and equipment right from the start, so youngsters get used to it from day one. Here’s my pet hate, electric scooters. The laws should definitely be tightened up. The youngsters using them don’t seem to have a clue about the way to use the roads, they dangerously ride ‘two up’, or carry laundry or school bags on those tiny handlebars, often at speeds faster than their legal limit, with earplugs in or even using the phone.

Where are the police when you need them?