My husband scrambles around the boot of the car, trying to put the back seats down in preparation for the bicycles. Meanwhile, I refer to the instruction manual and shout orders from the doorway about which lever to try next. Eventually, they fold down and we begin squeezing the bikes into the boot. Crouched in the back, my husband heaves them in, trying different angles to get the boot to close. “We have got to get a bike rack,” he says through gritted teeth.
The children excitedly climb in, sporting brightly coloured cycling helmets in preparation for their first proper bicycle ride. We wave to Daddy, who has the garden shed to build, and tell him we will be back in an hour. We arrive in Sturminster Newton at the entrance to the newly opened North Dorset Trailway. We heave the bikes out and set off with a backpack full of essential rations, consisting of Jaffa Cakes and a bottle of water.
The sun shines down on us as we cycle along the path past water meadows and over the River Stour. As I watch the children ride ahead of me, I realise that a whole new world has opened up, now they have abandoned the stabilisers. My son “vrooms” ahead, occasionally skidding to a stop, to check on his mother steadily pedalling behind him. As we approach walkers I call, “Keep to the left.” They pedal over to the right and then wobble over to the left, just missing a few passers by and their dogs.
Much to the children’s delight, we then come to a hill. “Brake,” I shriek from behind them as I watch them speed down, dust flying up behind them. “We can’t,” they shout. After a quick stop to embark on some ‘brake’ training and to re-energise with a Jaffa Cake, we are on our way again. The children are determined to cycle to Shillingstone and back. Admittedly, I am nervous given we are amateurs on our first bicycle ride which happens to be six miles long. However, we successfully reach our destination and head back with a little less enthusiasm. Suddenly, I hear a yell and turn to see my daughter take a tumble onto the path. She begins screaming, holding her knee. I dab the graze with a bit of tissue from my pocket and instantly regret not having a first aid kit. I know that a plaster would result in an instant recovery. We try to jolly her along with another Jaffa Cake and encourage her to get back on the bike. However, having now also spotted a graze on her arm, the tears roll full and fast. For the next two miles I am bent double pushing a small bike, as well as my own while my daughter hobbles behind me sobbing uncontrollably. “Call the air ambulance,” she cries. Walkers stroll by, greeting us cheerily and I struggle to smile. An hour later, overheated and exhausted we see the car park ahead of us. “I think I’m alright to cycle now,” says my daughter as she climbs onto her bike and speeds off. I watch in disbelief. “Never again,” I mutter.
