Modes of Transport.
One of the things about ageing are memories, good and bad. The good can be enjoyable and the bad can be relegated to learning experiences. My parents had a rich mixture of home towns. My dad from up North near Liverpool and my Mum from down South near Colchester. When I started going to school I was quite a unique mix of accents and pronunciations. I was constantly being asked where I come from by peers. Unknown to me, at the time I had a natural ability to pick up accents and even now I find myself copying a new acquaintance's dialect. It can be a little embarrassing as it could be thought I was sending them up but the accent copying trait is something that I have had since childhood.
My dad, although suffering ill health, had an inventive mind and home built a dog cart. He made it out of various parts taken from discarded items, like an old pram for wheels, and some wooden planks screwed together. It had handrails, two metal poles and a harness to fit the dog. It was interesting to notice people's reactions when they saw me as a very little boy sitting on the wooden base and holding the reins to guide the dog. It was all very Husky sled and we both loved the trips, even though often not in the snow!
A thought provoking memory is my history of transport. It was a real array of wheels and spins, starting with a tricycle and then a pedal car. Subsequently, a two wheeled black bicycle came into my mode of transport progression. I loved all of my early wheelbound ventures, but I once had a close encounter with a car coming up a hill. It passed a parked vehicle and I was going down the hill at some speed, it seemed there was enough room to pass the car but I went to the extreme right and that of course meant I was on the wrong side of the road. I avoided the car but scraped the curb with my mudguard making a terrible noise. I thought the matter was finished until later my parents confronted me about how reckless I had been. Caution became my middle name after that incident.
At school I had my pride and joy of an orange, second hand bike with three gears. I foolishly challenged a classmate to a race, which on thinking back wasn't one of my best ideas. We picked a stretch of road but forgot about other road users. My classmate had a ten gear, brand new bike. We set off but a motor car had overtaken us and then slowed us down, which was a bit of a gift for me until the car turned and left the road clear. I was stuck in second gear, as to change gear, one had to stop pedalling. On losing by some distance, out of breath, I explained my technical problem to my classmate. He was quite happy to go again but I thought better of it.
On thinking back, my approach to two wheeled transport was rather cavalier, as at that time nobody thought of wearing a crash helmet and my highway knowledge was not the most proficient. I did improve and with a lot of memories about learning, passion and maturity thrown into it.
My dad, although suffering ill health, had an inventive mind and home built a dog cart. He made it out of various parts taken from discarded items, like an old pram for wheels, and some wooden planks screwed together. It had handrails, two metal poles and a harness to fit the dog. It was interesting to notice people's reactions when they saw me as a very little boy sitting on the wooden base and holding the reins to guide the dog. It was all very Husky sled and we both loved the trips, even though often not in the snow!
A thought provoking memory is my history of transport. It was a real array of wheels and spins, starting with a tricycle and then a pedal car. Subsequently, a two wheeled black bicycle came into my mode of transport progression. I loved all of my early wheelbound ventures, but I once had a close encounter with a car coming up a hill. It passed a parked vehicle and I was going down the hill at some speed, it seemed there was enough room to pass the car but I went to the extreme right and that of course meant I was on the wrong side of the road. I avoided the car but scraped the curb with my mudguard making a terrible noise. I thought the matter was finished until later my parents confronted me about how reckless I had been. Caution became my middle name after that incident.
At school I had my pride and joy of an orange, second hand bike with three gears. I foolishly challenged a classmate to a race, which on thinking back wasn't one of my best ideas. We picked a stretch of road but forgot about other road users. My classmate had a ten gear, brand new bike. We set off but a motor car had overtaken us and then slowed us down, which was a bit of a gift for me until the car turned and left the road clear. I was stuck in second gear, as to change gear, one had to stop pedalling. On losing by some distance, out of breath, I explained my technical problem to my classmate. He was quite happy to go again but I thought better of it.
On thinking back, my approach to two wheeled transport was rather cavalier, as at that time nobody thought of wearing a crash helmet and my highway knowledge was not the most proficient. I did improve and with a lot of memories about learning, passion and maturity thrown into it.
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