Friday, 27 April 2012

Dad, me and the bike.

I have some great memories of growing up in the mountains behind Malaga. The amazing views, trees to climb, walking fifteen to twenty kilometres just to see your friends for the weekend, the dry earth, the dust, big hot rocks to lie on, the hot inescapable sun. In this climate it is acceptable to choose a bike as a mode of transport, as long as you wear sunglasses to keep bugs out of your eyes. My amazing Dad taught me how to ride a motorbike. The memory will stay with me forever. We lived a kilometre and a half off the tarmac road, down a dirt track that we'd all watched being dug out by a huge machine years ago. I can't remember where he got it, but he drags this bike out on to the track and taught me how to kick start it, about clutch control, changing gears. Once I had the hang of it, he would actually run along side me riding the bike. I can remember him laughing in some kind of odd protest when I would rev the engine to urging it to go faster. His legs a blur, sweat running down his face. Eventually I convinced him that I could do it on my own so he wouldn't pass out from sprinting under the glaring sun. I had the best time that afternoon. I'll never forget our Honda XLR 125cc. Thanks Dad. xoxo

No comments:

Post a Comment