Cycle of Learning. Anne Fitzpatrick

on my odometer clicked over to 45 km/h, I felt my bicycle trailer begin wobbling from left to right. The wobbles spread through the trailer, into the frame of the bike and then the handlebars. I tried to keep my centre of balance low as I battled to get control back. 48 km/h. Through the drizzle and the wet hair in my eyes, I took note of the sharp turn racing to meet me. 51 km/h. I flicked my eyes to the left to check how many inches I had between me and the embankment. 53 km/h. I willed my bike, still shaking and shuddering from side to side, closer to the edge to leave room for the car I heard approaching from behind.

      Just as I was ducking under a rogue branch encroaching onto my limited part of the road, I had a vivid flash of recollection from a few weeks ago. I could clearly see the bright yellow sticker I’d peeled off the trailer, printed in an important-looking font: WARNING. DO NOT EXCEED 42 KM/H. I glanced down and saw my odometer click over to 56.

      I gritted my teeth and tried to ease on the brakes, but let go as the wheels started skidding.

      In the midst of my panic, one more useless memory resurrected itself: Susannah handing me a good-luck card as she left my send-off party. “See you next year. If you get back,” was her earnest farewell.

      Dying on the first day of my bike ride would be so humiliating.

      “So, she was riding her bike around Australia? How far had she travelled?” the investigating police would ask my parents.

      “About 20 kilometres, Sergeant.”

      “And was she adequately prepared, Mrs Fitzpatrick?”

      “Well, she did do one practice ride last week. I had to pick her up though, after half an hour, when she got a puncture.”

      The officer would add something to his notebook about possible genetic megalomania and incompetence, while the representative from the trailer company would pull my odometer from the wreckage. Through the cracked screen, the number 56 would still be visible. “It’s a bright yellow sticker. We use capitals AND italics. What more can we do?” the rep would mutter.

      We survived though. All three of us – Bike, Trailer and I – made it to the bottom of the hill, shaken but intact. The rest of the day we stayed below the sacrosanct 42 km/h but I continued to have some leadership issues. Before starting my ride today, I had assumed that I would be the one in charge of this small, but – thanks to three metres of marine-quality tape – highly reflective crew. This was not proving to be the case. The entire ride to Murray Bridge was a series of wrestling bouts between the three of us. Generally, it was one on one, but at times, it turned into an all-in brawl with everyone wanting to go in conflicting directions and some of us sliding down embankments or lying down on the side of the road stubbornly refusing to get up.

      Bike and Trailer do have the upper hand on me in that I’m not well informed when it comes to mechanical objects. Bike is a silver Shogun Metro-LX and people say he has good components. I generally respond with a nod and respectful look on my face to hide the fact I don’t know what “components” are. I have managed to attach bar-ends, a bell, rack and side mirror to him along with the reflective tape. The last thing I added was a kickstand. I was warned by bike-expert friends that this is not a hard-core accessory and will add unnecessary weight, but I love a bike that can stand up for itself. After commenting on Bike’s components, people turn to Trailer and ask if he is made of aluminium, which leads me to suspect that he is. He has a single wheel at the rear and a tall yellow flag, which I am hoping will prevent us from getting squashed by a truck.

      Trundling into Murray Bridge at 7 pm tonight, I couldn’t be happier. A damp and wobbly 96 kilometres through the Adelaide hills was a welcome change from wading through administrative preparations for this solo, fundraising bike-ride around Australia. I’ve still got some logistical issues to deal with, namely, a lack of outdoor expertise, a daunting fundraising target, and a deep-set aversion to asking people for anything, but I’ve started. 96 kilometres down. 20,000 to go.

Saturday 5 February

      Meningie to Kingston, South Australia

      150 kilometres – 9 hours 3 minutes

      Having an emu trot past me while gliding along a sunny, empty highway felt like a suitable birthday present today. While I’m feeling rather sore as I get used to the physical demands of my new lifestyle, the freedom of the open roads is wonderful compensation. Cycling provides just the right speed, lack of engine noise and wealth of sensory input to enjoy the landscape in a way that is unique to this mode of transport. Some of the sensory input, such as the smell of roadkill, requires extra commitment to appreciate but, overall, having the space and time to fully take in where I am has been enjoyable.

      I’m not usually one to anthropomorphise, but today’s birthday emu seemed much friendlier than the two lycra-clad Danes who passed me yesterday. When I saw them in the distance behind me, just out of Tailem Bend, I stopped and waited, assuming that when cyclists meet each other on the road they share camaraderie and cycling tales with each other. And maybe there was some camaraderie in the indifferent glance the duo gave me as they sped past. I dejectedly watched the Danish flags on the backs of their shirts fade into the distance. It seems I have a bit to learn about social conventions among long-distance cyclists. Or maybe I just need to learn Danish.

      While my confidence is still a little low in the bike-riding department, the school-visiting side of my project has had a solid start. I met with about 150 students at a high school in Murray Bridge yesterday. After looking at a map to find India and, more specifically, the region of Kodaikanal in Tamil Nadu, I told the stories of some children from that area.

Valli

      When I first went to Kodaikanal in 2001, I met an 11 year-old girl called Valli who was staying in the primary school hostel run by PEAK. Like the other 100 or so children there, she stayed in the hostel during term time so she could go to school. The village that she was from had a school, which she could not attend because Valli is from the Dalit community. Valli’s family, for generations, has done jobs that other people in the village consider unclean, such as cleaning sewage, slaughtering animals or making things from leather. In the urban centres of India, discrimination against Dalits has subsided and is less of an issue, but in many rural areas, it persists. In Valli’s village, Dalits either can’t go to the village school, or if they do, may be ignored or treated badly.

      Staying at the hostel during term time meant that Valli went to school regularly, had help with her homework, ate three healthy meals a day and learnt about social issues as well. A small group of Jesuit Fathers and Brothers oversee the hostel organisation, while local women, referred to as “Akkaa” (older sister), look after the day-to-day needs of the children. When parents bring and pick up their children at the beginning and end of term, they stay for programs discussing hygiene, nutrition, education and agricultural techniques, and hear from local Dalit and Adhivasi activists.

      Being one of the oldest in her hostel, Valli often looked after the younger children and helped prepare meals. She was a clever girl, was doing well at school, and had a cheeky sense of humour.

      When I returned to Kodaikanal in 2004, Valli wasn’t in the hostel anymore. I hoped she had moved on to the hostel in town for girls in high school, but it turned out that she had returned to her village soon after my last visit. She was working with her parents as a coolie (agricultural labourer), picking beans for a nearby landowner. Given she would have been 14 by then, there was a good chance that her parents had already arranged her marriage.

Eswaran

      Another student I met on my first visit was a nine-year-old Adhivasi boy called Eswaran. He was the first person in his village to be studying at Year 5 level. When I returned in 2004, I met Eswaran again, this time at the senior boys hostel, and he greeted me with a handshake and a “Hello, sister”. Eswaran smiled proudly as the hostel warden informed me he was ranked first in his class at the local high school.

      Eswaran, aged 12 years, 2004.

      This