The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1519 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“You’re not listenin’, Mummy?” complained Billie.

“I am,” I lied and yawned.

“We have a girl called Cabbage in our class.”

“Is this a joke?” I asked waiting for the punchline–previous experience had shown Billie to be the Domestos of jokes, killing them all dead.

“Is she a vegetable?” called Danny from across the table.

“Is that her real name?” I asked.

“Yes, her name is Jill Cabbage.”

Livvie and Trish convulsed with laughter, one of them knocking over a glass while so afflicted. Fortunately it was empty of the blackcurrant drink it had previously held.

“Well the man who used to produce James Bond films name was Broccoli.”

“Was Broccoli? Did he change it to Parsnip?” said Trish loudly.

“No, he died,” I added quietly. There was relative silence.

“Was he eaten by a sheep?” asked Trish which brought more laughter.

“No, he died as we all must one day.”

“I don’t wanna be eated by a sheeps,” declared Mima and went off to find her dolls. She played with them quite frequently, I suspect because she controlled their world. In the real one, she was the bottom of the hierarchy at least until Catherine was more able to participate and thus be made the new base level.

The others were laughing at her as she walked off oblivious to their derision. I intervened. “Don’t laugh at people who don’t understand as much as you do, you know that Mima takes lots of things literally.”

“But, Mummy, everyone knows that sheep eat grass,” said Trish.

“And broccoli,” added Danny.

“That’s enough,” I said firmly and giggles followed stopping when I administered a stony glare to my assembled children.

It was Friday, the last day of the half term holiday and for which the best forecast of the week had been made. Danny had asked to go and play football and soon after breakfast he went off on his bike to play in a friendly game with some of his schoolmates.

Billie wanted me to take her cycling and as Trish and Livvie had found some new computer game to play, I agreed. Jenny was happy to keep an eye on things and Simon was there as was Stella and Tom–the latter having taken a day off to make it a long weekend.

I changed into my cycling clothes and Billie did the same and we sat together in the kitchen pulling on our cycling shoes. Billie was able to ride with SPDs, a sort of clipless pedal, the same as I used on most of my bikes. Then we set off to the bike shed and after we checked the tyres and brakes, I re-lubed the chains with a synthetic oil supposedly containing Teflon, the non-stick coating on many pots and pans in everyone’s kitchen.

I ran a clean cloth over the chains to wipe off any excess oil and we were ready to go. Once we warmed up, we set off towards Portsdown hill and the ultimate local challenge. Once we started on the hill, I kept up a steady encouragement of Billie who puffed and panted but stayed on the bike for at least half the climb. Even the attempted bribe of an ice cream didn’t push her any farther, she’d gone as far as she could. I stopped alongside her and praised her for her effort–in all fairness she’d done very well for a ten year old.

We crossed the road and stopped in a gateway to let her recover and have a drink. I offered her an energy bar which she took and ate ravenously. I ate mine with less urgency, sipping from my water bottle or bidon as posh cyclists call it.

“It’s Julie’s birthday soon, are you going to give her the operation as a birthday present?” asked Billie causing me to spray water over the gate. She had to wait until I’d finished coughing before I could answer her.

“Not as such no. The deal was that Daddy said he would pay for the operation privately once she was eighteen. She’ll be eighteen next month, so sometime in the new year, I expect we’ll organise it. I’ll ask Dr Smith to contact Mr O’Rourke and see if he’d do it for her.”

“I’ll be the only freak then,” she said sniffing.

“You’re not a freak, darling,” I said wrapping her in a hug.

“Yes I am, everyone else is either a girl or a boy, I’m still a nothing.”

“I’m sorry, darling, but they don’t operate on girls as young as you.”

“They did on Trish.”

“That was an emergency, but don’t get any ideas of following down that route because Daddy or I could end up in prison for allowing you to do so.”

“But it wouldn’t be your fault if I cut my balls off.”

“We nearly had a newspaper invasion when Trish did it. If they had got hold of the story, we’d have been pilloried by the tabloids. If you did it, they’d be baying for my blood–the woman who turns boys into girls, or some such nonsense.”

“But it’s not true.”

“That doesn’t seem to matter these days.”

“But I’d tell them I did it myself.”

“They wouldn’t believe you. They’d suggest I talked you into saying that.”

“That’s not true.”

“Look, I’ll make the same promise to you as I did to Julie, if you don’t change your mind, then we’ll pay for you to have the operation when you’re eighteen.”

“But that’s eight years away?” she cried, tears spilling down her face.

“That’s the best I can do, unless they allow it younger.”

“They do in Germany and Holland.”

“How d’you know that?”

“I saw it on the internet, a girl singer got it done in Germany when she was sixteen, and a British girl got it done at seventeen.”

“Did they now? Well you’ve still got at least six years to go, so we’ll see what the situation is then. I won’t make any promises other than to consider it if it’s legally permitted. If it isn’t, then we wait until you’re eighteen. That’s still younger than I was when I started hormones–which you’re already on–so stop complaining.”

The ride back down the hill was easier than going up, although it can get a bit dangerous if you’re slow on the brakes or if you’re too quick–you tend to tabletop as the pros call it–meaning go over the handlebars, the bike following you as it’s still attached to your shoes. With carbon fibre bikes that may be the last time you ride them, as sudden impacts can shatter the rigid frame. To have twenty pounds of aluminium bike land on top of you, especially your face or groin can be somewhat uncomfortable verging on painful, depending upon terminal velocity. It isn’t to be encouraged.

Although the sun was shining, the roads were wet and I warned Billie to keep her speed down, I had a supply of brake blocks if necessary, so using her brakes to slow herself down was okay. What did she do, but fly past me down the hill, whizz round a bend and disappear from view.

I cranked up the gears and shot after her, actually using the highest gear on the bike, which I don’t do very often–I’m no Mark Cavendish or even Victoria Pendleton. I couldn’t see what speed I was doing but it felt pretty hairy, the bike was catching the wind just a bit and my eyes were watering from the wind so I had to be doing forty miles an hour or more.

I whooshed round the bend and caught sight of her a couple of hundred yards ahead, I felt the wind catch my front wheel a little and worried about how she was coping. I had after all, more bodyweight to keep the bike on the road and twice as much experience as she did, if not more.

Then disaster struck, a car went past her blasting his horn, she lost control and the bike and Billie crossed the road and went through the hedgerow. I saw her somersault over the hedge and into the field as I struggled to stop my own velocipede and go to assist her along with the RAC man who saw it happen and stopped his van to call for help.