by kimberley veart
I blame Roman Holiday. Audrey Hepburn, I’m afraid is completely culpable for the romantic notions I entertain about bicycle riding.
I blame Roman Holiday. Audrey Hepburn, I’m afraid is completely culpable for the romantic notions I entertain about bicycle riding.
My idea of riding my bicycle sees me effortlessly gliding along to a peppy yet mellow soundtrack, something bouncy with a xylophone perhaps. The breeze delicately plays with my hair and skirt and I smile happily as the world passes me by. I arrive at my destination looking and feeling like a goddess of health and beauty, which of course in my mind’s eye equates to Gwyneth Paltrow.
Instead it appears that my beloved film has lied to me. The reality is not pleasant. I battle with the sweltering heat, sweat running down my back and defiant earphones that tangle and fall endlessly. The only thing that could be less glamorous than a bicycle helmet is the aftermath. Practicality wins out again, as my dreamy attire is eschewed for sensible footwear and something that won’t get caught in the gears. I arrive at my destination feeling and looking like Charlize Theron in Monster rather than Charlize Theron.
So for now at least, I consider bicycles as merely a form of exercise, or perhaps torture, but definitely not a viable means of transport. However I continue to hope and I am willing to learn, any advice?
Until then, you’ll find me dreaming...
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