The first new bicycle I received, or perhaps the one that excited me the most, was a red Raleigh Chopper (my brother got a blue one). In retrospect, it was a completely inappropriate bike for farm roads, because it didn’t take much more than a small rock to upset the tiny front wheel, sending us crashing into the dust. At the time, the raised handlebars, seat with backrest, and gear shift on the frame had us imagining we were riding Harleys.
As long as we didn’t ride on the tar road, we were free to roam, and seeing as our driveway was one kilometre long, we had no shortage of space. So, the bikes weren’t just connecting us to a fantasy, they also represented freedom.
As an adult, my mountain bikes have done something similar to the Harley fantasy, transporting my imagination to a version of myself who is an endurance athlete, as well as providing all the rewards that come with exploring wilderness areas, sometimes at adrenaline-inducing speed. The first splash of excitement is taking delivery of a gleaming new machine, which remains as exciting as it was when I was a little boy.
One of the features of mountain biking is a regular visit to the bike store for a service, which generally involves banter with the owner or his employees. The staff are usually either retired pros or youngsters on the verge of being pro; when it comes to bikes, these are the cool kids. We talk about riding the same trails they do, and in these interactions we’re all part of the same tribe, even though they get around a course in half the time. These interactions make us feel younger, not older.
For my 60th birthday, my family wanted to gift me a bicycle, which would save me ferrying one between Cape Town and the farm every week. I got busy with research, first having to politely decline the offer of an ebike (I may be turning 60, but I can still get up and over mountains under my own steam).
For the type of riding I do around Ashton, a hardtail (MTB without rear suspension) is just fine, and this is what was bought. If I’d had a bike like this 50-odd years ago I’d have fallen a lot less than on the Chopper!
My usual trails around Table Mountain are not ideal for a hardtail, because the terrain is loose and rocky. Descents are very bumpy without suspension and climbs are harder because the suspension helps the back wheel to keep traction. I took the new hardtail for a test ride around these trails and ended up quite impressed with my older self for successfully riding a bike intended for youngsters. It was a great launchpad from which to head into my 60th birthday, or that’s the way it felt.
Especially in farming communities, it is polite for Afrikaans-speaking people to address their elders as “oom” (uncle) and “tannie” (aunt). I was still in my 20s when I was called oom for the first time, but over the years I’ve settled into it. I can’t say the same for my mother, who gets angry every time she is called tannie. I’ve tried to explain to her that it’s like being called Oscar-san in Japan, which I’ve always thought is charming.
Still flushed with the excitement of riding a young man’s bike, I popped into the Robertson bike shop for the tyre sealant to be topped up. I clearly went in with the same mindset as when I walk into a shop in Cape Town, ready for some bike and trail banter with fellow tribe members. I was greeted with the same charm and assurance that my bike would be taken care of. However, the difference came when the shop owner spoke, “Dankie oom. Ek sal oom se fiets môre gereed hê.” Thank you, uncle. I’ll have uncle’s bike ready tomorrow*.
Just when I thought I was feeling okay about turning 60, being called oom in this setting was as shaming as being called “boomer” or “old man”. I may as well have gone in with an ebike.
*This includes another cultural peculiarity, in the form of indirect third-person address (derdepersoonsvorm).