The Derelict Bicycle

When the shamble leg man was a boy his da bought him a bicycle with high-handlebars and no seat. He had to ride standing, up his feet peddling like mad, his rump raised a hair above the seat-stump. Besides this (a derelict bicycle) he was given very little from his da. He was given short haircuts and razor-burn, a ball cap with a frayed and tattered visor and a bruise on the back of his head that never went away. He learned to ride his bicycle with no hands. He taught himself how to build a ramshackle tree-house out of old carpenter’s boards and straightened nails. He learned how to cut things with a hacksaw and how to keep the blade sharp with a whetstone. He had a memory of a stone being thrown and the taste of his own tears when the dog got loose and bit him on the leg. He remembered being scolded for not running away quick enough and tearing his trouser leg. Whenever he felt sad or little he would feel round for the bruise on the back of his head, the welt still raised just beneath the hair. He remembered the rain-barrel in the backyard and the smell of his da’s aftershave and extra-stout beer, the sound of the clippers near-missing his ear, his da grumbling and telling him to stay still and sit straight. But mostly he remembered the bicycle with no seat and peddling like mad, his ball cap pulled down over the bruise on the back of his head.