Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
I press GO too hard, I press STOP too hard, I turn too hard and I laugh too hard. Even though I have broken a bone in every area of my clumsy body, one day they let me have a turn of riding the postie bike.
The biggest of my brothers decided to teach me how to fang the postie around the footy oval near our house. It was my first time. He was dinking on the back, patiently requesting I calm the fuck down. I was not very good at it. He held so much hope. Too Fast. Stop. Too Fast. Stop. Too Fast.
He jumped ship as the postie approached catastrophe – better one maimed child than two. I was forced to rely on my poor instinct to remain upright. I pressed GO. Really hard. I should have pressed STOP. Really hard.
I plunged forward blindly and careered over a 6 metre deep embankment into an open water drain. Fwoof! Gone. I went down as fast as lightening. Shaking bushes, slipping on grass, face forward towards an inevitable walloping.
I determinedly stayed on and rapidly approached the zenith of my humiliation.
The Biggest Brother flailed toward my assistance. The stress of potential damage to his bike and the incredulous belief that I still grasped the handlebars caused him an internal explosion. He collapsed into the muddy channel. He couldn’t breathe.
The postie paused briefly before I gave it the berries again. Really kicked it hard in the guts.
It became my moment of unexpected glory. I shot up the other side of the ditch, but unlike my descent, I’m riding like a boss, no outward appearance of any calamity. Mounted with dignity, I pop a few monos, hurtle through more bushes and even more mud before being expelled gracefully on the high side with both wheels off the ground.
I land and hinge my head to notice The Biggest Brother’s hilarious distress and feel the swarming glee of accomplished success. I twinkle at my sudden cleverness and shrug my shoulders nonchalantly.
“What? ”