Kidnapped -later that day
Mr Big insists he will escort me to his home to try out his wife’s bike. He starts cycling on the pavement. “NO” I manage to spit out prudishly “you can’t possibly!” He looks radiant and beams back “Do you think people will talk?” I look aghast at him, and wonder whether he is always like this or whether he has taken something particularly fortifying for breakfast. “No”, I explain you are too big or do I mean too old to be cycling on the pavement.” He dismounts languorously and we quick step back to chez lui. Chez lui is only a few doors away from chez moi. This is a bit troubling because Mr Big seems to spend a lot of time in the street walking between chez lui, son bureau round the corner and somewhere he has to get to by passing chez moi. He tells me that his work currently has something to do with the Lord, which is odd as he doesn’t strike me as a religious man.
He brings out the most enormous bike. I wonder whether he has traded in his wife for someone much taller since I last saw them together. “Where are we going to do this” I ask. He raises his eyebrows. “I mean practise cycling”. What could he have thought I meant? “Here on the pavement” he says. “Oh no, I hate grown-ups who cycle on pavements” I protest. “Well it’s that or the road” he says firmly. What are a girl’s principles worth? How hypocritical can one be? I look down the pavement. There is no-one about. Does it really matter if you cycle on a pavement when there are no pedestrians? I swallow and wonder why I hadn’t just said “NO I can’t” ten minutes earlier.
“Hop on” he says encouragingly. I lift my leg and try to get it over the handlebars. This requires me to perform a sort of high-kick splits as practised by Olympic gymnasts and can-can girls. He steadies me as I am about to fall and says soothingly “No, try lifting your leg over the back, you know”. I really know nothing and wonder whether we are at cross purposes. Somehow I manage to swing over the saddle only to find that the bar across the middle, which probably has some fascinating technical name, is higher than my inside leg and my feet only just touch the ground if I am on my points like a ballerina. “Off you go” Mr Big commands. I can’t work out how to start as my feet don’t touch the ground enough to push off. I wobble hopelessly “Peddle, peddle!” I hear, as I am about to write off the shiny new bike. “Look ahead” he cries. So much easier, I reflect, sometimes to tell other people how to do things, run their lives, give advice than to put it in action yourself – particularly when you are precariously on a knife edge about to fall off a bike. Still under Mr Big’s spell I peddle harder. Suddenly it clicks and I’m balanced. I’m off. You never forget. (see an article about this: Cycling Provides a Break for Some With Parkinson’s - http://nyti.ms/cxq374)
I ask Mr Big what the gears are for. He explains that his wife is a top model, I smile and he re-phrases himself and tells me that his wife’s bike is top of the range and has 24 gears. The reference to a number reminds me again that I have somehow to collect 10 grand. £10,000 divided by 24 is too complicated. But £10,000 divided by 25 is 400. Do I know 400 non-paired-up people, let alone 400 who might sponsor me?
There are gears for each hand and I start clicking them over the different numbers which are displayed. “No” he shouts. I have noticed already that Mr Big is good at saying NO. I wonder whether being able to say NO will rub off on me, if I spend more time with him. Suddenly the chains around the centre bit start to unravel and hang very loosely. Mr Big’s jaw drops in tandem. “You are only meant to change gears when you are moving" he explains. For the first time I miss the sound of confidence and enthusiasm in his voice. I think I may have done something wrong.
“Well”, he says, “as it’s clear you can cycle 100 metres there is absolutely no reason why you can’t join the 100 cyclists. Let’s go and buy your bike now”. I demur. Long-suffering husband has prayed for his lunch all morning, and is waiting at home for me. “We won’t be long” Mr Big assures me. Just as he says this his son drives up to the door. Mr Big’s son has type 1 juvenile diabetes and is The Reason for the choice of one of the charities to be sponsored. The Reason smiles at me politely. Mr Big tells him that we, meaning all three of us, need to purchase my bike at this very instant. The Reason who has just had his hair shorn wants to shower to get rid of the tickly bits sticking to his face before embarking on a half-marathon to be followed by golf with Mr Big starting at 3.30pm. It is now 1.00pm. I wonder whether he is kidding me about his plans for the next two and a bit hours. Mr Big tells The Reason that he can manage everything if he runs his 13 miles a bit faster and we leave immediately.
The Reason is an unusually obliging 18 year old. I watch him carefully to check for grimaces at being ordered to come with us, but spot none, even though I look at him eagle eyed sitting in the back seat, with the help of the vanity mirror. He asks whether I will also be buying my lycras with the bike. I suddenly wonder if this is what Mr Big expects and the reason for The Reason joining us with such alacrity. Maybe Mr Big didn’t realise that when he saw me on the street corner I really was giving out leaflets and not plying my profession – from which I retired some years ago. I pull myself together and acknowledge with some regret that neither of my companions, or anyone else, is so sad as to want to see me in lycra now, or ever.
On our way Mr Big tells me that the top model, his wife’s bike, cost £300. The Reason thinks it was more like £800. Mr Big reminds him about the discount he had so cleverly negotiated. “Still think it was over £600” says The Reason. I wonder whether I detect some attitude, but put all thoughts to one side as I start to think about what I have got myself into. I have agreed to collect £10,000, to cycle – which I have never really done before, having had a deprived childhood brought up in a flat in urban K+C without a garden or country house with an over-solicitous mother who instilled a lasting fear that I might tumble over the handle bars while cycling and break all my front teeth – and on top of this shelling out 800 smackers for a bike. Perhaps I will wake up soon and find this is all a bad dream.
We arrive at Evans (Bicycles, not Outsize) the only shop on the Hill into which I have never set foot. It is fuller than Harrods on the first day of the sale. I wonder where all these people in fleeces can be from. I doubt that they are inhabitants of either the Wood or the Hill. Luckily there isn’t a bike big enough for me, but Paul at the shop promises to let me know when there is. Mr Big looks despondent. He assures me he will come back with me when the right bike is in.
En route home he mentions that I will have to give him a cheque for several hundred pounds to cover the cost of the ferry, hotel, trains etc. I will also have to join a gym so that I can start training. I pinch myself: £10,000 sponsorship, a bike, the cost of the ferry etc, gym membership. I am still sure that I said NO somewhere along the line. I try to raise this again but Mr Big covers his ears and goes “la-la-la”. I think one of us may be mad but I’m not sure which one, him or me.
Mr Big insists he will escort me to his home to try out his wife’s bike. He starts cycling on the pavement. “NO” I manage to spit out prudishly “you can’t possibly!” He looks radiant and beams back “Do you think people will talk?” I look aghast at him, and wonder whether he is always like this or whether he has taken something particularly fortifying for breakfast. “No”, I explain you are too big or do I mean too old to be cycling on the pavement.” He dismounts languorously and we quick step back to chez lui. Chez lui is only a few doors away from chez moi. This is a bit troubling because Mr Big seems to spend a lot of time in the street walking between chez lui, son bureau round the corner and somewhere he has to get to by passing chez moi. He tells me that his work currently has something to do with the Lord, which is odd as he doesn’t strike me as a religious man.
He brings out the most enormous bike. I wonder whether he has traded in his wife for someone much taller since I last saw them together. “Where are we going to do this” I ask. He raises his eyebrows. “I mean practise cycling”. What could he have thought I meant? “Here on the pavement” he says. “Oh no, I hate grown-ups who cycle on pavements” I protest. “Well it’s that or the road” he says firmly. What are a girl’s principles worth? How hypocritical can one be? I look down the pavement. There is no-one about. Does it really matter if you cycle on a pavement when there are no pedestrians? I swallow and wonder why I hadn’t just said “NO I can’t” ten minutes earlier.
“Hop on” he says encouragingly. I lift my leg and try to get it over the handlebars. This requires me to perform a sort of high-kick splits as practised by Olympic gymnasts and can-can girls. He steadies me as I am about to fall and says soothingly “No, try lifting your leg over the back, you know”. I really know nothing and wonder whether we are at cross purposes. Somehow I manage to swing over the saddle only to find that the bar across the middle, which probably has some fascinating technical name, is higher than my inside leg and my feet only just touch the ground if I am on my points like a ballerina. “Off you go” Mr Big commands. I can’t work out how to start as my feet don’t touch the ground enough to push off. I wobble hopelessly “Peddle, peddle!” I hear, as I am about to write off the shiny new bike. “Look ahead” he cries. So much easier, I reflect, sometimes to tell other people how to do things, run their lives, give advice than to put it in action yourself – particularly when you are precariously on a knife edge about to fall off a bike. Still under Mr Big’s spell I peddle harder. Suddenly it clicks and I’m balanced. I’m off. You never forget. (see an article about this: Cycling Provides a Break for Some With Parkinson’s - http://nyti.ms/cxq374)
I ask Mr Big what the gears are for. He explains that his wife is a top model, I smile and he re-phrases himself and tells me that his wife’s bike is top of the range and has 24 gears. The reference to a number reminds me again that I have somehow to collect 10 grand. £10,000 divided by 24 is too complicated. But £10,000 divided by 25 is 400. Do I know 400 non-paired-up people, let alone 400 who might sponsor me?
There are gears for each hand and I start clicking them over the different numbers which are displayed. “No” he shouts. I have noticed already that Mr Big is good at saying NO. I wonder whether being able to say NO will rub off on me, if I spend more time with him. Suddenly the chains around the centre bit start to unravel and hang very loosely. Mr Big’s jaw drops in tandem. “You are only meant to change gears when you are moving" he explains. For the first time I miss the sound of confidence and enthusiasm in his voice. I think I may have done something wrong.
“Well”, he says, “as it’s clear you can cycle 100 metres there is absolutely no reason why you can’t join the 100 cyclists. Let’s go and buy your bike now”. I demur. Long-suffering husband has prayed for his lunch all morning, and is waiting at home for me. “We won’t be long” Mr Big assures me. Just as he says this his son drives up to the door. Mr Big’s son has type 1 juvenile diabetes and is The Reason for the choice of one of the charities to be sponsored. The Reason smiles at me politely. Mr Big tells him that we, meaning all three of us, need to purchase my bike at this very instant. The Reason who has just had his hair shorn wants to shower to get rid of the tickly bits sticking to his face before embarking on a half-marathon to be followed by golf with Mr Big starting at 3.30pm. It is now 1.00pm. I wonder whether he is kidding me about his plans for the next two and a bit hours. Mr Big tells The Reason that he can manage everything if he runs his 13 miles a bit faster and we leave immediately.
The Reason is an unusually obliging 18 year old. I watch him carefully to check for grimaces at being ordered to come with us, but spot none, even though I look at him eagle eyed sitting in the back seat, with the help of the vanity mirror. He asks whether I will also be buying my lycras with the bike. I suddenly wonder if this is what Mr Big expects and the reason for The Reason joining us with such alacrity. Maybe Mr Big didn’t realise that when he saw me on the street corner I really was giving out leaflets and not plying my profession – from which I retired some years ago. I pull myself together and acknowledge with some regret that neither of my companions, or anyone else, is so sad as to want to see me in lycra now, or ever.
On our way Mr Big tells me that the top model, his wife’s bike, cost £300. The Reason thinks it was more like £800. Mr Big reminds him about the discount he had so cleverly negotiated. “Still think it was over £600” says The Reason. I wonder whether I detect some attitude, but put all thoughts to one side as I start to think about what I have got myself into. I have agreed to collect £10,000, to cycle – which I have never really done before, having had a deprived childhood brought up in a flat in urban K+C without a garden or country house with an over-solicitous mother who instilled a lasting fear that I might tumble over the handle bars while cycling and break all my front teeth – and on top of this shelling out 800 smackers for a bike. Perhaps I will wake up soon and find this is all a bad dream.
We arrive at Evans (Bicycles, not Outsize) the only shop on the Hill into which I have never set foot. It is fuller than Harrods on the first day of the sale. I wonder where all these people in fleeces can be from. I doubt that they are inhabitants of either the Wood or the Hill. Luckily there isn’t a bike big enough for me, but Paul at the shop promises to let me know when there is. Mr Big looks despondent. He assures me he will come back with me when the right bike is in.
En route home he mentions that I will have to give him a cheque for several hundred pounds to cover the cost of the ferry, hotel, trains etc. I will also have to join a gym so that I can start training. I pinch myself: £10,000 sponsorship, a bike, the cost of the ferry etc, gym membership. I am still sure that I said NO somewhere along the line. I try to raise this again but Mr Big covers his ears and goes “la-la-la”. I think one of us may be mad but I’m not sure which one, him or me.
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