No air in the bicycle tyres and no working pump. No petrol in the car and no time to stop at a petrol station. No bungees to tie the bikes on and no direct route to the starting point—Good reader and mother of three, Annie Mckillop shows her kids there’s more than one way to run a marathon
Children survive adult incompetence—and perhaps even benefit from it, reckons this Good reader. We think she’s onto something.
No air in the bicycle tyres, no working pump to pump them up (yes a pump, but broken so it sucked out any air that had somehow been in them initially), no time to stop at a petrol station to put air in, no bungees to tie the bikes to the bike rack, no petrol in the car, no direct route to the starting point, yes a map, but no-one in the car with the ability to read it …
I am grateful for the kindness of strangers, as reported to me by my children: the “very helpful” (nine-year-old Paddy’s words) woman who directed my children to the starting point (“Aren’t you kids in purple and green hats meant to be over there at the starting line, not here drifting around the beach?”), a mother clearly, and a better one than me; the crowd that cheered Paddy on, as he, centre stage as last in the bike race, upgraded to 11 years plus and 8 kilometres by his older sister, impeded by gears that were jammed and resisted even the most energetic pedalling, tyres as flat as pancakes, and a rope, which his dad Brian had earlier considered using instead of bungees, tangled up in his spokes and pedals. Most particularly I am grateful to the man who arrived before Ellen and Paddy at the bike enclosure who, upon being told that it was after 8.30 and “very sorry, but you can’t participate now”, said “stuff you!” and pushed his kids and their bikes through, my children on his heels.
And I would like to express my admiration for the many mothers I spoke to there who were better prepared than our family: I heard about checklists (goggles, sunscreen, drink…), 7am starts, website research, bike checks; I saw deck chairs, picnic hampers, grandparents, Sunday newspapers …
And to those parents who saw me slam on the brakes in the middle of the road and throw my children and their bikes out of the car, shouting “It’s over there—fend for yourselves!” I would like to assure you that children survive adult incompetence, and perhaps even benefit from it.
Ellen and Paddy found me two hours later, frazzled and slightly self pitying. They, in contrast, were glowing with success, having stuck together despite being registered in different races, run and swum and cycled without let up or indeed preparation, and were now ready for a well earned breakfast (no time, or even thought, for breakfast before we left home, needless to say).
Paddy did mention however that he wasn’t keen to do it again if he had to use the same bike.