I can remember my first bike, aged five, a bright blue BMX, with the number ‘1’ painted on the front. This was the bike that got me off stabilisers and onto the open road, or at least, the street where I lived, aptly named ‘Freeland’ Avenue. This BMX became my ticket to freedom, to adventures with my girlfriends to the local shop for gobstoppers or to the open field, or ‘veld’ as we South Africans call it, where we would plonk our bikes beside the stream, wheels still spinning, to catch crabs with pieces of string and homemade bait. Bikes and Freeland Avenue were synonymous with happiness. We would race, we would freewheel, no hands, then sweat up the inclines with our cheeks full of sweets. Sometimes we’d fall and…
