I spent the last weekend of the summer holiday teaching a dear colleague, one that turned forty this year, how to ride a bicycle. It was awkward, he was embarrassed, I was patient, but it felt odd. I was flattered that they’d asked me to help them, honored even to be given the task of overseeing that particular rite of passage. I’ve cycled to work for over a decade, lucky to live near enough to where I teach to make it possible. But I’ve ridden bikes for as long as I can remember. There are photographs of me getting my first bike aged 8 or so, as a Christmas present. It was royal blue, with double tubing in the frame and a coaster brake (where you need to pedal backwards to stop). To think that someone could get to their middle years and still not have what many would consider a basic skill (like knowing
