Bicycle

S曹雪貞, K符冠华and I 凌云英attended Kuala Belait Chung Hua Primary School and graduated in June 1952 (Graduating Class Batch #7). Our story has to do with bicycles: owning one, being ferried to school on one, and learning to ride one.

As far as we know, K was the first lucky girl among our friends and classmates to own what is called today a “junior boy’s bicycle”, as opposed to one that is built bigger and heavier and thus more suitable for an adult. In those days, bicycles like the one K had were rare. It was a brand new item which she proudly rode around town showing off her skills and her beloved toy. Unlike most of us, she did not have to do house work such as washing the dishes after lunch or sweeping the floor. Since she lived quite close to S and they were best friends, she would ride over to S’s house and waited patiently for her to finish her chores before ferrying her back to school for the afternoon classes. How we envied them both! One owned a “limousine” while the other got transported to school sitting regally on the vehicle looking like Her Majesty the Queen! Among the girls in our class, K and S were the youngest as well as the skinniest. To reach the school, one had to cross a narrow wood bridge that spanned a ditch. Thus, it was indeed amazing that K, with S seated at the back, was able to pedal successfully over the bridge without swerving and falling into the ditch!

On several occasions, K had very generously given me rides on her bike in the school grounds. She had also tried to teach me to ride my father’s big old bike. I became so interested that one afternoon, while father was having a nap, without permission, I took his bike out for a spin on a muddy lane close to the school. Head down and totally engrossed in what I was doing, I did not see anyone but suddenly heard someone cough and said “Aha! Got You!” Looking up, I saw a man standing in the middle of the lane blocking my way. In an effort to avoid hitting him, I jumped down from the bike but still ended up hitting him right between his legs. The bike and I landed with a thud into the nearby ditch.

My “victim” was a young policeman smartly attired in a khaki uniform (shirt, shorts and long stockings). To this day, I can still see in my mind a clear picture of his reaction to the unfortunate incident. Face beet-red, he ranted non-stop like a maniac while at the same time trying to wipe off the dirt on his shorts with a white handkerchief. When he finally paused for breath, instead of extending a hand to pull me out of the ditch, he pointed a finger at his nose and demanded to know if I knew who he was and what trouble I got myself into. Angrily, I shot back : “Who cares who you are or what you do! You have no business standing in the middle of the road blocking my way!”

To make a long story short, half an hour later, all cleaned up, he was at our home to give my father an earful of what he called my “audacity, rudeness, and no respect for the law”. Father apologized profusely on my behalf, but he also summoned me to come out of my room to say “sorry” to him in person. To pacify him further, father promised that he and mother would give me a good talking-to on manners and decorum.

No, my parents never gave me a tongue lashing, but my father’s stony-faced icy glare was enough to cause me to delay further bike-riding adventures for several years.

March 2014