I've Joined The CWA

 I've joined the CWA.

No, not the venerable organisation reknowned for baking cakes, keeping the nuts and bolts of country life ticking over in thousands of tiny country halls all around the country, and providing seaside holiday houses for land-bound country families.  That CWA is busy reinventing itself with younger Country Women, dropping the cake-baking stereotype, and moving with the times.  Good on them, but that's not the one I've joined.

Welcome to Cycling Without Age.

On such days as I (and Roger) am rostered I pedal myself down to a shed near the parklands and wake a large electric trishaw from its slumber.  Along with my fellow pilot I trundle the trishaw across the busy West Terrace and down to Bonythen Park where a bus from one of Adelaide's residential aged care facilities waits for us.  We load four usually-willing and often slightly nervous geriatrics into the trishaw, tuck them in with warm blankets and beanies, and head off along the river into the city.

"But what if I don't have hair?"  You can still come for a ride.

We go at a sedate pace, dictated by our passengers being exempted from wearing helmets  on account of a) wearing seatbelts and b) us going at a sedate pace.  Our passengers have air horns which they use freely to announce our presence as we approach corners, and to generally have a good time sedate pace notwithstanding.

We generate a lot of attention.  We stop to admire ducklings, dote on dogs of all shapes and sizes, say hello to small children, and discuss CWA with random people who want to know if they can bring their grandad down for a ride (yes, they can.  But please book ahead or grandad will be disappointed).  We wrap up with blankets and beanies in the cold, and sun hats on the (hopefully more frequent) sunny days.  We put up the hood when it rains, and when it rains harder we cancel everything and stay warm and dry at home because everyone has limits when it comes to riding in the rain.

My passengers educate me on the lay of the land when they were young and the Torrens was less of a beautiful parkland and more of a) a wild mosquito-ridden wilderness where seedy acts were committed by seedy people or b) a place for swimming competitions and genteel picnics on the unmown grass. "I like this!" enthused one passenger as we turned into the home straight and she spied her Aged Care Home bus awaiting her.  "Let's hang a left and go to Melbourne!"  Which sounded like a good idea to me but I had to refuse on the basis of limited battery range which would have stranded us somewhere on the Fleurieu without access to a public toilet or a nice cup of tea, and still a long way to go to Melbourne.

No absconding now, everyone has to come home or we'll get in trouble.

 

Now riding sedately along the river is fun and all that, but every so often there's an opportunity to do something a little bit different in the trishaw universe.  Just last weekend the Big Cycle Sunday was held in Adelaide and CWA took the trishaws down to give joyrides and spread the CWA message.  Thus it was that I got to ride a passengerless trishaw along the Torrens all the way to town.  With the requirement for sedate speed lifted I zoomed in electric-assisted rapture at breathtaking (for a trishaw) speeds all the way to town.  Rain poured, wind blew, my fellow trishaw pilot and I got soaked and had a blast, all the while pretending to be responsible and only concerned about getting the the Big Cycle Sunday on time.

Wet.  And windy.

Our patch.

Tall bicycles, followed by small boys with visions of grandeur and strident requests for lifts.

We even took the trishaws on the Kidical Mass ride, where everyone got together on all sorts of bicycles, from the conventional MAMIL machines through to cargo bikes, recumbents, and kiddie strider bikes.  The stalwarts of SAPOL accompanied us on bicycles and motorbikes, and we all rode a long, slow, and somewhat wobbly (I'm looking at you, strider bikes) lap of the city blocks.  A young fellow rode in my trishaw, his father happily pedaling alongside on his cargo bike and trying to convince his teenage son that he (son) would much prefer a brand new cargo bike rather than a car when he came of driving age.  Son did not appear convinced, although he nobly offered to take time off school to come volunteer as a pilot for CWA, so I suppose there was hope for him yet.

The sun was out by the time we got back to the park, and the rain had quite gone away.  I got to ride the trishaw back along the Torrens at irresponsible speeds, stopping here and there for a spot of trishaw-posing before returning it to its stable and pedaling home in a more conventional manner.

I'm glad I joined the CWA.