take nothing for granted

I am in Melbourne. I have three tasks. Task one is to see my doctor in Emerald and determine if my scaphoid needs repair. Task two is to organise six days of training I will present in Melbourne, Bendigo and Sydney. Task three, no task at all really, is to pick up my good woman and her two children from the airport after their trip to Serbia.

I leave my good woman’s empty house at 8:30 for Upwey where I take the front wheel out of the car, hastily put it back, and drive gingerly around Upwey village looking for a toilet. Luck and timing are on my side.

Having unloaded myself, I unload the Cervélo and set off for Emerald. I find a lovely steady rhythm from the Puffing Billy bridge below Belgrave—the one in all the photos—all the way up through Selby to Hermans Saddle.

Pedalling through Menzies Creek, where I lived, twice, I realise not for the first time, how beautiful it is. Yet I took it for granted: this place, where I brought up my children, where I finally bought a bike, aged 44, and began cycling.

Later, living in Croydon, I rode the Mountain Highway, the “one-in-twenty”, from The Basin up to Sassafras. One in twenty is the gradient: it rises one metre vertically for every 20 metres horizontally: five per cent. Little of it is five per cent. Most of it is three, some is four, and a tiny amount is five. Go figure.

But it's seven kilometres of cycling paradise and surely one of the great cycling roads anywhere in the world: smooth pavement, a steady seven kilometre testing ascent, a fast sinuous descent, a towering avenue of straight-trunked trees all the way.

I rode it so often I took it for granted too.

In Emerald I lean the Cervélo against the toddlers’ playpen in the medical centre’s waiting-room. I’m no longer dripping by the time my doctor summons me. She examines my wrist and thumb and writes a referral for x-rays. She assures me that any treatment needed can wait till after France.

I ride back to Upwey. At 28.5kms the ride is short, but not a metre is flat.

Back in Vermont I tidy house, shop, get petrol, mow lawns, then go to my planning meeting. At six I return to my good woman's home and put the cat out. I drive her large car across the metropolis to the airport. Her flight has landed but she and her children are the last to come through the sliding silver doors.

The love of my life has been in Serbia for five and half weeks. She migrated to Australia in August 1994 with a husband, a toddler, 20kgs of possessions, and no English, in front of her a second bellyful of child and the daunting task of everything.

She, and the daughter she brought with her, became Australian citizens on 19 February 1997. The son was born here. The husband who persuaded her to leave her warring country is gone back to Serbia. Her family still lives in Umka, where she grew up, an outer suburb of Beograd, the city Westerners know as Belgrade.

This is her fifth visit to her native country. Each time it's different, she tells me: “Or perhaps I am changing.” She has changed my life.

I've been sensible enough to live with only two women, and only for a total of seven years. One day I will live with this woman, but there's no hurry. Her children are her priority. If you meet a woman from the other side of the world, you must take time.

And take nothing for granted.