The taxi driver

In the taxi on my way to the airport:

"Off touring, are you?"

"Kinda. I'm heading to Adelaide to watch the Tour Downunder."

The taxi driver was a lean looking elderly typical Australian, his almost white hair slightly dishevelled, his grey beard neatly trimmed and he was looking at me with inquisitive and friendly grey eyes.

"It has been very humid lately, hasn't it? You'll be hot, riding around Adelaide" he said, while turning the air con a few notches cooler. He must have noticed the sweat perls on the bridge of my nose. I felt grateful for the cool air, blowing into my hot face. The last few dashes through the sticky humid house to make sure all windows were closed and that everything was switched off and that the cat food was outside, had left me all hot and sweaty. I was running late, the usual.

The taxi driver was taking a slightly different route to the one I usually take to the airport and I felt irritated. It wasn't a big detour, just not the shortest way. I was glancing at him from the side as he was concentrating on the early morning traffic. He seemed a down to earth type of guy.

'Crap!'

I forgot to send this important email to payroll yesterday. Someone wasn't going to get paid without that email. Emergency phone call to the office.

'Phew! Fixed! Is there anything else I forgot? What time was it?'

The traffic wasn't too bad for the time of the morning. The air con felt good. All the sweat had gone from my face. I started to relax.

"So what have you got? Mountain bike or one of those fancy road bikes?"

"Roadbike. I've got a roadbike."

"Are you going to race down there?"

"It's a professional race. They wouldn't let me" I replied, aware that it sounded strange. He didn't seem to notice or was polite. "Ah, is that the race they move around the states every year? It was in Canberra last year?"


"The Tour Downunder has always been in South Australia as far as I'm aware."


"It's surprising that cycling is not a more popular sport" he replied. "People don't watch it on a Saturday afternoon like football. I mean, it is a very exciting sport, with a lot of action, not like lawn bowls."


"I heard on SBS that they had 150,000 spectators in Adelaide yesterday."


"Really?" he was genuinely surprised. "I'm not an SBS fan... but that's only one big event so it would attract people. I'm more talking about the local footy on a Saturday that people go to watch and follow. I bet there is no one watching races at Chandler."


I glance over to him, surprised. He knows the velodrome?


"Do you ride a bike?" I asked curiously.


"I used to, as a young guy, in the 50ies, on the track. I spent a lot of time in a bike shop, too, actually nearby from where I picked you up."


"Velo?"


"The shop doesn't exist anymore. It was on corner Gympie and Rode Road."


"So you know a thing or two about bikes?"


With a smile he told me that back then the fancy race wheels were made from cane. He explained, obviously enjoying the memory, that they broke easily with a big bang when the spoke tension was too high.


"Today they are made from carbon" I say, in need of anything better to reply.


"Right, the Mickey Mouse stuff"

I laugh.


We were passing Nundah on the airport arterial and I could get brief glances of the criterium circuit from the road. Pointing out the window, I mentioned that there had been a good local race the night before.


"See, that's exactly what I mean. You never hear about these races. They don't advertise or write about it in the local paper. I'd love to come down and watch it. Someone should make the the press aware and get them to write about it."


A few minutes later and we arrived at the airport. When I wished him a good day I was hoping that I would meet him again one day, down on the track, watching a race.

I'm sure he's got many more good bike stories to tell ...