I did not miss too much. I mean, sure, I missed a few things (folks) and a few comforts (running water a couple of times, but not too often), and a few luxuries (being able to walk around at night, being able to go to a bar without being stressed, not having to dress like my mother) but mainly, I missed my bike.
Now it’s not impossible to ride your bike in PNG. It’s just sometimes hard to keep it from getting nicked. There’s a helluva lot of locals doing it (all single speed of course) and I even saw my very first helmet in PNG last week. There’s a very small but dedicated road crew riding in Port Moresby, so it’s certainly not an impossibility. And dammit, those with the cash can certainly head on down to Namatanai and pass the freaking Tree House Resort where I once lived (long bad story). So, like I said, it’s not as if there’s no cycling to be had at all in PNG. It’s just no Copenhagen.
What I really missed, of course, was the selfish pleasure of me riding. Me, out on the bike, not doing anything too special, just going to work, or coming back from work, or meeting friends for a drink, or getting a few kms down before lunchtime as a break from whatever I’m pretending to be doing.
That’s what I missed. And having a little roll with the Sugar Spokes, just some random Thursday for no good reason except for feeling like it might be a good idea. Stopping maybe for a moment in St Kill-Me and watching the water. Not thinking too much at all, but hoping for the future, forgetting about the past.
eleanor j jackson 