Lycra soup


I love rhythm and melody as much as the next girl.

And I love the classes at Black Dove in West End – apparently they are opening the challenge to any member of Briz Treadley’s doubtful cohort for one free pilates class. They just have to give us a couple more weeks to get in condition.

But this morning, I just couldn’t go.

Last night Betsy and I performed to a warm and welcoming crowd at the community night there and today’s class would have rocked.

But today I needed to do something different – just a quiet spin alone into the botanic gardens and back to garage in south bank, Brisbane’s most sure fire place to spot serious dad lycra.

This is the place for kit commitment – more pearl izumi socks than you can poke a stick at, and a total comfort with using the words “‘mate, you just gotta got hard at Nundah”.

I could eavesdrop til doomsday – but still, I don’t speak road bike.

Lucky I’m fluent in matching…

The day is just starting, the morning is light and not yet so warm that the locals will start complaining.


Here, though you might have to wait and wait through the blah blah corporate kit, the unflattering HTC, the no one looks good in liquigas, eventually someone is going to rock up in panache.

Bond. James Bond.

I stop for subtle. I break for balance. I ring my bell for Giro helmets, notwithstanding my recent import limitations disappointment.



Now. Back to reality.

By Eleanor Jackson

Eleanor Jackson is a Filipino Australian poet, performer, arts producer, cyclist, writer, gal about town, feminist, freewheeler, and friend.

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