Grazing Rights

There is a determination, upon receiving something new, to endeavour to keep that thing in an "as new", pristine and perfect condition.

You will clearly remember that feeling having been given a birthday present in its nice wrappings or presentation packaging. It may be that special thing that you have saved up for in order to afford it.

There will have been scrimpings and sacrifices to enable it to happen.

This could be anything from a brand spanking car to a pair of best shoes, from a piece of state of the art technology to an arrival in the family in the form of a new born baby.

I speak from experience as a three time father to our now grown up offspring.

There is the magic moment of their first breath in the world and cries of vulnerability as they seek a safe pair of hands and reassurance in touch and sound. First time parents are nervy in handling the infant and I was no different being fearful of a fumble, juggle and a spill.

Babies are actually quite resilient and in spite of your best endeavours and taking every care in the world there will, do not feign innocence or shock in this revelation, be that moment when you lose you handhold and grip and drop the little mite for the first ever time. Chances are you are in a safe environment with a limited vertical distance and hopefully onto a soft surface such as a cot, bed or changing mat.

The infant may be asleep and there may be no reaction and no harm may be done but in your deepest conscience you know what has just taken place and the memory of it will stay with you forever.

Whatever you perceived as perfection is no longer the case. Some closure may be achieved by telling that child, when at a reasonable age and level of understanding and temperament, the sorry truth or just blurting it out when it feels to be to your advantage faced with stroppy or disrespectful behaviour.

There would be some dramatic value to mentioning the event at say, a large family gathering or weaving the story into a Dad's speech at a wedding. This is of course an extreme example of the loss of innocence as a parent.

As a young child I clearly remember the gifting or pocket money purchase of a new toy car by Corgi or Matchbox. The anticipation and excitement was on many levels. The handover of hard earned cash was the starting point, a transaction in return for a small and brightly coloured rectangular box, slightly weighted and with its contents just moving about slightly as you left the shop with the item tightly gripped in a small hot hand.

It seemed a shame to prise open the flaps of the ends of the cardboard box. Typically this action resulted in a torn and unuseable carton and it was quickly discarded. I have no time now for those who managed to save the original packaging in their childhood and are reaping the rewards by selling on E Bay. They are the way they are because they denied themselves the true value, play value of the actual toy vehicle.

I at least extracted every possible second of play from the toy from its shiny first appearance to its eventual destruction by impact with a wall, burial in the sandpit in the garden, cremation in a glorious toxic plume of smoke or abandonment in the darkest recesses of the attic.

It was pretty similar when I got my first proper car, a company car. I vowed to keep it clean both inside and out, top up the consumables when indicated, maintain the correct tyre pressure and drive it properly with respect for other road users. Although not as dramtic an end as my toy car collection I did have mixed fortunes with the actual thing and, in no particular order, piled one into a gatepost, experienced an electrical fire in another and on another occasion scraped all down one side in one of those agreed 'knock for knock' encounters after competing for the same space on a narrow country road with another motorist.

I can therefore fully appreciate and sympathise with my son in the matter of his new road bike.

It is a beauty. Aluminium frame, shiny components, sharp saddle and a geometry to zip and whizz through bends and a lightness to give a sensation of floating up hills. As a first time roadie, after nearly 12 months on a mountain bike, he shows a great natural aptitude and ability to what is a new set of techniques and skills on two wheels.

The bike arrived a month ago and we have already covered in excess of 100 miles per week over weekends and where possible a midweek ride which is some going given rather mixed and unpredicatable weather conditions. Before each outing the bike is checked over and afterwards lives a cosseted existence in the sitting room resting against the sofa.

He is understandably proud and diligent towards it.

The accident yesterday was freakish and unanticipated at 40 miles into a perfect ride. The cycle path, an enforced route because of the blackspot status of the stretch of main road, was dry and smooth. In the preceding days heavy rainfall had evidently washed out silt and vegetation from a field entrance across the tarmac surface. Most of the debris had continued on the camber and by gravity into the verge or evaporated but a stubborn greasy film remained in the shade of the adjacent hedge.

I rode through it first, having moved slightly to the left to allow room for an approaching cyclist to pass. My back wheel fidgeted and momentarily lost traction in a wobble effect under me. I was just about to warn my son, closely following, but it was too late.

His new bike slipped out from under him and dumped him on the hard ground. The top layer of his skin on upper arm to elbow and from thigh to shin bone suffered an abrasive effect before he came to rest on the grass verge. He remained motionless as he tried to assess his injuries. His sister had broken bones only a few weeks prior from a cycling accident and this was foremost in his mind.

There was blood and scars but he was soon up and hobbling around showing good movement. To his credit he immediately climbed back on the bike but as he did the rear mechanism sheared off completely and the machine ground to a halt in a screech of wheel rim distorted on its axle.

We walked the next two miles to find a phone box to summon a lift home. The bike had been well and truly christened.

The lad laughed it off. There will be no holding him back now as a full bloodied roadie. Be sure that he will pester me every day to check on the progress of the local bike shop in putting it back together again as he plods around the house already kitted out in his gear ready to go.