“Oops,” I am thinking, “the chain is off!”

Of course, it has happened before – whenever I have changed gear badly (my Aussie bike is a delicate piece of machinery and doesn’t respond well to lackadaisical gear changes). Now normally, when it happens in a park, or when I’m cycling with Bill, I get off and look a bit helpless, and some kind man (possibly my brother but often complete strangers) will step forward and upturn the bike for me. A man, unlike me, doesn’t seem to mind dirtying his hands and he usually knows how to ‘demon tweak’ it with the minimum of effort and oil on hands. Also, a man usually carries a big white hanky or a piece of rag (if he happens to be in the habit of helping hapless lady cyclists).

Sadly, the chain has frozen in a funny position (not quite off but if I push it I know it will proceed to do so) and there is not a man in sight. It is a rather lonely road – Creek Road (off Birkdale Road) – about a mile from the house which I am looking after for Janis and Neil and I am on the way back to Birkdale Road because there was no short-cut through to Quarry Road. I try to move the pedals back and forth – no doing – and I mess around with the gears. Still frozen! I upend the bike and look at it. Unfortunately there is no passing traffic to take pity on me. I have to take some action – I have to take hold of the chain… gingerly. It still won’t budge. I have to grab it with both hands…

I am looking like a coal-miner, the chain is in the right position at last and I’m wondering how I’m going to get back to the house without getting black oil all over my handlebars… when an old-fashioned camper-van comes up behind me and pulls in on the grassy nature-strip ahead. I’m not scared because it’s a friendly looking van. The doors either side open simultaneously and and oldish couple (Grey Nomads) beam benevolently at me.

“Let me take a look at that for you,” says Mick, the seventy-something husband.

“Are you going far?” asks his wife June.

“Just thought I’d suss out the way to Lota but I was thinking I might have to go home first to clean up,” I answer.

“Well your bike’s alright,” says Mick, turning it back the right way (and saving me from getting dirt on my clothes).

I hold up my coal-miner hands and Mick goes into the camper-van and brings out some ‘Wet Wipes”. They are not man enough for the job. June has already gone back inside the van and comes out with a bottle of ‘Acme’ cleaning fluid. I look like a surgeon scrubbing up and June and Mick look on very pleased.

“You’re my ‘Good Samaritans'”, I continue scrubbing, “I don’t know what I would have done without you – yes, I do….”

“The grass,” we all say together laughing.

When I am ready I hold up my hands to June and she points to the tap at the back of the van. She lets the cold water flow and Mick offers me a blue towel he has brought out for my particular use.

“Will you be able to find your way?” asks June taking out her mobile phone to check out a map of the area. “What road do you want?”

“I think I can find my cycle path from Chelsea Road,” I answer.

“That’s quite a way – nearly three kilometres,” she queries.

“That’s nothing,” I pipe up and June nods knowingly.

“Thank you so much for being my life-savers,” I say.

“Perhaps it’s destiny and God will reward us by helping us find the right new house we’ve been searching for,” laughs Mick.

I hope so too. They go on their merry way and I go on mine. I find Chelsea Road and the short cut over the creek. I have the most wonderful cycle ride and reach my destination at the bottom of White’s Road, Lota (in a few weeks time I shall be house and dog sitting at the other end of that same road). I return home just before nightfall, my cheeks are flushed with the exertion of finishing my ride all up-hill; I have cycled at least fourteen kilometres and I am feeling very proud of myself. Two hours before I had considered taking a nap!