The Red Bike
NOTE: Names and certain identifying features have been changed to respect ‘Davids’ privacy.
Not one to waste time with formal greetings, the first thing David said to me that morning was, “Rottnest.”
“Hey David, yep, today’s the big day. Are you excited?” I replied.
“Yeah, I’m gonna ride the red bike.”
The big day in question was set in motion three weeks earlier at the hospital. I’d taken David, the 75-year-old intellectually disabled man I support, to see a specialist when we ran into Joan. Joan is David’s support coordinator, which means she is the one who works behind the scenes to ensure David gets everything he needs. And David, being the mastermind he is, knows this and takes full advantage of it. See, something you need to know about David right off the bat is that when he gets an idea in his head, he doesn’t stop pestering everyone around him until he gets exactly what he wants – it’s actually quite impressive. Last year it was taking him to the Royal Show so he could ride the bumper cars, which we did together – David took great delight in repeatedly ramming my car into the wall with his own. Next it was getting a basket, and a rather loud novelty horn, to put on the front of one of David’s many bikes, which the staff at David’s care-facility sorted out. After that, it was going to the transport museum in Perth’s northern suburbs so that David could inspect all the old bikes on display. On the trip home from the museum David told me, as if it was just a passing thought, that, “You should get a big bike-rack for your car.”
“Why?” I asked, “Your bike fits in the back of my car just fine.”
Looking at me with a glint in his eyes that seemed to suggest he was planning to rob the museum, he responded, “We might need to carry more than one bike one day.”
It’s examples such as these that left me none too surprised when David began making his latest request. Sitting in the hospital waiting room alongside Joan, David seized his opportunity. Uttering nothing more than the word, “Rottnest,” he sent Joan into a whirlwind of research and planning. Before the specialist had even called us in, she’d booked the ferry, organized the travel plans, and arranged for yours truly to do a double shift so that I could accompany David on his trip.
Heading out the door that morning, David’s straight-to-the-point comments continued, “Your cars old bomb, you should get a new one.” He said.
David likes fixing things, even if those things aren’t broken. This has often manifested as David taking it upon himself to critique every inch of my car as if he’s a safety inspector who works at the pits. Since the first day I picked him up, he hasn’t stopped pointing out issues with my car.
“Your tyres bald, your radio’s no good, your windscreens dirty.” Are some of the classics, but the list goes on – believe me.
Normally I divert David’s attention away from scrutinising my car by changing the subject. “What are you going to do when we get to Rottnest, David?”
“I’m gonna ride the red bike.” He replied, as we headed off.
Once my trusty automobile had delivered us to the train station, we were on our way to Perth. The ferry to Rottnest departed from Barrack Street Jetty at 8:45am. And at 8:02 we were still on the first of the two trains we needed to catch. Making sure I was all too aware that we were in a race against time, David tugged on my shirt while repeating, “We’re going to be late.”
Trying to remain calm, I informed him that we’re stuck in a small-metal-tube that’s jam-packed with early morning commuters and that I can’t do anything to make it go faster. What a wonderful opportunity to let go of control, I thought as my insides screamed at the train to – hurry the fuck up! When the doors finally opened, I frantically searched for the spot where we caught the next train. A map told me, ‘you are here’, but it gave no indication as to where I needed to go.
“Excuse me, do you know where I catch the train that goes to Elizabeth Quay?” I asked a train guard, who, without even looking at me, pointed towards a tunnel on the floor below.
“I go through there, and then; do you know which platform it is?” I continued, trying my best not to sound stressed.
Still without looking at me, the man unfolded his arms and held up two fingers.
“Platform two?” I persisted, unsure why this guy couldn’t use his words.
He nodded.
“Thanks.” I said, before ushering David along.
With the seconds ticking by, I wanted to run through the crowd and down the escalator, but I was with David – a 75-year-old man who does not move with the type of gusto I needed in that moment. David also doesn’t like going on escalators. And so, in a perfectly calm manner, I hustled us both toward the lift, while David continued to inform me that, “We’re going to be late.”
“No we’re not David, it’s okay, I’ll get us there in time.” I said, as I strained to sound convincing.
Luckily, the second train arrived promptly, and two stops later we disembarked at Elizabeth Quay. Like an Olympic running coach urging on their star athlete, I was vigorously waving my arms and repeating, “C’mon David, C’mon…” as I rushed that poor old man along the foreshore as the time struck 8:40.
“There it is! The big boat.” David cried, pointing at the ferry.
“Hey, can I get two tickets to Rottnest, plus two bike hires, please.” I asked the lady behind the counter.
David interjected to tell her, “I’m gonna ride the red bike.”
“Ohh that’s good.” She said to David, before turning to me and saying, “That’ll be $180 please.”
Handing me the receipt, she added, “You two got here just in time. The ferry’s about to take off.”
Responding for me, David said, “His old bomb car goes slow.”
The lady looked at me for clarification, but I just shrugged my shoulders and smiled, before hurrying David onto the ferry.
Thankful to have made it, I breathed a sigh of relief as we sat down. While David, ever focused on what he came to do, pointed at the red bikes tied to the front of the boat before telling me, and all the passengers nearby, “I’m gonna ride the red bike.”
Everyone smiled and nodded, as David waited in excited anticipation.
The chairs on the ferry were comfy and for the first moment since I’d left that morning my lack of sleep hit me. I’d downed both my coffees before we’d even got on the train, which left me with nothing but willpower to get me through the rest of the day. And so, with David content to keep a watchful eye on the red bikes, I settled into my chair to nab a moment of rest.
That’s when I heard her. . .
“Welcome aboard The Rottnest Express. My name’s Barbra and I’ll be your guide on this morning’s journey to Rottnest Island.”
Please no, I thought, as Barbra started walking us through the emergency procedures.
“Be sure to familiarise yourself with the emergency exits, and in the unlikely event of an emergency please follow the directions of the crew.” Her annoyingly upbeat voice, amplified past the point of ignoring by the ferry’s PA system.
Hopefully she shuts up soon, I thought, dreading the possibility that she was going to launch into some boring tour guide spiel once she’d finished the safety instructions. My fears were soon realised when Barbra said, “If you look to your left, passengers, you’ll see Kings Park. Kings park is home to many native plants and animals. It may also interest you to know that Kings Park is larger than Central Park in New York City.”
“It does not interest me Barbra, what would interest me is if you shut the fuck up.” I muttered to myself, before looking at David, who met my gaze and immediately pointed to the bikes.
“I’m gonna ride the red bike.” He said, again.
Barbra carried on her amplified-tour-boat-tirade all the way down the river. Pointing out landmarks:
“On your right is the old Swan Brewery, which first opened in 1857.”
Providing facts about the river: “Fresh water turtle dreaming, is the local Aboriginal name for the river.”
And even rifling off different species that inhabit Perth’s most trafficked water way: “The river is home to more than twenty-five dolphins and many forms of fish and jellyfish.”
How do they know there’s exactly twenty-five, I wondered.
Unable to stomach another moment of Barbra’s bullshit I asked David if he wanted to come outside to have a better look at the river. He agreed, and we exited the cabin and stood on the open deck at the back of the boat. Watching the shoreline go by, I was struck by just how beautiful Perth’s Swan River really is. Trees jutted out the side of limestone cliff-faces, off-green and orange shrub crept to the river’s edge, and yellow sandbanks stretched into the river creating picturesque spots for pelicans, perrons, and other native birds. For a moment, my grumpy mood dissipated as I remembered just how lucky I am to live in such an incredible place. Then, David tugged on my arm and said, “Toilet.”
Returning to our seats, we found Barbra was now subjecting everyone to some trivia.
“What is the slowest-traveling sea creature?” She asked.
The cabin remained silent, a collective hint from everyone on board that, WE DON’T CARE BARBRA!
“Anyone?” Barbra asked again, not getting the hint.
More silence. . .
“It’s the sea horse, which takes two days to travel just one kilometre. It may also interest you to know that sea horses are monogamous.”
It didn’t seem to interest anyone, but Barbra was not deterred. You’ve gotta admire her commitment. Pushing on she said, “Does anyone know who discovered Rottnest Island?”
One rather nerdy-suck-up, going against the cabin’s collective stance against Barbra’s babbling, guessed, “Captain Cook.”
“Nope, that’s not it.” Barbra said, pausing to give everyone else a chance.
More silence. . .
“Dutch sea captain, Willem de Vlamingh, discovered the island in 1696. And he named it ‘Rottnest’, which in Dutch means ‘Rat’s nest’, after Vlamingh mistook the quokkas that live on the island for big rats.”
It may interest you, valued reader, to know that nowadays, quokkas are Rottnest Island’s main tourist attraction. They are also Perth’s most photographed animal. As it is essentially Western Australian law to snap a selfie with one if you go to Rottnest. I’ve never really understood this obsession of taking a photo with what is basically a fat rat with a flat face, but I know it runs deep in the veins of Perthites. So much so that even my partner, Evie isn’t immune to it. In fact, she made me promise that I’d get a photo with a quokka that day – this became my side mission.
When we arrived, David’s mission to ride the red bike had ramped up to eleven. The dude was practically foaming at the mouth as we walked past the stack of bikes to get off the ferry. While waiting in line to collect our coveted bikes, a moment of commotion broke out. It seemed a large German fella had tried to cut the line, and the ferry crew had told him to go to the back. Getting wind of this transgression, David was quick to join in with the ferry crew by informing the German bloke, in a rather firm tone, to, “Get to the back!”
Even though I don’t know a word of German, I was able to decipher – from his yelling, arm-flailing, and the vein protruding from his neck – that the German guy was not happy. Sometimes language adds nothing to understanding.
As I fastened our bags to our bikes, David eagerly sat atop his telling me, “This is a good bike, I like this one.”
“Yep, it sure is, David. Red ones go the fastest, did you know that?”
“Yeh.” He said, dinging his bell.
Following the bike path along the shoreline, David rode a few metres ahead of me pointing out the snorkelers, fishermen, and moored boats that littered the bay. Watching David ride his bike was heart-warming. He was in his element. Ringing his bell at anyone in his way, waving to the other bike riders that passed by, and pedalling along to his hearts content. At one point he even looked over his shoulder and pulled his trademark grin. Every so often David will offer up the cheesiest smile you’ve ever seen. Its adorable. And while his smile is a spontaneous occurrence, even the possibility that I had a hand in bringing it about is something that makes my job deeply rewarding.
Veering to the right, the bike path led us into the heart of the island. Within minutes the white sand, turquoise water, and picturesque scenery of the bay had transformed into the sunbeaten yellows, oranges, and browns that colour the Australian bush. I don’t know what I expected, but I was surprised that Rottnest’s bushland looked exactly the same as the bushland that surrounds Perth. It’s not like we were in the Galapagos, but still, I was hoping for a bit of variety. Maybe a random cactus I’d never seen. Or a tree or flower that didn’t look familiar. Anything. I mean, if Rottnest is the only place where quokkas reside, then surely, this secluded island must’ve sprouted some unique plants that aren’t on the mainland. I wondered why Barbra didn’t touch on this point. I knew that bitch was a hack. Unconcerned by my musings, David continued to charge ahead, his legs pumping up and down with the type of gusto I needed him to exhibit earlier that morning.
After what felt like far too much bike riding, David eventually said, “Milkshake.”
Come rain, hail, shine, or even a punctured bike tyre, every single time I take David out, I get him a strawberry milkshake. And today would be no exception.
As we followed the signs to the cafes and restaurants that line the bay, I became concerned I was going to miss my chance to get a photo with a quokka. I figured I would’ve seen one as we rode around, but the elusive little buggers hadn’t shown their furry faces. And with David now hellbent on his next mission, and me in no position to slow him down, it seemed my chances of nabbing the coveted photo were growing slim.
But then, I spotted some activity that spelled, quokka.
Just off the path were a bunch of Asian tourists down on their hands and knees. Carefully approaching the group so to not startle them, I peered behind their wall of cameras and selfie sticks to see a solo quokka being dazed by flashes. Once they’d finished live streaming their interaction with the furry critter, I seized my chance.
“Hey little guy.” I said as I approached. “It’s okay don’t run away.” Two steps closer. “I’m not gonna put this on TikTok, I promise.” One more step. “Focus you stupid camera.”
Click. Success!
Finally, I had joined the millions of other people who also had a photo of a fluffy rat. Even though he was not impressed by this delay, David parted ways with his bike long enough to come see the quokka. Before telling me, “Okay, c’mon, milkshake now.”
You’ve gotta respect a man who knows what he wants.
Sitting down for lunch was a welcome break. The comfy chairs and the tasty food worked in tandem to lull me into a sleepy state. Relishing in this moment of respite, I sank into my chair and closed my eyes. However, my rest was short lived as seconds later, David rose. Standing above me, he said, “Cigarette-n-beach.”
David is a man of few words, but I’d like to imagine that what he meant with his request, was something like, Excuse me good sir, I know you’ve been running around all day tending to my every need, but would it be perfectly alright if you got up off that chair and accompanied me to the beach so I could have a smoke? But as I hoisted myself out of my seat, I got the sense that David’s words lacked that sentiment when he sternly reiterated his request, before adding, “C’mon, hurry up.”
As David sat back puffing on his smoke, I took my shoes off and exposed my gorgeously white tootsies to the luscious sand of Thomson Bay. Staring out over the vast expanse of ocean that separated me from the mainland I found myself wondering why on earth people subject themselves to swimming through these notedly shark-infested waters to complete the 19.7km Rottnest Channel Swim every year. We humans are a strange bunch.
Turning to David, I asked, “Do you like the view?”
“Yeh,” he replied, before asking, “What’s next?”
David never ceases to amaze me. The man subsists on nothing more than milkshakes, cigarettes, and vegemite sandwiches and yet he never stops. He just keeps going and going and going like some sort of wrinkly-bike-riding-machine.
“Well, we’ve gotta head back to the ferry soon, but we’ve got a little bit of time left, so what would you like to do?” I asked, dreading his answer.
“Ride the red bike, again!” He exclaimed with a smile, as a sigh escaped me.
After arriving back at the pier to board the ferry home, we joined the line that’d formed in front of Dock three. Apart from a lone umbrella at the front of the line, there was no shade. David had a hat and sunscreen on, but I didn’t want him standing in the sun getting hot. So, I pushed my way to the front and got David to sit on a wooden seat under the umbrella. The early birds in the line watched as I moved a plastic barricade so that David could sit comfortably. I enjoy being in public with David as I like taking it upon myself to bend the rules to help him out. If I was on my own, I would have just stood in the line in the sun out of social convention. But with David around, social convention can get fucked – this old disabled man gets privilege, and if he won’t claim it himself, I’ll claim it for him.
Watching how different people respond to David is another interesting aspect of being in public with him. Some people have no idea how to interact with the man. Many people will address me, instead of addressing David. While others will address David directly – as they should – often treating me as some sort of support animal. I have no qualms with people ignoring me and talking to David directly. After all, he’s the one who instigates the conversations, and I’m not a fan of talking to strangers anyway. It does bother me, however, when David tries to talk to someone, and they respond by telling me something to tell him, as if I’m an interpreter, and as if David doesn’t understand them. “Tell him yourself,” I always say, “he’s right here; he can hear you.”
Thankfully, the people at the front of the line were not only cool enough to talk to David directly when he started telling them about his bike, but they were also considerate enough to let David and I board the ferry first.
Minutes after take-off it became clear that, The Fremantle Doctor – the sea breeze that blows in off the Western Australian coast – had come in with a vengeance. People were “oohing” and “arghing”, as the ferry swayed back and forth, rising and falling with the afternoon swell. Waves pelted the windows as two small children in front of me screamed and cried, before burying their heads in their mother’s bosom. The cabin crew stumbled down the aisles handing out ‘just-in-case-bags’ to those whose stomachs were churning by way of this oceanic-carnival ride. A refrigerator-sized German woman stood up and began clapping and hollering as if she was a circus-seal awaiting a fishy treat. And David, bless his soul, just sat their stoic as if nothing was even happening.
“The boats rocking pretty bad, are you okay?” I asked.
“Yeh, I like it.” He said, before beginning to clap along with the German lady. Neither of them showing any respect for the power of the ocean.
The rocking got so bad at one point that I reached under my chair to check if there were lifejackets for us. But the concern of having to engage in my own Rottnest Channel Swim was soon superseded, as the middle-aged man to my right was clutching one of those ‘just-in-case-bags’ a little too tightly. Not about to be vomited on, I decided it was a good time to go to the rest room to relieve myself. Now, most men know the old adage that, you should never piss in the wind, but out of public interest I’d like to add to that maxim that, you should never piss on a boat that’s being blown about like piss in the wind. Because as my stream began the boat shifted heavy to the left, throwing me and my stream off course. Fortunately, when I returned to my seat, David tried to console me by loudly proclaiming, “Your pants are wet!”
Passengers turned to see my shame, as I sat back down and said, “Yes they are David, yes they are.”
Once we were safely back on dry land, we made our way to the train station. Sitting on the train my patience was tested by a bunch of high school kids who proceeded to yell and scream as if they were in the school yard and not jammed into a confined space with a bunch of passengers who didn’t want to hear their nonsense. Between the kids yelling, the heavy-set man beside me taking up more than his fair share of the seat, and the weird-looking guy who kept staring at David, I remembered something about public transport that I’d forgotten: the sneezing-coughing-mouth-breathing-loud-talking-personal-space-encroaching-animals that catch public transport make my skin-crawl. I mean, for fucksake. Have you ever heard of deodorant? Yes, your considerable bulge is pushing me off this seat. No, I don’t want to engage you in small talk. I want to stare straight ahead until the doors of this claustrophobic-tuna-can open and free me from this hell. Looking over at David, I said, “We’ll be home soon, man,” as I could tell that even he was over this ride-sharing bullshit.
Walking back to my car after getting off the train, David said, “Look it’s your old bomb.”
Quickly changing the subject, I asked David what his favourite part of the day was.
“Riding the red bike. We should get one for my house.” He said, even though the man already has four bikes at his house.
“Okay, I’ll tell the staff at your house, and that can be the next thing you pester everyone about.”
To which David smiled and simply replied, “Yeh.”
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They take us along...
red bike, rare quokka, wet pants!
Two cool characters.
This is such a great piece. The writing is superb and your humour unparalleled. But what I like most of how you used your voice to give space to David’s experience and honour his life. Disabled people are rarely able to be the narrator of their worlds, and you treat that gift with the seriousness it deserves. You extend him full humanity. And your connection really shows. I love this so much each and every time I read it.