‘Why would you want to even think of such a thing?’ my sister Lyn asked, rolling her eyes. ‘What if you have an accident? What if you meet a, a, you know, serial rapist on the bike track? What if your bike breaks down, whaddya gonna do then, call the RACV? I’m 2 years younger than you and I feel virtuous walking from the carpark to the supermarket!’

No-one really understands, and I no longer insist that they even try. I’m riding the trail alone, just me, nobody else.

This is the tenth anniversary of my son’s death and at times, I don’t know who I am or why I’m still breathing.

I’ve been riding the bike trail for 6 weeks. I wasn’t fit at first, so I was kind to my body, just riding a little bit every day, so I wouldn’t lose interest. The slow pace of walking, when I would get off my bike for even the slightest incline, caused me to notice the trees, hear the birds, smell the plants and feel my heartbeat. People would pass and I would smile at them and they at me. I liked that.

Water, mobile phone, and a $5.00 note - I prepared for each short trip along the trail; like my favourite ‘sticker saying’: Trust in Mohammed, but tie your camel first!’ I have no idea who or what I will meet along the way, do I?

Now, 6 weeks later, I rarely get off the bike to walk up an incline.

In fact, I’m taking the hills! Short trips are a thing of the past; I want to go further and further along the trail. I still ride alone and I’m my own best friend, really. But sometimes, I do need company. The other day, my best friend rode with me. She’s an xperienced rider and I kept up, didn’t hold her back. We rode together. We talked. She’d remembered it was my son’s anniversary. She asked if I believed in God. I needed that.

As I take longer trips, I will carry more, but of course, by then, my shoulders will be broader, my legs stronger, my breath softer, while my heart steadies its beat.

My grief journey is like a bike ride along the Warburton Trail.

Mariette
TCF Vic. Au.