What a delight to receive such hearty responses to UNCLED, the first part in this series. While writing I thought I knew what UNCLED was about, and by the end I was pretty sure I’d landed the meaning. But when many of you said you’d been UNCLED it made me reconsider all our personal experiences of the passing of time, the changing of relationships. Also, personalised number plates were suddenly everywhere. My favourite was: PSAL(M)-23 on the back of a white Tesla. My cup overfloweth! Hence the delay in part 2 of this series. Deadlines, of late, have pressed me between the days pages like a dried flower. And my body wants to hibernate in the winter hummus so so bad. That last line is a nod to Robin Wall Kimmerer, whose Braiding Sweetgrass I listen to while I fight the traffic (and the loss of my body’s sensuality) on the 4-lane M80 Ring Road freeway. Fittingly, this next delight merges rage and revenge and delight. No tolls to pay ie subscribe for free, take the next exit if you need. Let’s ride!
I ride my bike through the busy streets of Naarm/Melbourne CBD like it’s my childhood country town. Weaving through the traffic of familiar sounds and smells — construction and hotpot forever! The comforting and wary feeling of the geography being a part of my personality. I’m in genuine awe when I cross the St. Kilda Road bridge, the brown waters of the Birrarung below. On particularly cold mornings I have a misty-eyed appreciation of the hodgepodge architecture of us colonisers. I’ve made deep grooves where I live.
On a recent ride I was in this cyclist’s flow state. All traffic lights were green (even the yellow ones). I approached the Flinders Street Station intersection. The old clocks read 9am and St. Paul’s cathedral bells competed with tram ding dings.
A peloton of police pulled out in front of me. All five had matching bikes, helmets, and navy blue shorts. They rode in a V-shape, like a flock of geese. The head of the pack was a Hank Schrader look-alike (from Breaking Bad). I recognised the judgemental bald head under that helmet, those bulging calves. The same clicky-clacky cop had once fined me for riding through a tram stop.
What followed was delight as revenge.
A case study for the phrase: what you don’t play with, ends up playing you.
My first encounter with this bald head of the law was before the pandemic. I was slaloming down the Bourke Street hill on my bike, when I came to the Swanston Street tram stop obstacle: barricades, and crowded footpaths on either side. I took the obvious route through the empty tram lane, a split-second decision to maintain my flow. As if on cue, Walter White’s adversary, the belligerent moral badge, rode into my frame of vision and parked his bike. He put his hand up without looking at me. I stopped. Respecting the uniform, I guess. The black leather holster, the gun, the bicycle, it was just so completely incongruous. He was s ome kind of ridiculous bikeshop sheriff.
I pleaded my case. Unconvincing. It wouldn’t have mattered. His mind was made up before he woke up that morning. I could have got off my bike and walked the 30 metres through the crowd. But the thought of devolving to a mere pedestrian forbade me. Pride cost me a $75 fine.
Eventually, though, I paid.
We’re all furious, aren’t we?
My teacher at clown school once said this. Funny that I’ve learnt about anger in clown classes. From play. What you don’t play with, ends up playing you.
As a kid I played, always on the cusp of a tantrum. What’s the difference between rage and tantrums? Age, and tears. For a long while I was afraid to let my rage play. As an adult I am perceived as calm and equanimous and pastel. But often I feel an urge, spurred by injustice or contradiction — my own or others — to fuckin fuckety fuck fuck fuck lose it.
A month ago I got a Notice to Vacate my house, which, as it turned out, was not my house at all. I RAGED! Some real class warfare napalm made my mouth froth. My grievances had a Ghengis Khan bloodlust. A desire to marinate my enemies in their own privilege! Skewer them! Conquer their lands! It’s lucky Australian rental properties are notoriously cold otherwise the renter’s rage would send the country up in flames!
Anyway, I rage, I digress.
Post-notice, this rage was a long mood, a strangely energetic week. I began to enjoy my anger. The full gamut of my rage. I started to understand what my therapist called my potency (a term that causes me Freudian discomfort for its opposite: impotent). But put in the right place, namely my journal, and voice messages to friends, my tirades entertained me. And much like my journal, or when I listen back, I realise, either, that isn’t true, or I don’t believe that, or it is true, but it’s nowhere near as poisonous as I remember. After I suck and spit out the venom, I’m able to take charge of my situation and do something with my anger. Like make plans. But plans aren’t the flow state of play.
9:01am. The red light turned green. The peloton of police clicked into their bikes. They didn’t ride fast, so I was able to slowly keep up, four or five metres behind, and take in the scene: the guns on their hip holsters gave them a strange balance and cadence on their bikes. The fact there were five of them drew furtive looks from pedestrians.
As we approached the next set of traffic lights there was an older couple waiting to cross. They turned to each other to comment on the blue parade. As I passed, I smiled at them and said: they’re my police escort. My joke and their laughter were just out of earshot of the law.
When we crossed the bridge there was a young guy with his Dad who saw the cavalcade coming. Don’t worry, I said, they’re my police escort.
I delighted in this gentle poke at authority. $75 worth of entertainment. The assumed fame and protection I needed from the police. The split-second audience for my revenge. The privilege to do such a thing. My cup overflowed with delight! My rage brought the blood up to the surface of the skin without breaking through. I could play and rage — fury and laughter, friends forever more.
Shoulda shown off your sweet biking skills by jumping some ramps in front of them.
Nice! I was eagerly awaiting said cop to illegally ride through the tram stop, but you and your police escort was just as good.