This is story #49 in the series “Where Exactly is Home?”. The author recommends you read them in order.
Introduction:
“Where Exactly is Home?” follows the story of my parents, my two younger brothers and me, Susan, who emigrated from war-battered Britain, in the mid-late 1950’s, to Southern Rhodesia, Africa.
The effects of this move on our family were huge, as we struggled to adapt to such a different way of life. Only after further upheaval, and more long-distance travelling, did our family eventually settle in the city of Salisbury, Rhodesia.
However, we did not know then that we would not remain there for the rest of our lives, either.
When the family first went to Africa, I, Susan, was 9 years old. My two brothers, John and Peter, were almost 7 and 4, respectively.
Nowadays, as seniors, John and Peter live in England. I live in Canada. Throughout our lives, we have both benefitted from, and suffered because of, our somewhat unusual childhood.
I, for one, still sometimes ask myself which country represents home to me.
This is a series of stories under the title “Where Exactly is Home?” – I recommend you read them in order, starting with story #1.
49. An Exhausting Experience
Our family was very comfortable using motorbikes. We were not scared of them, as are many people who view motorbikes as dangerous vehicles and their riders as vulnerable to accidents. However, we three children had grown up with motorbikes. Our parents had been despatch riders during WWII, but, no matter where we were, as soon as we could afford a vehicle, my father purchased a second-hand motorbike, probably because it cost so much less to run than a car. We usually had a little car, too, but it wasn’t used very much compared with the motorbike. Looking back now, I am shocked that we didn’t wear protective helmets in those days, nor anything in the way of protective clothing, either.
As soon as my two brothers were old enough to have a provisional motorbike licence, they were taught by my father not only to ride well, but also how to avoid accidents and, above all, how to mitigate any damage to themselves in the case of an accident. They were excellent motorcyclists and rode safely by the time they passed their tests at 16. No revving, no wheel-spinning, no high jinks from either of them! I was often the pillion passenger, though sometimes I borrowed my mother’s 49cc Mobylette, which didn’t require a licence, to accompany John and his friends on various jaunts. I didn’t have a bicycle until I was 18 and I had saved up enough money to buy one for myself. It wasn’t mine to use for very long, either, because, during my year in France, Peter borrowed my bike one day and wrote it off in a terrible road accident that left him in hospital for months on end. I didn’t get another bike for many years to come.
