OutdOors

Teaching v learning

You don’t really have to ‘teach’ a child to ride – it’s more a case of helping them discover how to ride. The principles are balance first, pedalling comes later, so as long as they can put both feet flat on the ground when starting out, they should be happy just getting used to scuttling along with the bike between their legs to begin with. Let them decide the pace of learning. One of mine insisted on getting up and pedalling at age two and wouldn’t take no for an answer, while her twin sister was largely uninterested until more than a year later. We encouraged the former and didn’t push the latter, she cracked it in her own time.

The right age

There is no right age. It’s no coincidence that the children of cyclists learn soonest, because they’re exposed to daily opportunities to practice and they grow up in homes where bikes are prominent. But by the time they get to primary school, usually peer pressure and curiosity will be the deciders for most kids. Generally, if they have the balance to walk and run, they’ll be able to learn to ride.

By Oliver Chesher

Bin the bolt-ons

Stabilisers and those broom handle attachments generally just slow down progress, mess with the sense of balance and create a psychological hurdle. In almost all cases, I’d recommend never using them. Admittedly, it can give you a bit of a backache bending down to hold their shoulders while they learn the natural way, but you’ll be amazed how quickly they don’t need (or want) to be held.

Best bikes

The top brands for kids’ bikes are Islabikes and Frog. Both manufacturers make lightweight, robust, durable bikes that are easiest for children to steer, brake and pedal and they don’t seize up or go rattly after enthusiastic use. Neither are cheap, but they sell like hot cakes on the second-hand market. There’s even a Facebook group for buying and selling them, because they’re often rock solid after several generations of hand-me-downs.

Going to see the doctor is stressful at the best of times, but when you don’t share the same language, things can get a tad tricky, for both sides. So, going forward, I’ve decided Interpreters are the answer. I mean, I live in Spain, right? Why should any overworked nurse or doctor here have to suffer my weird hand waving, charadelike re-enactments of my various medical ailments, however entertaining they might be?

So, last month, when it was time to head to my local health centre to get booked in for a well woman check-up, I decided to ask the in-house Interpreter volunteers for help.

Arriving, late, as usual, I looked around, spotted the desk I needed and headed over and introduced myself to the oldish couple sitting under the massive Interpreters sign. After checking they were English speaking, I explained that I’d very much like them to read through my Spanish paperwork, as I wanted to make sure, with their help, that everything was in order.

Having handed over my forms, I dived straight in and started to share with them all my medical details. Well, I thought it important they were fully informed. Plus, I talk a lot when I’m nervous. Anyway, they were medical pros, they would need to know my full well-woman medical history in all its embarrassing and intimate detail, you know, to make sure they booked me in to see the right doctor.

The Interpreters dutifully started to scan my paperwork and as I began to overshare, they began nodding their heads. The woman in particular sympathetically and knowingly ummed and ahed in all the right places. Feeling super comfortable in their company, I sat down and began to explain the results of my last UK smear exam, but before I could continue, the male Interpreter, who I have to say, was beginning to look a little green around the gills, held up his hand abruptly, policeman-like, and stopped me mid-sentence. Bit rude, I thought. But, OK.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t actually know why you’re telling us all this,” he said, squirming in his seat.

“But I thought you’d need to know all this so you could decide which doctor to book me in with,” I replied, somewhat confused.

“Well, dear, we’d like to help, but wouldn’t you be better off chatting to that nice medical receptionist?” joined in the female Interpreter.

“I really don’t think that’s going to help. I don’t have enough Spanish yet to explain it all myself,” I added, despondent.

“Yes, I see the problem, but maybe you could bring someone along with you who speaks really good Spanish,” suggested the male Interpreter, gently. “That’s what we do, don’t we, Eve?”.

“I’m sorry, I’m really confused. That’s why I’m here, so you can translate for me,” I re plied, pointing at the Interpreters sign but starting to get a very bad feeling.

“Oh, no dear, we’re not Interpreters. Ian and I just sat down here because it looked like such a nice, quiet spot. We’re waiting for our friend who’s in having her Covid booster.”

Right, must dash. Oh, dear lord, the things I told them. I need gin. A lot of gin. And maybe some therapy…