KATH DOLAN
WRITER
My first bike was indescribably disappointing. What I wanted, like every child of the seventies, was a sleek little dragster. What I got one Christmas morning long, long ago was my sister’s massive, devastatingly daggy old hand-me-down spray painted matte silver (that’s grey, Dad) complete with seersucker skirt guard. As it turned out, though, that ugly old boiler served its purpose just fine as my ticket to suburban childhood freedom, of the ‘have fun, just be home before it’s dark’ variety. Oh the endlessness of Saturday afternoons spinning around the neighbourhood with primary school BFF Mandi Barber…
CHRIS CRERAR
PHOTOGRAPHER
I was lucky enough to grow up in a beautiful village running along the western bank of the Tamar River in Tasmania. Bikes gave us freedom to…
