2004-02-21 at 3:10 p.m.

I've never had much luck with my possessions.

Some of you may remember my encounters with The Microwave of Doom. Others may recall my run-in with The Remote Control Eating Beanbag. Still others may nod sagely, recollecting my epic battle and eventual victory against The Washing Machine from Hell.

When I moved back to my home town, I left all these curs�d items behind me. Finally, I felt my Holy War against household items was over. Finally, I could hang up my crucifixes and silly headdresses. I could forget the rituals of purification and banishment. I could lie asleep in bed, safe in the knowledge that the mattress would not attempt to consume me as I slept.

I could move on with my life.

Or so I thought.

You see, my job involves a bit of travel each week. One of the schools I teach at is a long way from my house, and being without a car, or indeed a driver's licence, I had to come up with some alternate method of transportation.

Taxi? Convenient, but too expensive.

Bus? Close to nonexistent in this one-horse town*.

Bike? Now, there was an idea. The ride out to the school wouldn't take too long; it would provide me with much needed exercise; and it came with a bell I could ring irritatingly and incessantly.

So I bought a bike. It came disassembled, but dad and I soon managed to put it together (after much swearing and straining and throwing of socket wrenches against the wall, particularly when we got to the bit about attaching the brake cable). I plonked my ridiculously overdesigned helmet on my head (can't anyone just make a plain, ordinary, unadorned helmet anymore? The one I have is full of so many ventilation holes and streamlining features that when I put it on, I look almost exactly like Alan Rickman in 'Galaxy Quest') and took the bike for a quick spin up and down the driveway.

Then I deployed the brakes.

They were brakes of the kind that could halt a 747 jet in mid-takeoff. They could have stopped time, warped space, and prevented Oprah Winfrey from constantly hugging people.

They were damn strong brakes. And they stopped me dead.

Well, they stopped the wheels dead. Unfortunately, the rest of me was still in motion. And all that velocity had to go somewhere, didn't it?

If you guessed it went in a downward direction, you'd be right.

I hit the pavement. Hard. I wasn't all that hurt, but I was certainly shocked for a few moments. I got up carefully, dusted myself off, and being a believer in the idea of 'getting back on the horse**', I climbed back on the bike, started pedalling and then, much more tentatively, deployed the brakes.

Same result.

Since then, the bike has been locked on my front porch. Every time I look at it, it grins back at me, wheels round as the circles of Hell.

Let's face it. That bike is waiting for me to ride it on a busy road, so it can deploy its brakes and send me hurtling into oncoming traffic. It wants me to fall in a humiliating manner in front of large groups of people, who would then point and laugh at my misfortune. It wants to rip big holes in my jeans.

It is the Demon Bike.

Unfortunately, I have no choice but to tame the Demon Bike if I want to get to work. I keep meaning to get out there and show it who's boss, but I keep finding excuses not to. It's too hot. Too rainy. Too muggy. Too bright. Too dark. Too Thursday.

Soon, I must face the Demon Bike. Soon, I must learn to ride it. Soon, I must justify spending $140 on the damn thing.

I guess it's time for the silly headdresses to come out of retirement.

*In case you were wondering, the horse's name is Barry. He's a four year old gelding, tan in colour, who likes long walks at sunset, enjoys fresh grass and sugar cubes, and desperately wishes he had his nads back.

**I wouldn't try that logic with Barry, though. He can get pretty tetchy with people, particularly when reminiscing about his nads.