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OPINIONSocietyFebruary 27, 2020

In the battle between cyclist and drivers, don’t forget those who use their feet

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The clash between urban cyclists and car drivers has been brewing for several years now. But pedestrians have been advocating for their rights far longer, writes Stephen Day.

Not so long ago, the journalist Bernard Hickey predicted that cyclists vs motorists will become one of the political issues of our age. “We are going to fight for our cities and for that space on the roads and the footpaths – and it’s going to be a battle royale!” the ardent Wellington-based cyclist proclaimed.

But this is not a two-way battle with armies standing on each side of a grassy field raising their flags and charging at each other. As any watcher of the fantasy genre knows, there is always at least one other army hiding in the wings ready to outflank one or the other sides.

This war for our streets could well be the Battle of the Five Armies. Because, as well as cyclists and motorists, there are public transport riders and pedestrians. And, adding a bit of sci-fi to the fantasy, e-bikes and e-scooters.

I belong to a small brigade within the pedestrian army, the run commuters. Most mornings I suit up for battle in my singlet and noticeably short shorts. I belt on my bum-bag containing wallet and phone. I step out the door, give a wave to the bus driver whom I often beat into town, and make my way along the busy arterial streets.

I remember many years ago reading someone describe Peter Jackson’s first Lord of the Rings film The Fellowship of the Ring as a tribute to tramping, and his second The Two Towers as a tribute to running. Thankfully he did not make too many more LOTR films because the fourth would surely have been a tribute to trying to catch a Wellington bus to the battle, arriving late, and finding the survivors had already gone to the Realm for the after-battle feast.

I’ve been a run commuter for a long time. But I got somewhat spiritual about it a few years ago after reading Christopher McDougall’s ultrarunning bible Born to Run. McDougall suggests that because humans can sweat to cool ourselves and can run for long a long time on two legs, we may have evolved and survived by chasing other animals over the savannah for long distances until they overheated and collapse into a readily consumable meal for us.

By running to work each day I imagine I am fulfilling my biological imperative to support my family with exhausted buffalo meat each day. No matter that my family is semi-vegetarian, and vegetables don’t need much chasing before you can eat them. McDougall’s theory has subsequently been challenged by some, but the romance of the chase remains for distance runners like me.

We running pedestrians are like our walking brethren, but we can travel longer distances in a shorter time and we don’t smell as good. Just as cyclists zipping in and out of traffic drive motorists bananas, runners zipping across the footpath, sidestepping oncoming walkers, and dashing across zebra crossings drive our fellow pedestrians nuts.

But, despite that, we are their allies in this culture war. In fact, we are allies with everyone in the war because we want the same thing – a fast, pleasant, safe, not-too-stressful journey to and from work. For everyone, including motorists, that translates to fewer cars on the road, and safe separation between the things that are bigger and faster than your current mode of transport.

The solution comes down to design. For pedestrians and cyclists, good tracks and trails that take us away from the roads are often the most enjoyable as well as the cheapest solution. In Wellington the town belt lets many residents make their way to town through nature – the very same nature that inspired Lord of the Rings’ less violent scenes.

Enabling these kinds of track and trails takes foresight. The original Wellington town planners who protected a town belt in 1840 have saved the city immeasurable transport woes.

It’s hard to retrofit good transport design onto bad urban design. That’s why the Walking Access Commission Ara Hīkoi Aotearoa is working hard to help plan good public access before the houses get built in peri-urban areas like the northern reaches of Auckland, and further south at the Auckland/Waikato boundary around growing communities like Pukekohe and Pokeno.

(Disclosure: the Walking Access Commission is the place where I run to work to hunt my buffalo)

In and around Matakana, the commission is working with Auckland Council, the Matakana Coast Trail Trust, Ngāti Manuhiri, the Department of Conservation and the NZ Transport Agency to create a network of trails on the northern boundary of Auckland, from Pūhoi to Pākiri.

To the south, the commission is working with the Waikato District Council, the Waikato Regional Council, the Franklin Local Board of Auckland Council, Waikato Tainui and others to imagine a network of largely off-road tracks and trails.

Good safe, effective public accessways that connect pedestrians, cyclists, and others (such as horse riders) to our workplaces, schools, nearby shops and communities is the peace treaty that will help us avoid a battle of the five armies. That is, so long as I undo the offence caused by my short running shorts.

Keep going!
Eddy and Twinkle the dog (Photo: Emily Writes)
Eddy and Twinkle the dog (Photo: Emily Writes)

ParentsFebruary 25, 2020

Emily Writes: Six months on from Ward One

Eddy and Twinkle the dog (Photo: Emily Writes)
Eddy and Twinkle the dog (Photo: Emily Writes)

‘Over the last six months I’ve realised there are always more tears.’ In August, Emily Writes wrote about the tough months following her son’s hospitalisation and diagnosis. This is what’s happened since.

Part 1:

Ward One: Emily Writes on love and fear and hope at her son’s hospital bed

Six months ago I was holding a needle and trying to find a spot on my child’s tiny sunken belly to push it into. His father was holding him down, as well as a nurse. He was screaming. Begging me. “Please mama! I’ll be good!” I was sobbing and I kept thinking Can’t we wait until he’s calmer? But we can’t. Because if he doesn’t have this life-saving medicine, if we don’t learn to give it to him, then…

He kicked my hand and the needle fell to the ground. Pain radiated; my finger felt like it had been shocked. The nurse injected him. He lay in a tiny ball crying. I sobbed, holding my finger. My husband stared up at the ceiling desperately trying to stop the tears from falling.

Later my husband and I injected ourselves in the stomach with saline. We wanted to know what it felt like. With a ring of fat on me it still felt painful. He winced as he pushed the needle into his taut stomach. Our son had lost more than 10kg from his already tiny frame.

The nurses were so kind that their gentle hugs and pats and support would always make me cry. And I couldn’t work out how we could all cry so much. How were there still tears? Over the last six months I’ve realised there are always more tears.

Six months on, my finger won’t quite straighten. It hurts at night, hurts after typing. It just isn’t the same. But nothing is the same. I don’t need this tangible reminder of that but somehow it fits.

Our son is different now. He is fuller, he looks more like a strong boy. But he gets tired easily. He’ll be so excited to go to an event, then will suddenly turn ashen and say “I think I need to go home.” He can predict his falls now.

Scenes from a hospital bed (Photos: Emily Writes)

His best friend is his fiercest protecter. When another child said not to pick up his medical equipment because “you catch it!” she yelled, full force: “It is NOT contagious!” She stands in front of him, like she will do anything to protect him. And sometimes when they play he rests his head on her lap and she reads to him. She knows inherently his need for rest. His fears. His hopes.

Our family is a marching band now, falling into a beat. Starting to know exactly what to do. Hate this tune but getting to know it in our bones. We mess up, but are back on track immediately. No room to dwell on mistakes, we keep in step.

They say it gets better and it does and it doesn’t. Some days it’s all second nature and you just do it like brushing your teeth. Other days he says “I don’t want to die” and you’re bowled over, king hit. You’re back there in the bathroom at the hospital face pressed against the wall, trying to breathe. Just breathe.

And someone says “Oh I know heaps of people with that – it’s not a big deal” and someone else says “Oh my friend’s cousin’s daughter had that and they just found her dead in her bed”.

There’s a name for it: Dead in Bed syndrome. And you just think my god, that’s the best name they could come up with?

The other night he went to the zoo for a sleepover for other kids like him. His dad took him. Ever since a woman attacked me in a Facebook support group – somehow refusing to believe a columnist they hate is also a human – I avoid all of these events. But I love that they do them. I eagerly await their return so I can see his happy face, see how fortified he is by being with other children going through the same thing. My husband likes it too, and I’ve been lucky enough to make one-to-one friendships in private messages on Instagram.

They are mums who know how hard it is and want to share the load. We are there for each other at different times; each of us have a turn. We carry each other. We proudly watch our children grow.

My husband and I have turned toward each other. Around our children. Around us have been more whānau, more friends. The team at the hospital are a lifeline; my husband adores them. He feels as if he is getting a school report every time we see them – it’s for this very reason I say I’ll watch the kids during clinic. We love his teacher aide so much. She is calm and clever and she brings out the best in him.

We are enveloped by people who want the best for him.

We married each other again. Clung to each other. Cried in each other’s arms. Somehow became stronger. Sometimes I’m overcome with how grateful I am to have him by my side doing this with me.

Our youngest tells his brother “I love you the most. You’re my best friend” every day. We say I love you a lot. We say I love you then I love you and then I love you, I love you, I love you. We fortify ourselves against all of this with I love yous. I love you so much.

And that’s what sits alongside the part of our fridge that is just for medicine. So much love. Love that gets you up in the morning. Love that’s there in the depths of night when you’re so afraid you can feel your heart beating. Love on the days when it’s all routine. Love on the days when it’s so confusing and you just don’t know why this hasn’t worked and why did his levels do this? Love is the answer for the questions we have. Love binds us and tells us it will get easier. Every second, minute, day, week, month – it’s love that keeps us going.