This evening as I push off and step gingerly, theatrically, geriatrically down the stairs, I approach that smooth red pathway and look both ways.  A yellow diamond of a sign with a black humanoid stick figure is transfixed in a walking pose.  Below it there’s another sign, white, with a silhouette of a bicycle.  Then I notice a little honeyeater perched on the top of the walking person sign, chirruping away to me or whoever.  “Hey, we’re here too!” it peeps, “Don’t forget about us!”  Then she vanishes with a wisp and a flutter.

I look both ways again, nothing coming.  I step onto that pathway and angle my new skates down the hill.  I begin to roll.  Faster now, metre by metre. The roll of the road beneath me, the cool evening air.  The sensation as I push from skate to skate, shifting weight from thigh to thigh, weaving my feet.  On the downhill run I begin to pick up speed, watching the apartments whizz by, beside rambling wildflowers that wrap around the diamond tessellated metal fences.  Up and around that smooth curving path, I’m nearly at the overpass and the river is being weeped on by splinters of rain, so fine that the only hint of its existence is on that sliding expanse of darkening water.

The surface changes now, smoother, it feels like rubber under my skates and I swing my arms wide, lunging forward and gulping air and I’m up on the bridge now, surveying the traffic coming my way to my left, the space and light of the river to my right.  Down below there are walkers and there are cyclists skirting the riverside, just like the signs said there should be.  There are also birds now that I see, soaring and dipping and waving to passers-by.  I’m weaving now, and feel the urge to try something.  I swish my feet around in a wide circle and grind to a rapid whipping stop, stationary now, gasping, alive, asthmatic, geriatric.  The traffic doesn’t stop, it seems faster now, it’s roaring in my face and the wind from the gas trucks is gusting over me and I roll faintly back towards the river until my skates hit the iron of the railings, safe.

I turn again and begin to move, reaching the crest of the bridge and over it and down again.  Now my confidence is building again and I swing my arms wider this time, though I squint ahead to see what’s coming up.  I’ve never crossed the river before, and I’m wary of cyclists whizzing by me or through me or over me like the gusts of the gas trucks.  Lower now, I’m going lower and twisting round the pathway that leads to the riverside once more, the northern riverside.  Brown ducks are tramping at the waters edge, feeling comfortable and not wanting to waste energy fleeing from potential predators on a Sunday evening.  But I make a point of disturbing them, it’s childish but I wave my arms about to see if they fly and how fast they can fly and whether I can skate faster.

Only one duck is lithe and energetic enough to take to the air and with a few beats he has beaten me, flies out of range and settles into the water with a trail of Vs behind him.  The water is pinkening now as the sky takes on its evening plumage.  The ducks are lethargic.

I weave again across paths and roads and suddenly I’m about to cross a real road.  There is a car approaching and I have to do a quick spinning stop to avoid any hairy situations.  I’m cautious to take off again but get my speed up.

Now I’m passing under the overpass, doubling back, chasing the riverside, chasing the ducks.  And under the dark concrete eves of the overpass there is a line of sportscars and their owners silhouetted in the walking pose, checking out each others’ motors and such.  I probably stand a bit more upright and puff out my chest a bit and assume the position of a skater who could handle himself if there was any trouble brewing.  Of course if any trouble was actually brewing then the quickest and least risky move would be to skate on out of there quick snap, not hang around for thugs and hoons to retrieve their tyre irons and fan belts and come looking for trouble.

I’m on the other side of the underpass now, clear and pink is the sky, then indigo up high.  The water is reflecting the pink sky now and its something ethereal and beautiful.  Even more so by the knowledge of its transience.  The birds seem calmer now, there is a grey heron poking his head above the  edge of the water, moseying along, bobbing, disappearing, coming back.  This is so beautiful, all these horizontal variations in light and surface and in the distance; skyscrapers.  There is a long V of birds flying home for the night up there in the blue.  They fan out and trail one another, constantly shifting the pattern as they climb.  I’m skating slower now, absently, I’m stopping at the grey heron and watching him bob around quietly.  Peace.  I skate past other apartments, these are grander with firework light displays of rich blues and sparkling hues.  The ferry terminal is here and people are emerging from a paddle steamer, kissing each other goodbye now.  I turn back and the city is beautiful and different from this angle.  The birds are long gone.

I turn back for home and the eerie jellyfish pink has left the sky and the water, they have withdrawn into night and cloud and I zip up my jacket to the very top, huffing against the cold as I pass the silhouettes of cars and men beneath the overpass.  I’m looping around the riverside and rejoining the cars that are wending their way home from weekends away.  We are all travelling the same direction now and I imagine myself leaping the barrier, reaching out and hitching a high-speed ride on the back of one of those cars.  Back past the apartments and the wildflowers, which have closed themselves against the shrinking twilight and retired for another day.  The honeyeater is still flitting about as I approach my apartment and I nod to her out of courtesy and she is chirruping happily.  I grind to a halt and step gingerly up the steps again, warm, sweating, alive, content.