Yep, Che is speaking three-syllable words. And his Dada’s pride is palpable. Why? Because after saying the usual Muma, Dada, bubba, hello, no…he can say motorbike (mo-ha-ka). I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said it was bordering on obsession. I have to steer clear of bikes in the park or near the beach because regardless of the fact that he’s still unsteady on his feet, my little one will try to climb up and go for a ride. Brrroooommmm, brrrooommmm. Oh yeah, that’s right, I birthed a boy. A male. Who is already fascinated by wheels, handlebars and helmets – beep beep!

Since the day this 1978 Yamaha SR500 made its way into our garage my baby has turned into a bike-loving kid with passion and drive (pun completely intended).

I’ve stocked up on band-aids. And arnica. And I’m practicing my speech that I will stand-by regardless of the whinging: “You can get a motorbike when you’re 21…and no sooner.”