Katie Holland: Four wheels good, two wheels ... um

LIKE RIDING A BIKE: If I look unconvinced, it's because I was.

A few weeks ago I considered writing a column about mountain biking. Wait, stay with me.

It wasn't to extol the virtues of it, though I have nothing against Rotorua's favourite sport/pastime/obsession. It was to admit something slightly shameful, something I had to date shared only with my most trusted friends.

It was to admit that I do not mountain bike. Sorry. Living here, in this mountain biking mecca of New Zealand, where all the cool kids are at it, I just hadn't caught the bug.

I wished I had. I tried once, with a lovely friend who loaned me a bike, taught me how to use gears then patiently led me round a couple of laps of The Dipper - which on first writing I called the Big Dipper before I Googled its correct name.

See what I mean? I should hand in my Rotorua library card and leave town.

I didn't hate it, but it wasn't love at first sight. We didn't click, and while I had every intention of trying again, it just hadn't happened.

The problem is I am a big fat wuss. It's the same with skiing.

As soon as I start building up the slightest bit of speed self-preservation kicks in and I purposely fall over. I scream going down the Big Splash at Rainbow Springs. I never did those backwards drops on the bars at primary school. And it's the same on a bike, I'm the one with the brakes permanently on. Sometimes not even going downhill.

But - and my Dipper instructor will be so proud of me - I got back on the bike last weekend. Ironically, it took leaving Rotorua to make it happen.

We were in Hanmer Springs celebrating my dad's 70th. My pensioner father, who puts me to shame by regularly riding 40km or 50km when not running or swimming, wanted to check out the mountain biking.

So it was that on Saturday morning, three generations of Hollands geared up for a family bike ride. Outwardly I was calm, inwardly I was packing it, and worried I would also be put to shame by an 8 and 11-year-old.

We rode The Big Easy, the beginner trail, the one the man in the rental shop recommended for "the kids". The kids were the perfect excuse, but it suited me to a tee.

While I will never have the kind of fearlessness my nieces displayed, I like to think I held my own.

Towards the end I even went down a little slope without slamming on the brakes, letting out a bit of a whoop while I was at it. It was great, I may even have done another lap if the hot pools and boutiques weren't calling.

It's too soon to say whether I am now a mountain bike convert. I certainly won't be entering Crankworx or trading tales of sick rides and dope tricks with the cool kids anytime soon. Judging by that sentence, I would first need to learn the lingo.

But my interest has been piqued. I'm considering saving up for a bike, one with excellent brakes. Then maybe mountain biking and I can give a second date a shot. Like the cheese guys say, sometimes good things take time.