Some Notions of a Bicycle

I wouldn’t sell my bike for all the money in the world, not for a hundred billion million trillion dollars.
-- Pee-Wee Herman, “Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure,” 1985

The future’s all yours, you lousy bicycles.
-- Butch Cassidy, “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” 1969

I left her my bicycle which I had taken a dislike to, suspecting it to be the vehicle of some malignant agency and perhaps the cause of my recent misfortunes.
-- Samuel Beckett, “Molloy,” 1951

Without a word to anyone who might have had a say in the matter, I left the town square riding high on my mount and made my way through the area called Au and out into the open country, heading for Salzburg. Though I was still too small to reach the pedals and at the same time sit on the saddle—like all undersized beginners I had to stand on them—I got up a fair speed, and the fact that the road went downhill afforded me additional delight. If only my people knew what I’ve achieved already by my surprise decision, I thought; if only they could see me and at the same time admire me—for they would not be able to do otherwise! I pictured their amazement, their utter astonishment. I did not doubt for a second that my skill was such as to cancel out any offense, indeed any crime, I might have committed. Who, apart from myself, would be capable of getting on a bicycle for the very first time and simply riding off—with the supreme ambition, moreover, of reaching Salzburg? They would have to realise that I always succeeded in whatever I set my mind to, despite any constraint and opposition, and emerged as victor! Above all, I wished, as I pressed down on the pedals, having already reached the ravines below Surberg, that I could be seen by my grandfather, the person I loved more than anyone else in the world. But since they were not there to see me and knew nothing of my adventure (which was by now well advanced), I had to perform my feat without witnesses. When we are riding high, there is nothing we long for so much as an admiring observer; but there was none present. I had to make do with observing and admiring myself. The harder the air blew in my face and the nearer I got to my destination, my Aunt Fanny’s house, the greater was the distance between myself and the scene of my enormity. When I came to a straight stretch of road and closed my eyes for a moment, I felt a thrill of triumph. Secretly I was at one with my grandfather, for on this day I had made the greatest discovery of my life so far; I had given my existence a new turn, possibly the decisive turn, by learning the art of movement on wheels. This was how the cyclist met the world—from above! He raced along, his feet not touching the ground. He was a cyclist, which was as much as to say, I am the ruler of the world. In a state of unparalleled elation I reached Teisendorf, famous for its brewery. Immediately afterwards I had to dismount and push the bicycle, the property of my guardian, who had vanished almost completely from our lives by joining the army. Now I got to know the unpleasant side of cycling. The road became very long, and I began to count first the stones lining the edge of the road, then the cracks in the asphalt. Only now did I notice that the stocking on my right leg was covered with oil from the chain and hanging down in ribbons. I felt dejected at the sight of my torn stocking and my oil-covered leg, which had already begun to bleed. Was this the first stage in a developing tragedy? Before me lay Strass. I knew the countryside and the villages from a number of train journeys I had made to visit my Auntie Fanny, who was married to my mother’s brother. It all looked quite different now. Would my lungs last out as far as Salzburg? I jumped onto the bicycle and pedaled away, adopting the well-known racing posture, more out of despair and ambition than out of exaltation and enthusiasm, trying to get up an even greater speed. When I had passed Strass and was within sight of Unterstrass, the bicycle chain broke and became hopelessly entangled in the spokes of my rear wheel. I was catapulted into a ditch. This was the end, without any doubt. I got up and looked round. No one had observed me. It would have been ludicrous to be caught doing this fatal header. I picked the bicycle up and tried to disentangle the chain from the spokes. Covered with oil and blood and trembling with disappointment, I looked in what I took to be was the direction of Salzburg. When all was said and done, I would have had only another seven or eight miles to cover. Only now did I realise that I did not know my Auntie Fanny’s address. I should never have found the house with the flower garden. If I had asked, Where is my Auntie Fanny? or Where does my Auntie Fanny live?—supposing that I had actually got to Salzburg—there would have been either no answer at all or else several hundred. I stood there envying the people passing me in their cars or on their motorbikes and taking no notice whatever of my distress. At least the back wheel would still turn, and so it was still possible to push my guardian’s bicycle, though admittedly back to where disaster awaited me and darkness suddenly loomed. In my previous exuberance I naturally had lost all sense of time, and to make matters worse a rain storm suddenly came on, making an inferno out of the countryside I had just ridden through in such supreme elation. The rain came down mercilessly, completely drenching me and turning the road within seconds into a raging torrent, and as I pushed the bicycle in the downpour I never stopped crying. Each time the wheel revolved, the buckled spokes scraped against the frame. It was now completely dark, and I could no longer see a thing . . .
--Thomas Bernhard, “Gathering Evidence,” 1985

Today, on The History Channel

This morning, on The History Channel, I saw the most fascinating and informative program. Perhaps you've seen it? It's a documentary, apparently, called "Patriot Games" in which a group of bloodthirsty terrorists invade America. In this case the terrorists are Irish (I'm sure you all remember when Irish terrorists invaded America, I think it was in the 1980s), but somehow this doesn't make the film any less pertinent than if the terrorists had been from, say, Iraq. Frankly, I learned a lot by watching it!

For instance, I learned all about the way a terrorist's mind works. "Patriot Games" focuses on one terrorist in particular, Sean, who went out of his way to attack the American home and family of a well-known CIA agent, Harrison Ford. Sean was very upset at Harrison Ford because, while on holiday in England, Harrison Ford killed Sean's little brother (who was also a terrorist, but still a young and relatively innocent one). Apparently Sean didn't realize that a good CIA agent never goes off duty, even while on holiday in England he is allowed -- actually, encouraged -- to kill whatever kind of terrorist he sees fit, even the relatively innocent kind. (I guess I learned something about the CIA too!) Anyway, Sean was really upset about this, so he convinced some of his terrorist friends to attack America with him, as revenge for his little brother. Pretty soon it became clear to me that terrorists don't even care about anything at all, other than revenge and mindless killings. Although these particular terrorists started out with some kind of mission (I think it had to do with something called the IRA, I'm not exactly sure, the film wasn't so clear on this point), but by the end it's obvious that the terrorists are only thirsty for blood, especially the blood of Harrison Ford and his family, for which the terrorists had gained a taste earlier in the film when they machine gunned Harrison Ford's wife and daughter (who survived, thankfully, even though his daughter lost her spleen). This, I think, is why the film was ultimately about family values. In fact, the more that I think about it, the more important I think "Patriot Games" is with its numerous messages about family values and national defense and the bloodthirsty mindset of the terrorists who will clearly stop at nothing to pursue their mindless killings, even when it means coming to America and trying to kill us family by family at night while we sleep in our own homes. Anyway, I also learned that it's better to keep the family shotgun loaded and easily accessible at all times, with plenty of fresh shells nearby, than to hide it in some closet, unloaded, with the box of shells stashed somewhere else altogether. I mean, what kind of sense would that make?

So, you see, I learned a lot by watching the documentary "Patriot Games" on The History Channel. The whole experience has convinced me to tune in to the History Channel more often in the future. In college, I used to watch The History Channel all the time. My favorite program was a documentary about all the different kinds of poison gas they used in World War I. Some kinds would choke you to death or burn you or blind you whereas other kinds would make you bleed on the inside. They sure used a lot of poison gas in that war! But now I have seen that The History Channel has broadened its scope even more and will now cover current historical events -- and with equal grace and authority. Bravo History Channel!