Taming the Bicycle by Mark Twain
(Written about 1893; not before published)
In the early eighties Mark Twain learned to ride one of the old high-wheel
bicycles of that period. He wrote an account of his experience, but did
not offer it for publication. The form of bicycle he rode long ago became
antiquated, but in the humor of his pleasantry is a quality which does not
A. B. P. I
I thought the matter over, and concluded I could do it. So I went down and
bought a barrel of Pond's Extract and a bicycle. The Expert came home with
me to instruct me. We chose the back yard, for the sake of privacy, and
went to work.
Mine was not a full-grown bicycle, but only a colt—a fifty-inch,
with the pedals shortened up to forty-eight—and skittish, like any
other colt. The Expert explained the thing's points briefly, then he got
on its back and rode around a little, to show me how easy it was to do. He
said that the dismounting was perhaps the hardest thing to learn, and so
we would leave that to the last. But he was in error there. He found, to
his surprise and joy, that all that he needed to do was to get me on to
the machine and stand out of the way; I could get off, myself. Although I
was wholly inexperienced, I dismounted in the best time on record. He was
on that side, shoving up the machine; we all came down with a crash, he at
the bottom, I next, and the machine on top.
We examined the machine, but it was not in the least injured. This was
hardly believable. Yet the Expert assured me that it was true; in fact,
the examination proved it. I was partly to realize, then, how admirably
these things are constructed. We applied some Pond's Extract, and resumed.
The Expert got on the OTHER side to shove up this time, but I dismounted
on that side; so the result was as before.
The machine was not hurt. We oiled ourselves up again, and resumed. This
time the Expert took up a sheltered position behind, but somehow or other
we landed on him again.
He was full of surprised admiration; said it was abnormal. She was all
right, not a scratch on her, not a timber started anywhere. I said it was
wonderful, while we were greasing up, but he said that when I came to know
these steel spider-webs I would realize that nothing but dynamite could
cripple them. Then he limped out to position, and we resumed once more.
This time the Expert took up the position of short-stop, and got a man to
shove up behind. We got up a handsome speed, and presently traversed a
brick, and I went out over the top of the tiller and landed, head down, on
the instructor's back, and saw the machine fluttering in the air between
me and the sun. It was well it came down on us, for that broke the fall,
and it was not injured.
Five days later I got out and was carried down to the hospital, and found
the Expert doing pretty fairly. In a few more days I was quite sound. I
attribute this to my prudence in always dismounting on something soft.
Some recommend a feather bed, but I think an Expert is better.
The Expert got out at last, brought four assistants with him. It was a
good idea. These four held the graceful cobweb upright while I climbed
into the saddle; then they formed in column and marched on either side of
me while the Expert pushed behind; all hands assisted at the dismount.
The bicycle had what is called the "wabbles," and had them very badly. In
order to keep my position, a good many things were required of me, and in
every instance the thing required was against nature. Against nature, but
not against the laws of nature. That is to say, that whatever the needed
thing might be, my nature, habit, and breeding moved me to attempt it in
one way, while some immutable and unsuspected law of physics required that
it be done in just the other way. I perceived by this how radically and
grotesquely wrong had been the life-long education of my body and members.
They were steeped in ignorance; they knew nothing—nothing which it
could profit them to know. For instance, if I found myself falling to the
right, I put the tiller hard down the other way, by a quite natural
impulse, and so violated a law, and kept on going down. The law required
the opposite thing—the big wheel must be turned in the direction in
which you are falling. It is hard to believe this, when you are told it.
And not merely hard to believe it, but impossible; it is opposed to all
your notions. And it is just as hard to do it, after you do come to
believe it. Believing it, and knowing by the most convincing proof that it
is true, does not help it: you can't any more DO it than you could before;
you can neither force nor persuade yourself to do it at first. The
intellect has to come to the front, now. It has to teach the limbs to
discard their old education and adopt the new.
The steps of one's progress are distinctly marked. At the end of each
lesson he knows he has acquired something, and he also knows what that
something is, and likewise that it will stay with him. It is not like
studying German, where you mull along, in a groping, uncertain way, for
thirty years; and at last, just as you think you've got it, they spring
the subjunctive on you, and there you are. No—and I see now, plainly
enough, that the great pity about the German language is, that you can't
fall off it and hurt yourself. There is nothing like that feature to make
you attend strictly to business. But I also see, by what I have learned of
bicycling, that the right and only sure way to learn German is by the
bicycling method. That is to say, take a grip on one villainy of it at a
time, and learn it—not ease up and shirk to the next, leaving that
one half learned.
When you have reached the point in bicycling where you can balance the
machine tolerably fairly and propel it and steer it, then comes your next
task—how to mount it. You do it in this way: you hop along behind it
on your right foot, resting the other on the mounting-peg, and grasping
the tiller with your hands. At the word, you rise on the peg, stiffen your
left leg, hang your other one around in the air in a general in indefinite
way, lean your stomach against the rear of the saddle, and then fall off,
maybe on one side, maybe on the other; but you fall off. You get up and do
it again; and once more; and then several times.
By this time you have learned to keep your balance; and also to steer
without wrenching the tiller out by the roots (I say tiller because it IS
a tiller; "handle-bar" is a lamely descriptive phrase). So you steer
along, straight ahead, a little while, then you rise forward, with a
steady strain, bringing your right leg, and then your body, into the
saddle, catch your breath, fetch a violent hitch this way and then that,
and down you go again.
But you have ceased to mind the going down by this time; you are getting
to light on one foot or the other with considerable certainty. Six more
attempts and six more falls make you perfect. You land in the saddle
comfortably, next time, and stay there—that is, if you can be
content to let your legs dangle, and leave the pedals alone a while; but
if you grab at once for the pedals, you are gone again. You soon learn to
wait a little and perfect your balance before reaching for the pedals;
then the mounting-art is acquired, is complete, and a little practice will
make it simple and easy to you, though spectators ought to keep off a rod
or two to one side, along at first, if you have nothing against them.
And now you come to the voluntary dismount; you learned the other kind
first of all. It is quite easy to tell one how to do the voluntary
dismount; the words are few, the requirement simple, and apparently
undifficult; let your left pedal go down till your left leg is nearly
straight, turn your wheel to the left, and get off as you would from a
horse. It certainly does sound exceedingly easy; but it isn't. I don't
know why it isn't but it isn't. Try as you may, you don't get down as you
would from a horse, you get down as you would from a house afire. You make
a spectacle of yourself every time.
During the eight days I took a daily lesson of an hour and a half. At the
end of this twelve working-hours' apprenticeship I was graduated—in
the rough. I was pronounced competent to paddle my own bicycle without
outside help. It seems incredible, this celerity of acquirement. It takes
considerably longer than that to learn horseback-riding in the rough.
Now it is true that I could have learned without a teacher, but it would
have been risky for me, because of my natural clumsiness. The self-taught
man seldom knows anything accurately, and he does not know a tenth as much
as he could have known if he had worked under teachers; and, besides, he
brags, and is the means of fooling other thoughtless people into going and
doing as he himself has done. There are those who imagine that the unlucky
accidents of life—life's "experiences"—are in some way useful
to us. I wish I could find out how. I never knew one of them to happen
twice. They always change off and swap around and catch you on your
inexperienced side. If personal experience can be worth anything as an
education, it wouldn't seem likely that you could trip Methuselah; and yet
if that old person could come back here it is more that likely that one of
the first things he would do would be to take hold of one of these
electric wires and tie himself all up in a knot. Now the surer thing and
the wiser thing would be for him to ask somebody whether it was a good
thing to take hold of. But that would not suit him; he would be one of the
self-taught kind that go by experience; he would want to examine for
himself. And he would find, for his instruction, that the coiled patriarch
shuns the electric wire; and it would be useful to him, too, and would
leave his education in quite a complete and rounded-out condition, till he
should come again, some day, and go to bouncing a dynamite-can around to
find out what was in it.
But we wander from the point. However, get a teacher; it saves much time
and Pond's Extract.
Before taking final leave of me, my instructor inquired concerning my
physical strength, and I was able to inform him that I hadn't any. He said
that that was a defect which would make up-hill wheeling pretty difficult
for me at first; but he also said the bicycle would soon remove it. The
contrast between his muscles and mine was quite marked. He wanted to test
mine, so I offered my biceps—which was my best. It almost made him
smile. He said, "It is pulpy, and soft, and yielding, and rounded; it
evades pressure, and glides from under the fingers; in the dark a body
might think it was an oyster in a rag." Perhaps this made me look grieved,
for he added, briskly: "Oh, that's all right, you needn't worry about
that; in a little while you can't tell it from a petrified kidney. Just go
right along with your practice; you're all right."
Then he left me, and I started out alone to seek adventures. You don't
really have to seek them—that is nothing but a phrase—they
come to you.
I chose a reposeful Sabbath-day sort of a back street which was about
thirty yards wide between the curbstones. I knew it was not wide enough;
still, I thought that by keeping strict watch and wasting no space
unnecessarily I could crowd through.
Of course I had trouble mounting the machine, entirely on my own
responsibility, with no encouraging moral support from the outside, no
sympathetic instructor to say, "Good! now you're doing well—good
again—don't hurry—there, now, you're all right—brace up,
go ahead." In place of this I had some other support. This was a boy, who
was perched on a gate-post munching a hunk of maple sugar.
He was full of interest and comment. The first time I failed and went down
he said that if he was me he would dress up in pillows, that's what he
would do. The next time I went down he advised me to go and learn to ride
a tricycle first. The third time I collapsed he said he didn't believe I
could stay on a horse-car. But the next time I succeeded, and got clumsily
under way in a weaving, tottering, uncertain fashion, and occupying pretty
much all of the street. My slow and lumbering gait filled the boy to the
chin with scorn, and he sung out, "My, but don't he rip along!" Then he
got down from his post and loafed along the sidewalk, still observing and
occasionally commenting. Presently he dropped into my wake and followed
along behind. A little girl passed by, balancing a wash-board on her head,
and giggled, and seemed about to make a remark, but the boy said,
rebukingly, "Let him alone, he's going to a funeral."
I have been familiar with that street for years, and had always supposed
it was a dead level; but it was not, as the bicycle now informed me, to my
surprise. The bicycle, in the hands of a novice, is as alert and acute as
a spirit-level in the detecting of delicate and vanishing shades of
difference in these matters. It notices a rise where your untrained eye
would not observe that one existed; it notices any decline which water
will run down. I was toiling up a slight rise, but was not aware of it. It
made me tug and pant and perspire; and still, labor as I might, the
machine came almost to a standstill every little while. At such times the
boy would say: "That's it! take a rest—there ain't no hurry. They
can't hold the funeral without YOU."
Stones were a bother to me. Even the smallest ones gave me a panic when I
went over them. I could hit any kind of a stone, no matter how small, if I
tried to miss it; and of course at first I couldn't help trying to do
that. It is but natural. It is part of the ass that is put in us all, for
some inscrutable reason.
I was at the end of my course, at last, and it was necessary for me to
round to. This is not a pleasant thing, when you undertake it for the
first time on your own responsibility, and neither is it likely to
succeed. Your confidence oozes away, you fill steadily up with nameless
apprehensions, every fiber of you is tense with a watchful strain, you
start a cautious and gradual curve, but your squirmy nerves are all full
of electric anxieties, so the curve is quickly demoralized into a jerky
and perilous zigzag; then suddenly the nickel-clad horse takes the bit in
its mouth and goes slanting for the curbstone, defying all prayers and all
your powers to change its mind—your heart stands still, your breath
hangs fire, your legs forget to work, straight on you go, and there are
but a couple of feet between you and the curb now. And now is the
desperate moment, the last chance to save yourself; of course all your
instructions fly out of your head, and you whirl your wheel AWAY from the
curb instead of TOWARD it, and so you go sprawling on that granite-bound
inhospitable shore. That was my luck; that was my experience. I dragged
myself out from under the indestructible bicycle and sat down on the curb
I started on the return trip. It was now that I saw a farmer's wagon
poking along down toward me, loaded with cabbages. If I needed anything to
perfect the precariousness of my steering, it was just that. The farmer
was occupying the middle of the road with his wagon, leaving barely
fourteen or fifteen yards of space on either side. I couldn't shout at him—a
beginner can't shout; if he opens his mouth he is gone; he must keep all
his attention on his business. But in this grisly emergency, the boy came
to the rescue, and for once I had to be grateful to him. He kept a sharp
lookout on the swiftly varying impulses and inspirations of my bicycle,
and shouted to the man accordingly:
"To the left! Turn to the left, or this jackass 'll run over you!" The man
started to do it. "No, to the right, to the right! Hold on! THAT won't do!—to
the left!—to the right!—to the LEFT—right! left—ri—Stay
where you ARE, or you're a goner!"
And just then I caught the off horse in the starboard and went down in a
pile. I said, "Hang it! Couldn't you SEE I was coming?"
"Yes, I see you was coming, but I couldn't tell which WAY you was coming.
Nobody could—now, COULD they? You couldn't yourself—now, COULD
you? So what could I do?"
There was something in that, and so I had the magnanimity to say so. I
said I was no doubt as much to blame as he was.
Within the next five days I achieved so much progress that the boy
couldn't keep up with me. He had to go back to his gate-post, and content
himself with watching me fall at long range.
There was a row of low stepping-stones across one end of the street, a
measured yard apart. Even after I got so I could steer pretty fairly I was
so afraid of those stones that I always hit them. They gave me the worst
falls I ever got in that street, except those which I got from dogs. I
have seen it stated that no expert is quick enough to run over a dog; that
a dog is always able to skip out of his way. I think that that may be
true: but I think that the reason he couldn't run over the dog was because
he was trying to. I did not try to run over any dog. But I ran over every
dog that came along. I think it makes a great deal of difference. If you
try to run over the dog he knows how to calculate, but if you are trying
to miss him he does not know how to calculate, and is liable to jump the
wrong way every time. It was always so in my experience. Even when I could
not hit a wagon I could hit a dog that came to see me practice. They all
liked to see me practice, and they all came, for there was very little
going on in our neighborhood to entertain a dog. It took time to learn to
miss a dog, but I achieved even that.
I can steer as well as I want to, now, and I will catch that boy out one
of these days and run over HIM if he doesn't reform.
Get a bicycle. You will not regret it, if you live.