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Taming the Bicycle

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  • Taming the Bicycle

    Taming the Bicycle

    This text was written by Mark Twain who learned to ride highwheel
    bicycles in the early 1880's.
    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 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 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. 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, 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 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

    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 the 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.

    It 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 to examine.

    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 one of
    these days and run over him if he doesn't reform.

    Get a bicycle. You will not regret it, if you live.

    Mark Twain (1884)

  • #2
    What a great read! Thanks, Sam.
    Weep in the dojo... laugh on the battlefield.
    -- Dave Stockton


    • #3
      This should be required reading for every unicyclist.
      "...if a bunch of fellow unicyclists can't rally around, commiserate and say 'chin up, lad', then what is this world coming to?" -GILD


      • #4
        I've found out what Pond's Extract is, clearly they had similar chafing problems although a barrel seems excessive...
        Uni - The Unicycle Magazine


        • #5
          Thanks for that.


          • #6
            Re: Taming the Bicycle

            On 12/01/2008 12:34, Mark Twain wrote:
            At least the people on enjoyed it, but I wonder
            what possible reason there can have been for cross-posting to
            alt.ozdebate, alt.prophecies.nostradamus, misc.writing, alt.sf.creative,
   and rec.bicycles.rides.

            I doubt the OP will be reading follow-ups, anyway.

            Danny Colyer <>
            Reply address is valid, but that on my website is checked more often
            "The plural of anecdote is not data" - Frank Kotsonis


            • #7
              mike, you should put this in UniMag


              • #8
                Originally posted by scotthue
                mike, you should put this in UniMag
                I was thinking the exact same thing. What a delightful read.

                Thanks for posting it, "Mark Twain".


                • #9
                  That was brilliant. Time to dig out my old Mark Twain novels! Oh when i discovered there was more to mark Twain than Huck Finn
                  Your life is a storm, thunder is your music and lightning is your electric dancing legs, groove on friends. Groove on.


                  • #10
                    I needed a copy of this for a friend today. Thought I'd give it a bump.


                    • #11
                      I need a tl;dr version of this.


                      • #12
                        Wonderful story!

                        Thank you Mark.