The Accidental Cyclist

by Dennis Rink

  It was quite late by the time Icarus got up on Sunday morning.

  “Sleep well, dear?” his mother asked brightly as she served him his breakfast. Icarus said nothing, while his mother flitted about the tiny kitchen, unable to settle on any single task.

  “Would you like anything special for your dinner, dear?” she asked.

  Icarus looked up, looked straight at his mother, following her quick movements. His fixed his black eyes on her, and waited for her to settle, to take her perch and listen. When finally she stopped moving, he said: “I thought we were going to have the fish from Friday night.” He paused for a moment, then went on: “I really do care for you, and what you think, but I am determined to have that bicycle.”

  Mrs Smith did not move for several minutes. After her outburst of the previous night she believed that she had cleared up the misunderstanding, the silly idea that seemed to have entered Icarus’s head. How they had been planted there, she could only guess, but she’d had to act strongly, decisively. It had taken all of her strength, all her nerve, all her courage to walk into that basement and say no, and shout about what she believed. Like an athlete the day after running a marathon, it had drained her, and now she had no outburst left in her.

  And so Mrs Smith did not reply. She realised that her ammunition was spent, her armoury empty, she had nothing left. Slowly the tears began to trickle down her cheeks, and she did not know it. For the first time ever, her tears were not intended to achieve a particular goal – to break Icarus’s heart and bend his will to her way of thinking. These were tears of loss, of utter dejection, of defeat. Icarus knew that. He knew they were not a final attempt to turn the tide in this battle of wills. He knew, for once, that he had won, but there was no joy in this victory.

  The Smith family’s Sunday lunch was the fish stew that had not been eaten on Friday night. The roast chicken that they had been supposed to eat had been consumed by Icarus and the Grey Man during their night picnic on the bench in the park.

  As Icarus and his mother digested their desultory meal, he asked her why she was so offended by bicycles, why she hated the idea of him riding one. After some thought, she began: “It’s not about the bike. It’s about your father – he used to ride a bicycle. For all I know, he still does. You never saw your father, but he was beautiful, like one of those Greek gods.

  “When I met him I thought he had fallen out of heaven for me. I fell for him straight away – I really loved him, and I thought that he loved me too. He said he did, and maybe that was true, I just don’t know. But as much as he might have loved me, he loved his wretched bicycle more. Or at least, he loved the freedom that it gave him.

  “Every weekend he would climb on that bike and set off for hours, riding into the countryside, up and down hills, meeting other riders. And all the time, I would sit at home, alone, waiting for him to return, so that I could make him his tea, cook his food, wash his clothes, do whatever I could for him.

  “And then I fell pregnant with you,” a smile flickered across her wan face. “I thought, this will keep him at home. He will need to stay around and care for me, and our child.”

  She paused for a while, collecting her thoughts. “I thought that a baby would keep him at home, but it didn’t. If anything, it drove him away.”

  “Maybe he was just scared,” said Icarus.

  “Oh, he was certainly scared – of commitment. So was I. I was only 19 then, and I was scared of commitment. I was even more scared of the thought of losing him. But most of all, I think, I was scared of being left alone.”

  The fish stew in front of Icarus and his mother had gone cold and congealed. Icarus pushed his plate away and moved his chair around the table so that he was sitting next to his mother. He took her hand and held it in his. “You haven’t held my hand in years,” his mother said, looking up at him. “I suppose no one has held my hand, not for many, many years.”

  They sat in silence for a while, then Mrs Smith said: “Why don’t you go over the road to the park for a while. I’m sure you will find something to do there. It’s such a lovely day out.”

  “That’s okay, Mother,” said Icarus. “I’m happy to sit here with you.”

  “That’s very sweet of you, but I think you’ll find your friend is there. I’m sure that he’s also quite concerned about you, especially after all that fuss I made down there in the basement. You might even find that he has something for you.”

  Icarus kissed his mother on the forehead, then went to the front room and looked out of the window. There, on the same park bench, his back to the flat, sat the Grey Man, his legs stretched in front of him as he soaked up the sun. Next to him was a shining blue racing bike that Icarus had not seen before.

  11. HOUSTON, WE HAVE LIFT-OFF

  The lessons of riding a bicycle are the hardest to teach, and the easiest to learn. There is no right way of learning to ride, and no wrong way. There is no time of life when it is right to learn, and no time when it is wrong. When it comes to the process of learning to ride a bike, only two elements are essential: the learner, and the bike. All the other elements – environment, training wheels, cycling instructor, daddy running along and hanging on to the saddle – are peripheral, of minor importance. If the student truly desires to master this most basic means of locomotion, he (or she, of course) will find a way of doing so. You’ve probably never noticed it, but no one ever says they’re going to teach someone to ride a bike, because riding a bike is not really something that can be taught. The accomplishment of riding that bike can be learnt, but not taught. In these circumstances, having a teacher can often be more of a hindrance that a help, because the teacher cannot participate actively. They can only stand by, passively, hands on hips, and watch as the subject in question learns to master the art of cycling.

  As Icarus ran across the road from his flat to the park he carried none of these thoughts in his head. At the park gate he stopped short, held back for a moment by his fears. His first ride across the park, but a few weeks ago, now seemed like another lifetime, another world that he had dreamt of, nothing more. That ride, as exhilarating as it had been, was no more than an accident, a fluke. Now he faced the reality of climbing on the saddle, setting off under his own steam, balancing, turning, stopping. Yes, stopping before he rode into the rhododendrons. Icarus realised he was taking on a great responsibility – he had set himself this task and had no idea whether he could succeed. He was not afraid of falling. He was afraid only of failing. He could turn back, before the Grey Man saw him, go back to his flat and his mother and the certainty of a life unchanging, and pretend all of this excitement had never happened.

  Fate, as we know, is a cruel god. Often she leaves us hanging in the wind, tormented by our own indecision, unable to decide which course to follow. Today she intervened before Icarus stumbled to his own indecision, and she turned the Grey Man’s head, so he saw Icarus standing at the gate before he had time to turn and run.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said to Icarus. “Don’t just stand there gawping at it. Come on and give it a go.”

  “You knew I was coming?” asked Icarus.

  “I was pretty sure of it.”

  “Well, I’m glad that you were so sure, because I wasn’t.”

  Icarus stood beside the bench and admired the gleaming machine. He ran his fingers lightly over the drop handlebars, the classic steel racing frame. “It’s hard to believe that just a couple of days ago all this was just a heap of junk,” said Icarus.

  “Junk doesn’t mean that it’s rubbish or useless,” the Grey Man said, “it just means that it’s been discarded, and is no longer wanted by one person. But it can always be of use to someone else.”

  Icarus took the bike and pushed it back and forth in front of him, listening to the distinctive click-click-click of the freewheel. On the down tube the shining derailleur gear changers appeared to be of burnished gold, matching the cranks and big chain ring. The bright yellow saddle appeared to contradict the subtle, clas
sic tone of the rest of the bike. The Grey Man seemed to read Icarus’s thoughts: “It was the best saddle of the bunch.”

  “It looks … just wonderful,” said Icarus. “I’m just sorry that I couldn’t help you to put it all together.”

  “That’s okay,” said the Grey Man. “Your friend was really helpful. I think he’s got a knack for this type of thing.”

  “My friend?”

  “Yes, short, squat, stocky little fellow – got a bit of a temper on him. Helped us out in the basement of your flat.”

  “I know who you mean, it’s just that I never thought of him as a friend. He’s the one that landed me in jail.”

  “Perhaps it was a twist of fate,” said the Grey Man. “But he did help us out, didn’t he?”

  “Right enough. So I suppose he is a sort of friend then. I don’t think I’ve ever really had any friends before.”

  “Well, they’re a rare and precious commodity, and you don’t come across them every day. When you find one, take care of him, because some day you may need him as much as he needs you.”

  Icarus heard the Grey Man’s last statement without formulating its meaning, so the seed of its import lay dormant at the back of his mind as he turned his attention back to the bicycle. The two of them, man and almost-man, inspected the gears, the brakes, the wheels, the yellow saddle. Around them in the Sunday-afternoon park were adults and children on all size and shape of bicycle – mothers pedalling sedately, fathers encouraging their little ones to ride – little ones who whizzed about so quickly, darting this way and that, and never falling, that it looked as if they had been born in the saddle. It all looked so easy, so natural, as if, to all intents and purposes, it was what humankind had been born to do.

  “Well then,” said the Grey Man, “aren’t you going to take it for a ride?”

  This was the moment that Icarus had so desired and so dreaded. He had to tell the Grey Man that, after all his efforts of building this bicycle, he did not know how to ride.

  “It won’t bite you,” the Grey Man said.

  “Actually,” said Icarus, a little nervously, “I don’t really know how to ride a bike.”

  “Of course you do,” the Grey Man retorted. “Everyone knows how to ride a bike. It’s just that you haven’t had the opportunity to put it into practice.”

  Icarus looked at the Grey Man, at his grey eyes, his grey hair. He realised what a gentle person he was beneath that hard, steely exterior. He was so gentle, and so wise. And at this moment it was as if all the wisdom in the world was being filtered through him, and he knew everything that Icarus needed to know.

  “Here,” the Grey Man said, holding the bike, “just stand over the crossbar, hands on the handlebars.”

  Icarus hesitated.

  “Just trust me,” said the Grey Man.

  And, trusting him, Icarus did as he was told. It was just like the incident with the Condor Paris Galibier a few weeks before. He looked down and saw that there were no toeclips on the pedals, so that his feet would not be strapped to the machine.

  “I thought it would be too soon for toeclips,” the Grey Man said in response. He made Icarus use the brakes, and get the feel for them. He adjusted the height of the saddle so that Icarus could sit on the bike with his feet just touching the ground.

  “Now,” he said when he thought Icarus was ready, “scoot along with your feet still just touching the ground.” Icarus did so.

  “Now brake.” Icarus braked.

  “Let go the brakes, and just glide … lift your feet a bit off the ground … a bit more … now lean into the turn, don’t use the handlebars, just lean …”

  Icarus could feel the rising sense of exhilaration that had filled him before, and in just a few minutes he was gliding along with enough confidence to put his feet on the pedals. As the bike slowed down he turned the pedals, one revolution, then another, then several more. Self-propelled, he was moving across the grass, weaving between the scattered picnickers. The smile on his face grew. He did not want to stop in case he could not get going again.

  Eventually he noticed the Grey Man back at their bench, gesticulating for him to come back. Alongside the Grey Man was Icarus’s mother, anxiously biting her apron’s hem. Reluctantly Icarus steered back towards them, braking slowly as he neared them, and carefully coming to a halt right in front of them. Slowly, in a seemingly deliberate movement, he keeled over sideways and fell flat onto the grass.

  “Oh, Icky, are you alright?” his mother shrieked, bending down and trying to lift the boy. Icarus lay quite still on the ground. His body shuddered once, then again, then he rolled over and the Grey Man and Mrs Smith saw that he was convulsed with laughter. Quickly the two older people became infected with his laughter, and were holding their sides as they rocked, laughing as if they had never laughed before. Mrs Smith could not remember when last she had felt such unbounded happiness, such joy, and all because of a bicycle. She found it hard to believe.

  When finally they were able to speak again, the Grey Man said: “Oh, that’s something I forgot to tell you. When you stop, you have to remember to put your foot down.”

  “I don’t think I’ll forget next time,” said Icarus.

  12. SERMON ON THE MOUNT

  Over the week that followed Icarus practised riding in the park, weaving between benches and trees, across the grass and up and down the pathways, much to the annoyance of the park-keeper. His confidence grew along with his skill, and the Grey Man had to warn him continually that once he began to ride on the city’s streets he would have to start learning anew to understand the strict discipline that he would need to cope with the traffic.

  The Grey Man decided that the following Sunday morning would be a good day for Icarus’s maiden voyage on the road. The traffic was usually quiet on Sundays, and Icarus needed to get used to riding on the roads because in a week’s time he would begin work at the International Cycle Courier Company (Hackney Branch).

  The Sunday morning in question found Icarus and the Grey Man sitting on the steps of the flat, opposite the park, drinking tea, their bikes propped up against the railings.

  “Now, before we set off,” said the Grey Man solemnly, as if he were giving a sermon, “I have to tell you a few things.”

  Icarus was itching to get going. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “You can tell me while we are riding.”

  “No,” said the Grey Man, standing up. “We will do this now.” He wanted to add the words “… because your life may depend on it,” but decided it might frighten the boy.

  For a few moments he stood still, gathering his thoughts, then began, addressing the top of Icarus’s head, as if a multitude of Icaruses were gathered on the steps and all the way up into the building: “There is one road, but there are many travellers. As you move along, the road will change constantly. It will change direction, it will change gradient, it will change in its busy-ness. The weather conditions will change from sunshine to rain, the light will change from day to dusk, to night, to dawn. And all the time, your fellow travellers will be changing.

  “And remember, you must always think of them as fellow travellers. That way, they will keep your respect, and you theirs. But among all this movement, all this change, all this flux, there is always one constant, and that is you.”

  The Grey Man paused, looked at down Icarus to make sure he was listening, then looked back into the middle distance. Icarus nodded sagely, trying hard not to break the solemn mood. He realised the Grey Man was in serious mode, and Icarus was determined not to spoil that.

  “The constant is you,” the Grey Man repeated, “and it is also the only thing that you have complete control over. So always, always know exactly what you are doing, and where you are going, and what you are capable of.”

  Icarus squirmed on the stone steps, listening, willing the Grey Man to get on with it, so that they could get on their bikes and ride. Behind the Grey Man a small peloton of early morning cyclists pedalled past in tight formation, all dresse
d in identical team colours, clothing so tight that it looked as if it had been painted onto their bodies. Icarus followed them with his eyes, enviously.

  “Always know where you are going …” said the Grey Man – the repetition really sounded like a sermon, Icarus thought – “… and know what is going on around you. Be aware of your surroundings, and your fellow travellers..” The Grey Man paused for a moment, as if he had lost his place. He looked up, waiting for the god of cycling to give him the right words, then continued. “Ah, yes. And now we come to the Golden Rule. What do you think the Golden Rule might be?”

  Icarus thought for a moment, wondering if this might be a trick question. The Grey Man raised his grey eyebrows, questioning, waiting. “Erm,” said Icarus, “umm. Obey the Highway Code?” he ventured.

  “No, no no,” said the Grey Man. “The Golden Rule, the most important thing when cycling in the city, is: Be slightly paranoid.” He paused to allow this revelation to sink into Icarus’s brain. “That is it: Be slightly paranoid.”

  Icarus was wearing a confused look, so the Grey Man explained: “Think that everyone is out to get you, think that they are all trying to knock you off your bike.”

  “Are they?” asked Icarus, alarmed now. Suddenly he was listening intently.

  “No. Well, yes, occasionally they are, but very seldom. But no, generally they aren’t out to get you. What I’m trying to tell you is that you are most likely to be harmed by people who don’t think, people who don’t look, who don’t anticipate what is going to happen. There are people who will open car doors without looking, or taxi drivers who do sudden U-turns to pick up a fare. Or delivery van drivers who are looking for a street name or house number, so they’re too busy to look out for you. All these people aren’t out to get you, it’s just that they aren’t paying attention in general, and that’s what causes accidents. For you to stay safe, you have to anticipate all of this – you must expect the unexpected.”