The One Who Taught Us

It's always interesting, when reading books that have nothing to do with cycling what so ever, to come across such passages, casually thrown in. The world of bicycles permeates the text suddenly and then, just as abruptly, it is abandoned. It was, after all, only a snippet. A literary device. Usually a means of conjuring up a childhood memory, replete with symbolism.

Oddly enough I've stumbled upon these types of narratives in several completely different books I've recently read. Each time the passage had to do with learning how to ride a bike - or, more precisely, with the person who taught the author how to do so.

This makes me wonder whether most people - whether they go on to be cyclists in their adult lives or not - have such a memory, and similarly to these authors, feel the incident to be somehow pivotal to their life story. Is it an important memory, the kind of which we have a very vivid sensory recollection? Does it serve to illustrate either the character of the teacher, or the relationship between them and the fledgling cyclist? Furthermore, are there specific persons who tend to play this role in our lives? When I surveyed my friends, grandfathers and uncles made repeat appearances.

Reading and listening to the stories of others, I realise I may be an anomaly. No one taught me how to ride a bicycle. I figured it out myself, on a borrowed bike, alone, in a city park. New York City in springtime. Saturday afternoon. Cherry blossoms. Orthodox Jews strolling. Children's squeals in Spanish from the swings and monkey bars. And me, apart from it all, a clumsy curious child with messy hair, wearing something stripey, made of a terrycloth fabric. I do have a vivid memory of it, and in particular, of the moment I went from pushing off and coasting for several seconds at a time, to knowing, with a breathtaking certainty, that I could keep the bike in motion indefinitely and, aglow with this knowledge, planting my feet on the pedals. This moment went hand in hand with the awareness that no one was there to witness it, to congratulate or encourage, like I'd seen the minders of other children do. But it wasn't a sad feeling. To know that this unbelievable thing I'd just done was my secret only added a layer of depth to the magic.

In retrospect it would have been nice to share a special bond with a family member or older friend through the act of being taught how to cycle. But being my own teacher, however clumsily and haphazardly, makes for a nice memory as well.

PS: text excerpt from Birchwood by John Banville.

Is This About a Bicycle?

"Will you follow after me till I have a conversation with you privately?"

On this disconcertingly sunny day before New Year's Eve I am siting in a coffee shop in Coleraine, Northern Ireland. Past my table a smallish policeman wanders casually. He is dressed head to toe in protective gear, including a heavy bullet proof vest and an enormous face shield. No one but me pays him any attention. Heading for the rear of the shop, the policeman carries an object that resembles a briefcase made of oversized Legos, plastered with bright decals whose warnings my eyes can't discern in the dim interior. Some minutes later he re-emerges from the rear and - toylike briefcase firmly in hand - makes his way back across the room toward the exit, slowing his steps, it would seem, as he once again is about to walk past my table. For a moment I am certain - completely certain - that he intends to stop and say this very phrase to me. But he only throws a tired, face-shielded smile my way and walks out, and I remain there - mouth ajar, hand with coffee cup frozen in mid-air, and a copy of Flann O'Brien's The Third Policeman splayed open across my lap.

For some time I resisted reading this book, despite repeated suggestions that I really ought to. I shunned it due to an erroneous belief that it was a slapstick comedy detective story type of novel, to do with Ireland and a bunch of cycling policemen; I had so many other books to read that I could not be bothered with such a thing just then. Or so I said to myself. But in retrospect it is clear to me that my resistance to The Third Policeman was due to something else entirely - an intuitive knowing, if you will, that the book and all the information within it could prove hazardous for the delicate state of my mind. Because that it was, and is. While I am normally a quick reader, getting through The Third Policeman took me ages; it was too overwhelming to take in quickly. And at the end, I found myself conflicted between not being able to take much more of it, and not wanting it to end.

If you can imagine Master and Margarita crossed with The Naked Lunch, crossed with A Bit of Fry and Laurie, crossed with Waiting for Godot, crossed with almost anything by Thomas Pynchon… well, The Third Policeman is really nothing like that at all. But conjuring up such a hybrid might prepare you for it a little, maybe.

What is this book like, without giving too much away? I don't want to describe the plot or any of the details. Which is just as well, because what got to me was not any of that, but that the book tapped into - a little too realistically - my own experience of present-day rural Northern Ireland. Before you think this an attempt to be funny, let me explain that I refer not to the absurdity of the plot or specific encounters, but to Flann O'Brien's detailed portrayals of sensations, dialog, scenery and mannerisms. To be sure, he exaggerates and distorts grotesquely, and he re-shapes language. But in so doing he captures the essence of being here more poignantly than any other local author I have read. On top of this - or maybe because of it - his manner of communicating ideas (the kind of insane ideas I try to suppress in myself) is so delicate and subtle, it is easy to underestimate how deeply they penetrate the psyche until it's too late. Honestly, I will need to ride my bike for hours, possibly days on end, just to recover from the effect of this book.

And speaking of. I should move on to the important question for the readers of this blog: "Is this about a bicycle?" Well, since that might be the most quoted line in the book, the answer is a sort of yes. Except that it is really about language, metaphysics, the absurdity of organised society, and the pathology of everyday life. So on second thought… Sure, it is about a bicycle. After all, everything is.