AN IDYL OF THE TIRELESS BIKE 



By DR. C. E. CUMIMINGS 



VER ride a motor-cycle? 

 It's great ! Many years 

 ago when the modern ma- 

 chine, perfect in appoint- 

 ment and unlimited in 

 power, was but a vision 

 of the far future we used 

 to get up quite early on a 

 Sunday morning, don a 

 suit of worn-out apparel, 

 grease up the chain on the 

 old wheel, and proceed to< 

 kick ourselves over as many miles of 

 road and pavement as our wearied ex- 

 tremities would stand for. The coun- 

 try lanes invited us, the balmy air filled 

 our jaded systems, and we returned at 

 night filled with joy in living, a desire 

 for a hot bath, and much fatigue. And 

 oh, the memory of those awful hills ! 

 Like a dismal blot on a perfect page, 

 how they spoiled the beauty of the 

 otherwise perfect ensemble ! Often we 

 realized as we felt the steady drag and 

 pressure of the rising grade, that life 

 would never be complete till we had 

 secured a new means of locomotion, 

 combining the speed of the wind, the 

 hill-climbing ability of a cart-horse, and 

 the ready adaptability and simplicity of 

 the old reliable bike ! 



And to-day, as if to satisfy that very 

 longing, the dream has been realized, 

 the ideal has been accomplished — the 

 motor-cycle stands before us. Come 

 with me this pleasant morning. We 

 trundle the machines out of the shed, 

 stop but for a moment to be sure that 

 tanks are full, try the spark, feel the 

 tires, and take a look at nuts and bolts. 

 Everything seems right. We mount 

 the machine, kick the compression on, 

 turn in the lever, and we are off. The 

 pavements skim by under the restive 

 and eager wheels, the city line is 

 reached, and the broad country lies be- 

 fore us. 



To describe the positive exhilaration 

 of a well-timed motor-cycle on a smooth 

 road is beyond my power, therefore 

 will I attempt it not. I can only ask 

 you to imagine the glorious sensation 

 of the road as it slips by beneath us, 

 the rushing of the wind by our ears, 

 and the feeling of reliability which the 

 well-timed spark and proper mixture 

 give us as the regular throb of the en- 

 gine tells us that its work is being prop- 

 erly done. The joys of the automobile 

 are too well known to need mention 

 here, but the automobilist knows as lit- 

 tle of the pleasure of the two-wheeled 

 motor as does the rider in a carriage 

 appreciate the sport of an equestrian 

 mounted on a favorite hunter. The 

 first idea of the beginner at the game is 

 to open up, turn on all speed, and soon 

 we are striving to keep in sight a flee> 

 ing figure far ahead. But we know 

 how it is, and with the full assurance 

 that this mad desire for speed will soon 

 wear itself out, we are contented to 

 plug along at a reasonable rate with a 

 well-defined idea that we will get there 

 about as soon as our eager comrade. 

 And soon we see him, his machine 

 against the fence, his hands full of mis- 

 cellaneous tools, and a mind uncertain 

 whether to take off a tire, cuss the en- 

 gine, or telephone for a horse. We dis- 

 mount, look the machine over, and find 

 that the gasoline feed-cock has been 

 jarred shut by the speed of the engine. 

 We turn it on again, flood the carbure- 

 tor, and in a moment are speeding 

 along again as merrily as before. 



At the bottom of the hill one of the 

 party dismounts to get a drink and we 

 keep on, but at the top we, too, dis- 

 mount to rest for a moment in the 

 shade. We draw in big lungfuls of the 

 bracing air, and wish we were dead — 

 not. Presently we hear the roar of an 

 open exhaust, and we see our thirsty 



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