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 Ifailed 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.
