The Man With Rubber Pedals

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Anonymous's picture
Anonymous


(Origin and Date Unknown)


It has all the latest fixings, barrel hubs and narrow tread,
It weighs under 20lb or less, is as rigid as the dead,
It's the every newest pattern and the very latest grade,
And it cost you all the money in the last 3 months you made,
So you wheel it from the agent's and your bosom swells with pride,
As you mount it by the kerbside and you start it's maiden ride,
Past the trains, the cars, the traffic and everything you've sped,
Till you see a man with rubber pedals, plugging slowly on ahead.

He is fourty years of age and of antiquated stock,
Sitting upright as a soldier and as bandy as a jock,
He is wobbly, he is shifty and his handlebars are wide,
From crank to crank his tread is 18 inches and his frame,
Is a pattern that was popular when first the 'safety' came,
And as you gain upon him you are thinking 'I must show,
How a good man, on a jigger that is up to date can go!'

So you fold your arms and pass him in an attitude of grace,
When a beautific smile across his open whiskered face
Makes your conscience somehow smite you as across his track you wizz,
Lest you show him perhaps too harshly what an utter mug he is,
And when you think that he is about 100 yards behind,
The man with rubber pedals goes completely from your mind,
Till a darkness at your elbow and a rattling in your ear,
Shows the man with rubber pedals is still battling in the rear,

Then you think with some resentment, 'This is not as this should be,
This man with rubber pedals, taking all his pace from me',
Such presumption is opposed to all the honours of the game,
And if I show him up, then he's got himself to blame,
So you drop your arms and lightly touch the nickled head,
With an ankling calculated just to kill that fellow dead,
But after a mile or so, you are astound to feel,
That man with rubber pedals hanging calmly on your wheel,

So you argue out the question, and you're bustled to confess,
That the man is up to scratch, with the fitness of the best,
Still, for such as him to push you is a thing you can't allow,
He's asked for pace, and Holy Moses, won't he get it now?
You drop your head twelve inches, grip your handlebars tight and lift,
As you calves and biceps swell, by jingo, don't you shift,
Then you reckon you've left him and it's nearly time to slack,
When you hear the cussed rattle of his mudguards at your back,

He can hold his own at sprinting, that's proved beyond a doubt,
So the only way to beat him is to simply wear him out,
You set a nice 240 beat and to yourself you hiss,
That man with rubber pedals can't stand many miles of this!
As the townships travels past you and the milestones rise ahead,
Your thighs are working stiffly, and your handlebars you clinch,
But the man with rubber pedals hasn't shifted, not an inch,

At last, in view of traffic and the fast approaching night,
You decide that it's best to take the turning to the right,
And as you turn around he passes upright as the just,
With that beautific smile of his still glowing through the dust,
Be you cycling to Sans Souci, he'll be there to do you bad,
He is on St Kilda Rd and every western camel pad,
Be you cycling in the country, be you cycling in the town,
That man with rubber pedals will be there to bring you down

Anonymous's picture
Etoain Q. Shrdlu (not verified)
It's not the engine either. It's the spirit.

Excellent poem, Evan, but the message is wrong. It's not the engine, it's the spirit that powers the engine.

This thought reminds me of an ancient Montenegrin cycling chant, which groups of riders once recited to raise their spirits while pedaling the famous Montenegro-Transylvania- Montenegro brevet. Of course, it sounds better in the original language, but if you’ll forgive a rough English translation…

As I rode down the road one day
I thought I seemed to feel
An icy wind behind me
And a groaning ‘neath my wheel

And then suddenly I noticed
A grim spirit riding by
A greenish, ghostly creature
Helmet cocked o’er its right eye

And it bent a bony finger
Giving off an odor vile
And it beckoned me to follow
If I could keep up a while

So I got my wheel behind it
And I kept up in its draft
When it levitated off the ground
And then began to laugh

And it said in such a spirit
That it sounded quite contrarian,
Somewhat spooky, somewhat creepy
And a little bit Hungarian:

“I am in front of you
I am in back of you
I am beside you and behind you
And I’m also underneath

“I am on top of you
In your musette bag, too,
I’ll bite holes through both your tires
With my shiny pointed teeth!”

“Oh greenish ghostly presence,
Oh car up!” I lamely cried
But the presence kept on pedaling
So I kept up — or I tried.

Yes, I pedaled even harder
Trying to maintain its pace
When its head turned ‘round
To speak to me --
Then I saw it had no face

But it spoke up just the same
In its grisly Hungarian way
And it laughed a roaring echo
And it had these words to say:

“I don’t need no stinking face, my boy,
I can see the car up now
I fear not those motor vehicles
I’m a vampire, not a cow,

“I am below you,
I am above you
I’m on top and underneath you
And I’m flanking both your sides
I am the deadly
I am the creepy
I am the ghost of undead cyclists
And by the way…surprise!”

And he rode right up the engine
Of the auto coming at him
And he rode his bike
Over its roof
There was nothing that could stop him

But the car hit me — it hit me square
It knocked me on my side
I had broken bones and broken teeth
And road rash on my hide

And the spirit pedaled off my front
And as he rode he said,
“Tell the world you met the spirit
Of the bicycling un-dead

“And I’ll meet up with the rest of you
On the shoulder of the road
And quite suddenly you’ll tucker out
Your muscles stiff and cold

“And your legs will ache, your lungs will burn
Your eyes will smart and sting
And you’ll have the sense that you have met
A grisly, gruesome thing

“And you’ll know I’m there
Because your hair
Will stand up on your neck
And I’ll bite your wheel
“And throw you off
And fling you off my back.

“I am in front of you
I am in back of you
I am beside you and behind you
And I’m also underneath
I am on top of you
And all around you
I’ll bite holes through both your tires
With my shiny pointed teeth!”

And finally I heard him exclaim
As he pedaled out of sight
“Screw all this poetry crap
I’m outta here to ride my bike.”

Your Pal,
Etoain

Copyright 2004 by Etoain Shrdlu

Anonymous's picture
E.T. O. A.I.N. Shrdlu (not verified)
Wrong Evan, it's not the engine. It's the spirit.

Excellent poem, Evan. But wrong. It’s the spirit, not the engine.

All this reminded me of an ancient Montenegrin cycling chant, which groups of riders once recited to raise their spirits while pedaling the famous Montenegro-Transylvania-
Montenegro brevet. Of course, it sounds better in the original language, but if you’ll forgive a rough English translation….

As I rode down the road one day
I thought I seemed to feel
An icy wind behind me
And a groaning ‘neath my wheel

And then suddenly I noticed
A grim spirit riding by
A greenish, ghostly creature
Helmet cocked o’er its right eye

And it bent a bony finger
Giving off an odor vile
And it beckoned me to follow
If I could keep up a while

So I got my wheel behind it
And I kept up in its draft
When it levitated off the ground
And then began to laugh

And it said in such a spirit
That it sounded quite contrarian,
Somewhat spooky, somewhat creepy
And a little bit Hungarian:

“I am in front of you
I am in back of you
I am beside you and behind you
And I’m also underneath

“I am on top of you
In your musette bag, too,
I’ll bite holes through both your tires
With my shiny pointed teeth!”

“Oh greenish ghostly presence,
Oh car up!” I lamely cried
But the presence kept on pedaling
So I kept up — or I tried.

Yes, I pedaled even harder
Trying to maintain its pace
When its head turned ‘round
To speak to me --
And I saw it had no face

But it spoke up just the same
In its grisly Hungarian way
And it laughed a roaring echo
And it had these words to say:

“I don’t need no stinking face, my boy,
I cab see the car up now
I fear not those motor vehicles
I’m a vampire, not a cow,

“I am below you,
I am above you
I’m on top and underneath you
And I’m flanking both your sides
I am the deadly
I am the creepy
I am the ghost of undead cyclists
And by the way…surprise!”

And he rode right up the engine
Of the auto coming at him
And he rode his bike
Over its roof
There was nothing that could stop him

But the car hit me — it hit me square
It knocked me on my side
I had broken bones and broken teeth
And road rash on my hide

And the spirit pedaled off my front
And as he rode he said,
“Tell the world you met the spirit
Of the bicycling un-dead

“And I’ll meet up with the rest of you
On the shoulder of the road
And quite suddenly you’ll tucker out
Your muscles stiff and cold

“And your legs will ache, your lungs will burn
Your eyes will smart and sting
And you’ll have the sense that you have met
A grisly, gruesome thing

“And you’ll know I’m there
Because your hair
Will stand up on your neck
And I’ll bite your wheel
“And throw you off
And fling you off my back.

“I am in front of you
I am in back of you
I am beside you and behind you
And I’m also underneath
I am on top of you
And all around you
I’ll bite holes through both your tires
With my shiny pointed teeth!”

And finally I heard him exclaim
As he pedaled out of sight
“Screw all this poetry crap
I’m outta here to ride my bike.”

Copyright 2004 by Etoain Shrdlu

Your Pal,
Etoain

Anonymous's picture
Andrew (not verified)

"For months I thought that Etoain Shrdlu was an anagram of something -- anything? -- but then google tells me that the order of letter frequency (in English, in descending order) is Etoain Shrdlu. And this name is given to an ostensibly Balkan character in the book ""The Pigskin Rabbi"".

Now I can sleep at night.

PS Great poems.

PPS Maybe the rest of you already knew the story of Etoain Shrdlu. Forgive my excitement.

"

Anonymous's picture
Et.O. N. Shrdlu (not verified)
What's in a name?

"You read far too much into my name. One theorist says it's the name of the frequency of letters in the English language. Another says it is the name of a Balkan rabbi -- assuming there is such a thing. Still another person says Etoain Shrdlu is the keyboard of the Mergenthaler linotype machine -- a kind of ancient printing technology.

Coincidences, all coincidences, I assure you.

Had you been on this board about a year ago, you would have learned that Shrdlu is my family name, and Etoain simply means Steven. Some of my my paceline friends actually call me Steve, (it's a bit difficult to get out a name like Etoain on the third mile of a six mile, 7 percent grade climb) but that's all Etoain means.

To quote an old Montenegrin saying, ""Only a fool perceives a connection between a rubber glove and a light socket.""

Oh, and one other thing. Google YOU, buddy.

Your Pal,
Etoain"

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