In those days, Mr. Hoopdriver thought of himself as a poet, even though he had never written a single poem.
Perhaps “romantic dreamer” would be a better description.
His real life was painfully ordinary. He worked in a shop, followed the same routine every day, and had very little excitement.
If he had looked at his life honestly and taken every disappointment seriously, he might have become completely miserable.
But Hoopdriver had a natural talent for avoiding that kind of unhappiness.
Instead, he constantly added little stories, hopes, and fantasies to his ordinary life.
Whenever something happened to him, he turned it into material for an imaginary adventure.
He never saw himself simply as a shop assistant.
In his imagination, he could become almost anyone.
Sometimes he imagined himself as a handsome young man with brown hair, blue eyes, and a neat moustache.
He was usually graceful rather than strong, and determined rather than particularly intelligent.
But one thing was certain.
In every version of the story, he had an extremely strong will.
The character in his imagination changed depending on what happened around him.
A cigarette, for example, could instantly transform him into a sophisticated man of the world.
He imagined himself as slightly dangerous, charming, and experienced with women.
He could picture himself walking confidently through the gardens at Earl’s Court, giving meaningful looks to attractive women.
What those looks meant, he never explained.
Then a powerful sermon from a passionate preacher could completely change the story.
Suddenly he became a pure and courageous man, determined to remain honest while helping others through a difficult world.
Or perhaps he would see a perfectly dressed gentleman in a frock coat, wearing gloves, a buttonhole, and an elegant eyeglass.
That sight could inspire another fantasy.
Hoopdriver would imagine himself as a simple, serious man with strong principles.
A quiet man.
A man who said little, worked hard, and always did what was right.
But on this particular holiday, one character had taken control of his imagination.
He imagined himself as a relaxed, well-dressed gentleman traveling through southern England on a respectable bicycle.
He was mysterious but not showy.
He didn’t need to boast about himself.
There was simply something about him that suggested he was better than an ordinary man.
Perhaps he was even a “bloomin’ Dook” traveling secretly through the country.
Of course, Hoopdriver never told anyone about these imaginary stories.
As far as he knew, nobody had the slightest idea what went on inside his head.
In fact, it might be more accurate to say that Hoopdriver was not merely a playwright.
He was also the actor and the entire audience.
He created his own little plays and then enjoyed watching himself perform them.
These imaginary performances kept him surprisingly happy.
Even the comparison with a playwright wasn’t quite enough.
Many of his fantasies never became scenes at all.
Sometimes he simply imagined taking a peaceful walk.
Sometimes he imagined sitting on a tram while the world passed by outside.
He could create these little adventures while standing behind the shop counter during a quiet period, his hands mechanically folding cloth or rolling fabric.
Some of his fantasies were more dramatic.
He might imagine returning triumphantly to his hometown during the holidays, wearing a perfectly tailored suit and smart gloves.
He could already hear the neighbors whispering about him.
He could imagine his mother’s proud expression.
Then he would casually say,
“Antrobus has just given me another ten pounds a year, Mum. What do you think of that?”
Or he might imagine himself quietly falling in love.
In the fantasy, he would speak to a pretty girl with perfect charm and tenderness.
Sometimes he was even a hero.
He would rescue some beautiful woman from a rude bully or save her from a dangerous dog.
These kinds of fantasies are far more common than people realize.
You can look at someone and have no idea what is happening inside their head.
Imagine seeing a poorly dressed boy selling matches in the street.
You might think his life contains nothing but poverty and hardship.
But inside his mind, he may be surrounded by wonderful dreams.
Perhaps those dreams protect him from the harshness of reality.
Perhaps they protect you, too.
None of us can see the back of our own heads without a mirror.
And there is no mirror that can show us the back of our own minds.
We all carry invisible stories about ourselves.
Those stories soften the blows that life gives us.
They make painful experiences easier to bear.
In that sense, self-deception is one of the ways human beings survive.
While life slowly shapes us, our fantasies act like an anesthetic.
But let us return to Hoopdriver.
Until now, we have mostly seen the outside of his life.
We have watched him ride toward Guildford and meet the other cyclists.
Inside his mind, however, he was living an entirely different story.
On the road, he had mainly imagined himself as the quiet, respectable gentleman we have already seen.
But Guildford gave his imagination many new opportunities.
For example, he noticed a house for rent.
Immediately, a new little drama began in his mind.
He imagined himself walking into the estate agent’s office.
He would ask about the thirty-pound house.
Perhaps he would even ask for the key and inspect it himself.
The clerk would naturally become suspicious.
Hoopdriver needed an explanation.
After a little thought, he decided that he was secretly a dynamiter who needed a private place for his dangerous activities.
So, in his imagination, he took the key and carefully inspected the house.
Then he would look at the clerk mysteriously and say,
“This place might suit my particular needs.”
He would pause dramatically.
“But I have other people to consult first.”
Unfortunately, the clerk in his imagination failed to understand the mysterious meaning behind his words.
Instead, the man simply felt sorry for him.
He assumed Hoopdriver was a married man whose wife was much stronger and more intelligent than he was.
That little fantasy somehow led Hoopdriver to buy a notebook and pencil.
The moment he had them, another role appeared.
Now he was an artist traveling through the countryside and making sketches.
He had played this game when he was younger.
He had once annoyed quite a few respectable tourists in Hastings by pretending to be an artist.
His mother had always been proud of his drawing ability.
“He’s always been a bit of an artist,” she used to say.
Unfortunately, one of his schoolteachers noticed the same talent.
The teacher took his drawing seriously and gave him lessons.
Instead of becoming a great artist, Hoopdriver simply lost interest.
Now, years later, he happily wandered around the older parts of Guildford with his notebook.
He stopped in quiet corners.
He studied old buildings.
He occasionally made little sketches.
He looked exactly like a serious artist observing the world.
At one point, the other man in brown happened to look out from the bay window of the Earl of Kent.
He saw Hoopdriver standing near a gateway.
The notebook was in Hoopdriver’s hand.
He appeared to be deeply absorbed in drawing the impressive features of the building.
The man in brown immediately stepped back from the window.
He didn’t want Hoopdriver to see him.
Then he crouched slightly and watched through the gaps in the lace curtains.
He stared at Hoopdriver with intense suspicion.
Meanwhile, Hoopdriver remained completely unaware that anyone was watching him.
He continued drawing, perfectly satisfied with his latest imaginary role.