That evening at supper, everyone was talking about their holiday plans.
Mr. Pritchard was going to Scotland.
Miss Isaacs was excited about visiting Bettws-y-Coed.
Mr. Judson spoke about the Norfolk Broads as though he personally owned the place.
Eventually, someone turned to Hoopdriver.
“And you, Hoopdriver? Where are you going?”
Hoopdriver smiled.
“Me? Cycling, of course.”
Miss Howe from the Costume Department looked at him in surprise.
“You don’t seriously mean you’re going to ride that horrible bicycle of yours every day?”
“I do,” Hoopdriver replied calmly.
He tugged at his thin little moustache.
“I’m going on a cycling tour.”
“Where?”
“Along the South Coast.”
Miss Howe smiled.
“Well, Mr. Hoopdriver, I hope you get good weather.”
“Thank you.”
“And I hope you don’t have any nasty falls.”
Before Hoopdriver could answer, the young apprentice with the ridiculously high collar joined in.
“And don’t forget to take some arnica with you!”
The boy had seen Hoopdriver’s cycling lessons on Putney Hill.
Hoopdriver turned and stared at him.
“Shut up.”
The apprentice grinned.
Hoopdriver’s eyes narrowed.
“Jampot.”
The boy’s smile disappeared.
Hoopdriver turned back to Miss Howe.
“I’m getting quite good at it now.”
Miss Howe gave him a doubtful look.
“Are you?”
“Quite safe, actually.”
Normally, Hoopdriver might have become angry at the apprentice’s jokes.
But tonight he could hardly care.
His mind was already filled with thoughts of the journey.
The South Coast.
The open road.
His bicycle.
Freedom.
He left the supper table early.
There was still an hour before he had to return to help close the shop, and he intended to spend every minute of it practicing.
He went out to the Roehampton Road and climbed onto his bicycle.
For the next hour, he fought with the machine.
He wobbled.
He struggled.
He fell.
He got back up.
Then he tried again.
By the time he returned, he had probably added a few more bruises to his collection.
Later that night, the shop was closed and the gas lamps had been turned off.
Hoopdriver sat on the edge of his bed.
His knee was hurting badly.
He rubbed arnica into a large new bruise while studying a map of southern England.
The map showed the roads he hoped to travel.
His journey was beginning to feel real.
Briggs, who shared the room with him, was sitting up in bed.
He was trying to smoke his pipe in the darkness.
Briggs had never ridden a bicycle in his life.
That did not stop him from giving advice.
“First thing,” Briggs said, “make sure the machine is properly oiled.”
Hoopdriver continued rubbing his knee.
“Right.”
“And take a couple of lemons with you.”
“Lemons?”
“Yes. You might need them.”
Hoopdriver looked at him.
Briggs continued.
“Don’t push yourself too hard on the first day. Sit upright. Keep control of the machine at all times.”
“Anything else?”
“Always ring the bell whenever you get the chance.”
Briggs took another puff of his pipe.
“Remember those few things, Hoopdriver, and nothing much can go wrong.”
Hoopdriver nodded.
“Right.”
For a minute, the room became quiet.
Then Briggs spoke again.
“Oh, and whatever you do, don’t run over a dog.”
Hoopdriver sighed.
“I’m not planning to.”
“Good. Because running over a dog is one of the worst things you can do.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“And don’t let the wheel buckle. A man was killed only the other day because his wheel buckled.”
Hoopdriver stared at the map.
Briggs continued.
“Don’t ride too fast.”
“Right.”
“Don’t ride on the pavement.”
“Right.”
“Keep to your side of the road.”
“Right.”
“And if you see a tramline, go around the corner immediately.”
Hoopdriver looked up.
“Immediately?”
“Immediately. Get away from it.”
“Where am I supposed to go?”
“Anywhere. The next county, if necessary.”
Hoopdriver laughed.
Briggs was completely serious.
“And make sure you put your lamp on before it gets dark.”
He took another long puff from his pipe.
“Remember those little things, Hoopdriver. If you do, nothing much can happen to you. Take my word for it.”
Hoopdriver finally closed the map.
“Right you are.”
He climbed into bed.
“Good night, old man.”
“Good night.”
The room fell silent.
For a while, the only sound was Briggs breathing through his pipe.
Hoopdriver closed his eyes.
Almost immediately, he was dreaming.
He was riding his bicycle down a beautiful country road.
The sun was shining.
The wind was blowing.
He was completely free.
He rode faster and faster.
Then suddenly—
He was awake.
Hoopdriver opened his eyes.
“What was that?”
From the darkness came Briggs’s voice.
“Never oil the steering. It’s fatal.”
Hoopdriver stared into the darkness.
Briggs continued as though he had never stopped talking.
“And clean the chain every day with black lead. Remember those few little things—”
“Oh, Lord!”
Hoopdriver pulled the blankets over his head.
He wanted to sleep.
But Briggs still had plenty of bicycle advice left.