else playing the piano. In fact, I would sometimes dismount and play a tune right in the street. In dreams it’s not difficult to have a piano with you while riding a bicycle—it’s only in waking life that you have difficulty managing such things. It was at a place called Bedford Rest, which I conveniently transposed in the dream, that I experienced the most delicious moments. This spot, the half-way mark to Coney Island along the famous cycle path which began at one end of Prospect Park, was where all the cyclists halted to take a brief rest either coming from or going to the island. Here, under arbors and trellises, with a fountain playing in the center of the clearance, we lounged about, examining one another’s wheels, felling one another’s muscles, rubbing one another down. The wheels were stacked up against the trees and fences, all in excellent condition, all gleaming, all well oiled. Pop Brown, as we called him, was the grand arbiter. He was the oldest among us—double the age of most of us—but he could keep up with the best of us. He always wore a heavy black sweater and tight-fitting black stocking cap; his face was gaunt, lined, and so wind-burned as to be almost black. I always thought of him as The Night Rider. He was a machinist by trade and his passion was bike-racing. A simple man, a man of few words, but loved by all. It was he who had induced me to join the militia in order to be able to race on the flat floor of the armory. Saturdays and Sundays I was always sure to meet Pop somewhere along the cycle path. He was my racing father, so to speak.

I suppose that the delicious aspect of these reunions resided in the fact that we all shared the same passion. I don’t remember ever discussing anything but cycling with these fellows. We could eat, drink and sleep on the bike. Many a time, at unexpected hours of the day or night, I would encounter a solitary cyclist who, like myself, had stolen an hour or two in order to fly along that smooth gravel path. Now and then we passed a man on horseback. (There was another path for equestrians running parallel to the bicycle path.) These apparitions from another world were completely removed from us, as were the fools who rode in automobiles. As for motorcyclists, they were simply non compos mentis.

As I say, I was reliving it all again in dream. Even down to those equally delicious moments at the end of the ride when, as a good wheelman, I would turn the bike upside down and clean and oil it. Every spoke had to be wiped clean and made to shine; the chain had to be greased and the oil cups filled. If the wheels were out of line they were trued. That way, she was always in condition to ride at a moment’s notice. This cleaning and polishing always took place in the yard, right by the front window. I had to lay newspapers on the ground in order to appease my mother who disapproved of grease spots on our stone flagging.

In the dream I’m riding sort of nice and easy by the side of Pop Brown. It was customary for us to fall into a slow pace for a mile or two, in order to chat and also to get our wind up for the terrific spurt to follow. Pop is telling me about the job he’s going to get me, as mechanic. He promises to teach me all I need to know. I am amused at this because the only tool I know how to handle is the bicycle wrench. Pop says he’s been observing me lately and has come to the conclusion that I’m an intelligent guy. He’s disturbed because I always seem to be out of work. I try to tell him that I’m glad to be out of work because then I can ride the wheel more often, but he brushes this aside as irrelevant. He’s determined to make me a first-class machinist. It’s better than being a boiler-maker, he assures me. I haven’t the slightest idea what it is to be a boiler-maker. You ought to get in trim for that road race next month, he then cautions. Drink lots of water, all you can hold. His heart, I learn, is giving him trouble lately. The doctor thinks he ought to give up the bike for a while. I’d rather die than do that, says Pop. We flit from one thing to another, homely little topics, just right for a rolling conversation. There’s a teasing breeze stirring and the leaves are beginning to fall; brown, gold, red leaves, dry as tinder, which make a most soothing crackle as we roll lightly over them. We’re just getting nicely warmed up, nicely unlimbered.

Suddenly Pop shoots forward on the tail of another bike going at a fast clip. Turning his head he shouts: It’s Joe Folger! I’m off like a bat out of hell. Joe Folger! Why, that’s one of the old six-day riders. I wonder what sort of pace he’ll set us. Soon, to my astonishment, Pop shoots forward, dragging me along, and Joe Folger is tailing me. My heart is beating wildly. Three great riders: Henry Val Miller, Pop Brown, and t Joe Folger. Where is Eddie Root, I wonder, and Frank Kramer? Where’s Oscar Egg, that valiant Swiss champion? My head is tucked down like a ball between my shoulders; my legs have no feeling, I’m all pulse and beat. Everything is coordinated, moving smoothly, harmoniously, like an intricate clock.

Suddenly we’ve come to the ocean front. A dead heat. We’re panting like dogs, but fresh as daisies just the same. Three great veterans of the track. I dismount and Pop introduces me to the great Joe Folger. Quite a lad, says Joe Folger, sizing me up and down. Is he training for the big grind? Suddenly he feels my thighs and calves, grabs my forearms, squeezes my biceps. He’ll make the grade all right—good stuff. I’m so thrilled that I’m blushing like a school-boy. All I need now is to meet up some morning with Frank Kramer; I’ll give him the surprise of his life.

We saunter about a bit, pushing our wheels along with one hand. How steady a wheel when directed by a skilled hand! We sit down to have a beer. Of a sudden I’m playing the piano, just to please Joe Folger. He’s a sentimental cuss, I discover; I have to scratch my bean to think what will suit his fancy. While tickling the ivories we’re transported, as happens only in dreams, to the training grounds somewhere in New Jersey. The circus folk are here for the Winter. Before we know it, Joe Folger is practising the loop-the-loop. A terrifying spectacle, especially when one is sitting up so close to the big incline. Clowns are walking around in full regalia, some playing the harmonica, others skipping rope or practising falls.
Soon a group has collected around us, taking our bicycles apart and performing tricks, a la Joe Jackson. All in pantomine, to be sure. I’m almost weeping because I’ll never be able to put my bike together again, it’s in so many pieces. Never mind, kid, says the great Joe Folger, I’ll give you my wheel. You’ll win many a race with that!

How Hymie comes into it I don’t remember, but he’s there of a sudden and looking terribly downcast. There’s a strike on, he wants me to know. I ought to get back to the office as quickly as possible. They’re going to marshall all the taxi-cabs in New York City to deliver the telegrams and cables. I apologize to Pop Brown and Joe Folger for quitting them so unceremoniously and dive into a car which is waiting. Going through the Holland Tunnel I doze off only to find myself on the cycle path once more. Hymie beside me riding a miniature bike. He looks like the fat man of the Michelin tires. He can hardly push the thing, he’s so winded. Nothing easier than for me to lift him by the scruff of the neck, bike and all, and carry him along. Now he’s pedalling in the air. He seems happy as a dog. Wants a hamburger and a malted milk shake. No sooner said than done. As we ride along the boardwalk I grab off a hamburger and a milk shake, flipping the man a coin with my other hand. At Steeplechase we ride straight up the shoot-the-shoots, as easy as soaring into the blue. Hymie looks a bit bewildered now, but not frightened. Just bewildered.

Don’t forget to send some waybills to AX office in the morning, I remind him.
Watch it, Mr. M, he begs, you almost went into the ocean that time.
And now, by God, whom should we run into, drunk as a pope, but my old friend Stasu. He’s just gotten out of the army, and his legs are still bow-legged from the cavalry drills.
Who’s that little runt with you? he demands surlily.
Just like Stasu to begin with fiery words. Always had to be mollified before you could begin talking to him.
I’m leaving for Chattanooga to-night, he says. Must get back to the barracks. And with that he waves good-bye.
Is he a friend of yours, Mr. M.? asks Hymie, innocently.
HIM? He’s just a crazy Pole, I answer.

I don’t like Poloks, Mr. M. I’m scared of them.
What do you mean? We’re in the U.S.A.,