The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1894-06-05
THE FIELD OF SPORTS.
Bad Luck and Good Luck.

An Early Morning Ride Yesterday-A
Bicycler's Ups and Downs-Even a Pneu-
matte Succumbs to Falmouth Clay.
1t rained Sunday night and it rained very
hard. But Monday morning was clear and
Portland wheelman knew nothing of the
rain as he started at six o'clock for Fall
mouth. He was aware of the rain however,
soon after he had started. The roads were
fairly sodden, as if they had been pelted
with big drops. He made good progress,
nevertheless, until he approached the new
Falmouth bridge, at the mouth of the Pre-
sumpscot.
The clay road theresbegan to make trouble
The mud began to fly. 1t stuck like glue
to the wheels, yet it yielded beneath the
tires lie grease. Down the hill to the bridge
went the bicycle, sprawling here and there
from rut to rut. The bridge is finished, but
the road at each end is not. 1t is a quag-
mire of clay. AS the wheelman pushed his
machine before him up the hill on the other
side he almost despaired of ever reaching
the top. There were deep holes, full of wa
ter, where wheels had sunk to the hubs.
At every foot the bicycle increased in
weight! The mud came up on the rims by
the pound. 1t accumulated in great chunks
on the forks. The bicycle was overpowered
and wept great fearful blobs of mud. They
dropped on the chain and that sensitive
member resented the insult by swelling up
and Tightening on the cogs. Then chain
and cogs refused duty except with clicks
and squeaks of remonstrance. Arrived at
the top finally, the weary and Disguised
wheelman turned to the left and made for
the highlands of West Falmouth as fast as
the tight chain would permit. How it did
squeak and click! Why didn' he fix it? His
wrench was at home of course. He did try
to clear away the mud, but it was an end
less job and the chain was no better. The
mud had dried in the links and cogs and it
wouldn't come out, except at the point of
knife and not even then. borrowed
wrench, at the first house loosened the
chain, but it still stuck and clicked, in a
way that drives a wheelman into nervous
desperation. His destination was Falmouth
post office. He must make detour of six
miles to reach it, to avoid that awful clay.
He would stop at the first opportunity and
fix that chain. He reached the saw-mill
near West Falmouth Corner. Some young
men were Harvesting the horses to a hay
rack. They loaned him a wrench. 1t was
either remarkably good wrench or the
evaporation he had suffered was RESPONSE
BILE, for
HE BROKE THE NUT.
That was the end of it. Seven miles from
home and a broken bicycle. No village
blacksmith could duplicate that nut.
There are strange transitions in this world
and sudden contrasts that try mems souls.
Or good or i'll, the shock is powerful. From
heights of joy down deep to misery, or sud-
den soar to rapture from despair-the shock
alike is powerful.
But wherefore this burst of feeling?
THE RACK WAS GOING TO PORTLAND.
The place of disaster was the place of
remedy. The rack was going empty. There
were oceans of room for the bicycle and it's
rider. With the MANNED wheel tied securely
to the rail, with a blanketed board to sit
on, with a most congenial companion driv-
ing the horses and with two cigars and
merry talk the ride home to Portland was
much better than the ride out, even if it
wasn't quite sosrapid. ss1s