Remember Toad's escapades from the dappled days of childhood? The bicycle was the forerunner of the motor car, and Toad used one in the original test run for his adventure...
The Wind in the Willows
Mr. Toad ordered a most substantial repast, for although he was not very hungry, he was, of course, a very greedy animal.
Having done great justice to the soup, the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, as well as a large and supplementary plate of bubble-and-squeak, he progressed to the spotted dick (with custard), and thence to the port and Stilton, and only after that did he begin to feel a bit better. As he was gently mellowing over coffee and a good cigar there fell upon his ears the only too familiar sound approaching down the street. It made him start and fall a-trembling all over, and he had to hold on to the leg of the table to control his overmastering emotion. Whirr-whirr, tick-tick-tick, ting-a-ling, and the alluring sound of bicycles entering the inn-yard tugged, like the song of the sirens, at his weakening resolve. Presently the riders entered the coffee-room, hungry, talkative and gay, voluble on the morning's spin and the merits of the machines that had borne them along so well.
Toad listened eagerly for a while; then at last he could stand it no longer. He paid his bill at the bar, left quietly and sauntered out into the inn-yard with ill-feigned nonchalance. "There cannot be any harm," he said to himself, "in merely looking at them."
The bicycles stood against the yard wall, in the shade. The finest of them was painted a very bright red (Toad's favourite colour) and had a great number of very expensive, shiny, Japanesey-looking parts to it. Toad walked up and down admiring this great beast with its tough, straight handlebars, its numerous little levers and, best of all, the legend 'Wildwood-Blaster' emblazoned in gold on its down-tube. "I wonder," he said to himself presently, "if it's a good seat. There can be no great harm in just trying it, can there?"
Next moment, scarcely knowing how it happened, he found himself perched on the saddle, feet on the pedals and with his hands gripping the handlebars, and all in a moment the old passion seized on Toad and completely mastered him body and soul. He pressed down on the pedals with fierce delight, crashed the shiny levers into a low gear -- without due concern for their well being, it might be added -- and heaving mightily on the handlebars, shot out of the yard gate with only the back wheel on the ground. A cry of dismay arose from the throats of the cyclists as they observed, through the bay-window of the inn, the awesome spectacle of Toad, on one of their machines, whirling down the sere emitting fearful whoops.
Toad was once again in his element, and like one totally bewitched by the power of the machine, he shed all his scruples, his sense of right and wrong, all fear of obvious consequences and, it is to be deeply regretted, any vestigial remnants of common sense. He increased his pace and was aware only that he was Toad at his Greatest and Fastest, Toad the Master of the Downhill Wheelie, Toad the Wildwood Trackbuster, Tornado Toad the Terror of the highway; he was intoxicated with speed, his soul bursting with excitement, living his hour, reckless of what might come to him.
The first things to come to him were some traffic lights. "Pooh, pooh!" cried Toad and rushed through, against the red, totally oblivious of the braking and the swerving and the cursing of the other road-users. Then, nothing would do but he must mount upon the pavement and scatter the good folk there moving quietly and soberly about their various lawful occasions. "Ho! Ho!" he shouted. "Out of my way, ye peasants, for 'tis I, Toad the Traffic-queller, Toad the Mighty, Toad the Scorcher!" Down the street he flew, pedalling faster and faster while behind him ran several stout policemen, blowing their whistles, and crimson in the face. Spying a large sign ahead which said NO ENTRY in large letters and 'One Way street' in slightly smaller letters, Toad -- totally unable to resist the prohibition -- made a huge sweeping turn which completely knocked over an old lady who was crossing with a basket full of eggs, and proceeded to race up the 'one way street' in the face of the oncoming vehicles.
"Stop him! Stop him!" shouted the people. "Ho! Ho!" he carolled, "I am only going One Way!" A brewer's dray, suddenly confronted with the hideous apparition of a toad on two wheels, shied so violently that the rear of the cart backed into a butcher's window. The merry festive sound of glass shivering into a thousand smithereens only excited Toad the more, while the roars of the fat policemen, who had slipped on all the broken eggs, merely stimulated in him an uncontrollable paroxysm of mirth. "Hurrah for the open road!" cried he, as he hurtled over the old canal bridge and off into the broad, green, sunlit countryside of Merry England.
Toad was in ecstasies of self-admiration, and as he rushed along he burst into song:
The bicycle went ting-a-ling-a-ling,
as it raced along the road,
Who gave the cops the
slip-a-ling-a-ling,
Why radical Mr. Toad!
O what a cool dude I am! How real..." But then a distant noise behind him interrupted his vainglorious chant. It was a terrible sound, and it brought poor Toad's heart into his mouth. "POO-poop! POO-poop! POO-poop!" Trembling in every limb, he looked over his shoulder, only to see the dreadful sight of a large motor-car, with a blue light on top winking on and off, on and off, and getting nearer all the time. O misery! O despair! What was he to do? What a foolish animal he had been! He pedalled as hard as he could go, but he was a rather fat creature and his legs were very short. The motor-car, bristling with furious, red-faced policemen, was almost upon him when he reached a pretty little bridge; there was an awkward corner and, in his desperation, Toad lost control of his machine. There was a frightful crash, and he found himself sailing through the air in a gentle curve. "I wonder," he though to himself, "where shall I end up this time?"
With a soft thump his flight was arrested. He lay for a moment dreamily contemplating the clear blue summer sky above him. Slowly he raised himself from the deep cushion into which he had fallen, and found himself seated most comfortably in the sternsheets of his good friend Ratty's little skiff. Ratty himself was plying the oars, and Toad could hear his own voice explaining something important to him, while away in the distance he could just discern a crowd of very angry constabulary endeavouring to remove the remains of a bent mountain-bike from the radiator of their motor.
"You see, Ratty dear fellow," Toad was saying, "there's nothing, absolutely nothing, half so much worth doing as simply messing about with bikes...."
© David Eccles
Cycling Plus, January 1994