The Full Circle: In Praise of the Bicycle

By Stefan Kanfer

Everyone knows that Leonardo da Vinci invented the armored car and the alarm clock. Now historians have unearthed his most remarkable achievement. There in the musty libraries of Madrid lay the neglected sketch of a bicycle. How logical that the Renaissance man should have invented the Renaissance machine.

Even the most dedicated jogger must admit that his sport is purely hygienic. The bouncing exercise never allows the eyes to rest; the country seems to jiggle by on springs. The motorist glides on air and shock absorbers, but his speed undoes him. The scenery is a blur, the highlights only a few seconds in duration. And his exhaust clouds the air he travels through. The cyclist pedals between his two contemporaries. Neither pedestrian nor driver, he is a happy anomaly, a 20th century centaur. Away from trucks and taxis, he has no competition; all turf is his. The novice and the regular both know the cyclist's high. It derives, in part, from the knowledge that the energy comes from a live body, not from fossil fuels. The legs pump, the heart answers. After a few trips, the rider feels the course of his own blood and knows the truth of Dr. Paul Dudley White's promise: the bicycle is an aid to longevity. (White took his own advice and pedaled into his late 80s.)

It is this freedom, from gas and even from roads, that has brought the American bicycle to its new prominence. For the first time since World War I, cycles are outselling cars. Moreover, the machines are no longer a juvenile item. As recently as 1969, only about 12% of bicycles sold in the U.S. were adult in design. This year the lightweight, diamond-framed "mature" model will account for 65% of the market.

In fact the contraption was never meant to be a child's device. Pace Leonardo, some researchers have perceived the outlines of bicycles in the frescoes of Pompeii and the tombs of Egypt. In any case, it was not until 1816 that the German baron, Karl von Drais, devised a recognizable model of the contemporary machine. That bike had everything a rider would want--except pedals. The cyclist walked perched on a saddle and propelled himself by running and gliding. In the mid-19th century rubber tires replaced the old boneshaking metal rims and high-wheelers elevated the rider far above the crowd --making crashes all the more resounding.

In a series of premonitory events, John D. Rockefeller gave presents of expensive bicycles to close associates, and lady cyclists abandoned their acres of crinoline for "rational clothing." H.G. Wells and George Bernard Shaw could be seen atop their new machines, and Scientific American soberly announced that "as a social revolutionizer [the bike] has never had an equal. It has put the human race on wheels, and has thus changed many of the most ordinary processes and methods of social life."

Alas, a greater revolutionizer was on its way. As the century changed, so did inventions, mores and wheels. The automobile ruthlessly honked the bike from the road. In the field of romance, it displaced its predecessor; enclosed in steel and glass, the young couple enjoyed a privacy that was denied them even in the parlor. The bicycle abruptly became an exiled device, to be used somewhere between kindergarten and acne.

It might have remained a thing of beauty and a toy forever. But the agent of its obscurity was also the cause of its revival. For too long, the combustion engine befouled the atmosphere and lulled Americans into a dangerous sloth. But today, the new conservation and the high incidence of circulatory and cardiac diseases have caused the natural life to be reappraised. The bicycle no longer seems juvenile; indeed, it offers the country transportation, romance and exercise at a fee that advertisers like to summarize as "pennies per day."

Or dollars, if the rider is so inclined. The renewed fascination with bicycles has brought with it a new fashion, as capricious--and expensive--as haute couture. Now discriminating enthusiasts can buy a futuristic ten-speed British Hetchins for $900, or the Italian Coinage for $1,200. Such merchandise features an airiness that makes spider webs appear cumbersome, and offers gears so refined that they ought to be able to do logarithms. Yet the superbikes' forward motion does not differ substantially from that of the cheaper models. Non-aficionados often wonder whether it might be cheaper to buy ten $100 models, replacing each one as it gets worn out. Or, more likely, stolen; bicycle theft has become America's fastest-growing crime.

Even more unfortunate than the new bike rip-offs is the old anarchy. Any visitor to Europe has wondered at the rapid transit of pedaling citizens in Dublin and London, Paris and Berlin. In America, pandemonium reigns supreme. Some riders go with traffic; others against it. Some obey vehicular signs; others move with the pedestrian tide. The result: an estimated 456,000 emergency-room visitors in 1974. And more are expected this year.

Still, given the risks of robbery and the hazards of traffic, the true believers will not forsake their mounts for something better. In fact, there is nothing better. The bike rider may not get there as fast as in the cab or the family car. But along the way he is creating conditions of health, enjoying the weather and collecting some valuable human truths: every forward motion costs effort; balance means a total involvement in the task; energy has its limits; to stop precipitately is to court disaster; and, of course, a skill once learned is never quite forgotten.

As the air carries the perennial message of spring, millions of cyclists will be reiterating those precepts, echoing the only literary work in which they shine. In A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Mark Twain recalls the anachronistic day on which King Arthur was saved from his enemies: "By George!

here they came, atilting -- five hundred mailed and belted knights on bicycles! The grandest sight that ever was seen!

Lord, how the plumes streamed, how the sun flamed and flashed from the endless procession of webby wheels!"

For Arthur, read humanity; for knights, read riders. The sun still flames and the webby wheels still flash; the procession grows longer every day. For an increasing number of Americans, the bicycle has become the Great Rescuer -- and the only first-class transportation left to humanity.

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