Will the electric bike pass into A little chat about the ‘carpenter from Nazareth’ oblivion like once mighty tricycle?
IAM not, as such, opposed to the bicycle. The bike has merits. It is an excuse to wear elastic pants. And propelling it burns carbohydrates, not hydrocarbons, so doubtless the bicyclist is saving Tuvalu and the polar bears.
It’s not the bicycle that worries me — it’s the bicyclist. Too many cyclists exude a grating moral superiority. It’s part smug faith in the rectitude of physical exercise — but it’s also belief the bicycle is ethically superior transport. (Something that clocks 50km on three WeetBix, must rate high on the virtue scale).
Around Arrowtown grey pedal power is ballooning, and the injury toll among people who should know better, is disturbing.
My friend the cheesemaker recently hit a rabbit hole while cycling down to his letter box for the newspaper. (It was the ODT, so I hope it was worth somersaulting the handlebars). Other cycling pensioners hobble on walking sticks, and have arms in slings at bridge. An otherwise delicate lady sports a Joseph Parker shiner.
To cap all this, the Duchess, still recovering from gravel rash, has bought an electric bicycle. This raises the ante uncomfortably, because Wit’s End is now under pressure to similarly invest.
I worry that the electric bike is merely a fad. Is it the way of the future, or will it pass into oblivion, like the once mighty tricycle?
Few realise the tricycle nearly won the battle for the hearts of pedal people. The early bicycles were considered louche. They were ridden by 1800s dandies and daredevils, and respectable people were reluctant to climb aboard.
But in 1881 this suddenly changed. Queen Victoria, the arbiter of the Empire’s taste, was taking a carriage ride from her holiday castle on the Isle of Wight, when she found the royal picnic overtaken by a whirring vision in petticoats and spokes.
Servants were despatched to investigate whether the phenomenon was human. They discovered the daughter of the local bicycle merchant had been out trialling its newest product — a tricycle built by one James Starley.
Taken by the tricycle, Her Majesty immediately ordered a brace, and required the pair be personally delivered by this Starley chap. He obliged, and also gave her young Prince Leopold trike lessons on the palace lawn. (Leo was only 27).
There is no concrete evidence Queen Victoria herself became an avid tricyclist — her waistline was now approaching 50 inches — but her trike purchase instantly changed the cycling landscape. If the Queen owned a tricycle, then it was not only socially acceptable, but the height of fashion.
Starley spotted profits (being in trade he knew no better) and branded his trike The Royal Salvo. And society went mad on trikes. Lord Albermarle, Master of the Queen’s Horse, was soon writing that all crowned heads of state owned fleets of tricycles, and indeed, he’d seen a photo of a maharajah and his court, all perched on their trikes.
A tricyclists’ union was established to distinguish its members from mere bicyclists ‘‘who are a disgrace to the pastime, while tricycling includes princes, princess, dukes, earls etc.’’ Bicyclist oafs, they thought, should be banned from public parks.
The factions wore different outfits — and if you think this sounds rather like the 1960s Mods versus Rockers wars, with motor scooters (mods in towncoats) versus motorbikes (rockers in leather jackets), you’re right.
I’mnotsurehowthebike triumphed over trike, but its victory was conclusive. By 1896 it had changed society so noticeably, the suffragette Susan B. Anthony wrote: ‘‘I think it (the bicycle) has done more to emancipate woman than anything in the world. I stand and rejoice each time I see a woman ride by.’’
The Bicycle in Wartime claims the bike became militarily important. The book rejoices that British attacks on Boer positions during the South African War usually included one or two bikes — noble beasts who ate little hay, and rarely got sore feet.
I struggle to imagine Tennyson’s poem repenned as The Charge of the Bike Brigade. Nevertheless it is a fact that our country raised a bicycle battalion, and in 1917 despatched the New Zealand Cyclists Corps to the Western Front. (You can be sure that behind the 300 proud cyclists being inspected by Prime Minister Massey is a parade sergeant about to bellow: ‘‘One, two, three, MOUNT!’’)
For all this, I remain unconvinced about the bicycle. This July the Duchess will ride the Danube trail on an electric bike. I may not be with her. Perhaps a riverboat, with my feet up on the rail and a waiter serving coffee, would be more the ticket.
A HE will see you now.
Follow me.’’
There could be no doubting the Hebrew origin of the middleaged woman who led me into the central courtyard of the villa. Her dark hair, dark eyes and olive skin were the common inheritance of all the peoples living around the Middle Sea, but her curiously accented Latin was unmistakable. To hear it’s like I had merely to open my own mouth. Clearly, the graceful figure in front of me was one of my own stiffnecked race.
And there weren’t many Hebrews in this part of Rome’s empire. Southern Gaul is a long way from Palestine, and the city of Massalia isn’t the least bit like Jerusalem. But, here she dwells: a thousand leagues from her homeland; Mary, the companion of Yeshua Ben Joseph; the man Rome crucified 40 years ago but who stubbornly refuses to die. The man called Jesus by his growing band of Roman followers. The godman about whom the Emperor Vespasian wishes to know more — much more.
‘‘Titus Flavius Josephus — you are as far away from Judea as I am. Or, do you now call Rome your home?’’
No, Lady, I was born a Jew — and will die one. I am prepared to admit, however, that Rome is now a good deal safer than Jerusalem for people like ourselves.’’
‘‘Oh Jerusalem, the time will come when not one stone will be left on another; every one of them will be thrown down.’’
The old woman’s voice had taken on a different timbre; her eyes were fixed on things I could not see. Shaking off her reverie, she turned towards me and smiled.
‘‘That’s what he said. About the fate of the Temple. He foresaw its utter destruction.’’
‘‘You are speaking of your friend? The rabbi, Yeshua Ben Joseph?
‘‘Yes, Josephus, I am.’’
‘‘I have been told, Lady, that you were among the last people to see him alive.’’
‘‘That is true, Josephus. Although, you could also say that I was the first person to see him dead.’’
Sixty years and more she may have lived upon this earth, but her eyes could still twinkle mischievously. She knew why I had come.
‘‘Tell me about that encounter, Lady. For the events of that day, the third after his crucifixion, are spoken of — by the members of the religious sect I have been tasked with explaining to the Emperor — with a mixture of reverence and awe.’’
‘‘And rightly so.’’ It was the first time the younger woman had spoken. ‘‘It is the heart of the mystery. The whole point of the story.’’
‘‘Resurrection? The whole point of the Orpheus myth — and the myth of Osiris. He that was dead shall live again.’’
‘‘Did you know Orpheus personally? Were you acquainted with Osiris before his unfortunate demise?’’
The older woman was teasing me. ‘‘Yeshua Ben Joseph was not a character from a fireside tale, or a temple play, Josephus. He was a carpenter from Nazareth. A flesh and blood man, with callouses on his hands and the word of God on his lips. Your friends, the Romans, nailed him up on a cross for the unforgivable crime of speaking to large numbers of people in a way that made them want to listen. Oh, how that man could talk! The stories that he told. Small and homely they were: filled with all sorts of everyday things; and yet, somehow, also containing the whole of God’s wisdom — and his purpose.’’
‘‘Are you hungry, Titus Flavius Josephus?’’ The younger woman set down a platter of bread and a jug of wine.
‘‘Thank you, not yet. Tell me about that morning in the garden.
‘‘He was there. What more can I say?’’
‘‘He spoke to you?’’
‘‘It was as well that he did, for until he spoke I wasn’t certain it was him.’’ ‘‘What did he say?’’
‘‘He said: ‘Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?’ I knew his voice right away, but it was only when he spoke my name, ‘Mary’, that I was sure.’’
The two women sat in silence, their dark eyes upon me. Only then did it strike me that I was looking at a mother and her daughter. As I broke the bread and poured the wine, I couldn’t help wondering who the father might be.
A