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Cruise of the Foo Foo Special Jr, by Art Widner, Jr., 1943

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THE CRUISE OF THE "FOOFOO SPECIAL JR"
by Art Widner Jr

The saddest words of tongue or pen, are these: "I might've thumbed."

On Fri morn, the 3rd of July, I finished working the "graveyard shift" from midnight to 8AM. After a number of last minute preparations, I finally set out at 10:20AM, with the mileage on the shiny new speedometer of my Raleigh three-speed bicycle reading 83.9

"Junior", the former property of one Louis Russell Chauvenet, behaved well, and I averaged 15 mph without effort in spite of working (well, staying awake, then) all the previous nite.

When I hit US#1, the relation of road surface to pedaling effort immediately became apparent. I had been satisfied with my progress on macadam and crush rock, but when the wheels touched the smooth concrete I seemed to shoot ahead as if I had been given a tangible push. I sailed along about 20 mph for a few miles until the novelty wore off, then settled back to a little over 15. I also tried to catch a lumbering truck a quarter of a mile ahead as I entered the main road, but a sustained spurt of 25 and slightly better failed to do it, so I gave up that idea.

Farther on, the driver stopped for lunch and started again just after I passed. A steep hill loomed ahead, and I hurried a bit to get part way up, then loafed until the truck crawled up beside me. I grabbed the back and got myself a free lift. 

At the summit, I perceived there was another hill ahead, so I decided to stay with the truck. The driver started pouring it on, in order to make the next one in high, or a reasonably accurate facsimile. A slight downgrade and a long level stretch saw us making 40 per. I was enjoying myself, watching the scenery whiz by, until I happened to glance at my speedometer. Egad! I couldn't have released my grip more quickly had I discovered I was holding the southeast tentacle of an octopus.

Things started to happen. I only had one hand on the handlebars for a moment, and just then I came out from behind the shelter of the truck and the wind hit me.

I weewawed all over that road for about 15 seconds like a tank with a full crew, a nest full of hornets, and a stuck hatch, before I regained full control. 'Stoo bad none of fandom's camera fiends were there to click the expression on my face. I must have had my mouth open and my eyes buggin' out like a tromped-on toad-frog.

I made a resolution not to hitch on the back of any more trucks, and besides no more came along at propitious moments.

After much sweating up hill and down dale, but not yet really fatigued, I came to a large area of smoky haze; and upon entering same, I found that it was Providence.

As I vibrated across a cobblestoned bridge, I saw a tall church steeple thrusting up darkly on a hill in the distance. It looked forbidding and unnatural, and I thot it must have been the one Lovecraft wrote about in The Haunter of the Dark.

I day-dreamed a bit over the pleasure that might have been mine, to find College Street and spend an hour or two in the company of "The Last Gentleman". I kicked at a mongrel yapping and snapping at my ankles and thot of what a strange world it was, where Lovecrafts die and Kummers go on living -- and what is worse, writing.

Cities are a tedious bore on a bicycle, and I was glad to find

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THE CRUISE OF THE "FOOFOO SPECIAL JR" by Art Widner Jr The saddest words of tongue or pen, are these: "I might've thumbed." On Fri morn, the 3rd of July, I finished working the "graveyard shift" from midnight to 8AM. After a number of last minute preparations, I finally set out at 10:20AM, with the mileage on the shiny new speedometer of my Raleigh three-speed bicycle reading 83.9 "Junior", the former property of one Louis Russell Chauvenet, behaved well, and I averaged 15 mph without effort in spite of working (well, staying awake, then) all the previous nite. When I hit US#1, the relation of road surface to pedaling effort immediately became apparent. I had been satisfied with my progress on macadam and crush rock, but when the wheels touched the smooth concrete I seemed to shoot ahead as if I had been given a tangible push. I sailed along about 20 mph for a few miles until the novelty wore off, then settled back to a little over 15. I also tried to catch a lumbering truck a quarter of a mile ahead as I entered the main road, but a sustained spurt of 25 and slightly better failed to do it, so I gave up that idea. Farther on, the driver stopped for lunch and started again just after I passed. A steep hill loomed ahead, and I hurried a bit to get part way up, then loafed until the truck crawled up beside me. I grabbed the back and got myself a free lift. At the summit, I perceived there was another hill ahead, so I decided to stay with the truck. The driver started pouring it on, in order to make the next one in high, or a reasonably accurate facsimile. A slight downgrade and a long level stretch saw us making 40 per. I was enjoying myself, watching the scenery whiz by, until I happened to glance at my speedometer. Egad! I couldn't have released my grip more quickly had I discovered I was holding the southeast tentacle of an octopus. Things started to happen. I only had one hand on the handlebars for a moment, and just then I came out from behind the shelter of the truck and the wind hit me. I weewawed all over that road for about 15 seconds like a tank with a full crew, a nest full of hornets, and a stuck hatch, before I regained full control. 'Stoo bad none of fandom's camera fiends were there to click the expression on my face. I must have had my mouth open and my eyes buggin' out like a tromped-on toad-frog. I made a resolution not to hitch on the back of any more trucks, and besides no more came along at propitious moments. After much sweating up hill and down dale, but not yet really fatigued, I came to a large area of smoky haze; and upon entering same, I found that it was Providence. As I vibrated across a cobblestoned bridge, I saw a tall church steeple thrusting up darkly on a hill in the distance. It looked forbidding and unnatural, and I thot it must have been the one Lovecraft wrote about in The Haunter of the Dark. I day-dreamed a bit over the pleasure that might have been mine, to find College Street and spend an hour or two in the company of "The Last Gentleman". I kicked at a mongrel yapping and snapping at my ankles and thot of what a strange world it was, where Lovecrafts die and Kummers go on living -- and what is worse, writing. Cities are a tedious bore on a bicycle, and I was glad to find