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Cruise of the Foo Foo Special Jr, by Art Widner, Jr., 1943
Page 5
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The Cruise of the "FooFoo Special Jr" * * * 5 As the kinks worked their way out of my muscles in a grey, foggy dawn, I ruminated ruefully on the excellent quality of my hindsight, wondering how I could have been so stupid as to take that thrice-accursed knapsack along and why I hadn't stripped the bike of half the useless gadgets it sported. Oh well. However, I did better than I had expected to and arrived at the Whitestone Bridge connecting the Bronx with Flushing about noontime. Another hour would see my journey's end. As I started to pedal down the complicated twists and turns leading to the bridge entrance, I stopped in consternation. There was a sign that read: NO TRUCKS, TRAILERS, PEDESTRIANS, BICYCLES, KIDDIE KARS, HORSES, PONIES, GOATS, LAME TURTLES, HOMELESS SNAILS, or AGED AND INFIRM BEDBUGS ALLOWED ON THIS BRIDGE. Nuts. (Actually and literally I was not so concise or euphemistic about expressing my opinion of the bridge managers, but "nuts" will have to suffice in this account until people become more broad-minded.) So, putting a hex on the sign which turned all the letters into Sanskrit, I disgustedly set out for Triboro Bridge, ten miles farther on. All went well until I grabbed a truck at a stoplite. The next stoplite chanced to be a pedestrian operated affair, which the yap wanting to cross the street chose to operate and step off the curb when we were ten feet away. The truck stopped very well; in fact, I congratulated the driver on his brakes as I picked myself up off the sidewalk and the bike from underneath the truck. My ankle is still a bit sore from where it knocked down a mailbox. After this, I made a resolution not to hang on the back of any more trucks. Besides, no more came along at the right moment. Triboro Bridge, with a heavy headwind blowing along it, seemed to stretch out to eternity on the level and uphill side. Downhill, it was much too short. It was the same way coming back. Damned clever, these New Yorkers. Ah, Brooklyn, here I come. (It says in the script.) My map had blown away when I was hanging onto the truck, and I thot I could procure another one easily. But gastations were sparse, and all closed. I followed my nose. Finally I blundered on one that was open. Ah, I thot, this beautiful map of New York showing me every street will solve my difficulties pronto. Besides, the attendant gave me explicit directions which I followed faithfully. Sure enuf, a few minutes later I came out on Grand Avenue, which was where I innocently believed I wanted to go. The only trouble was that it was Grand Ave in Queens instead of Brooklyn. On its ten mile cobblestone length, I jolted out what few brains had not been fried searching for my number, until I returned to Queens Boulevard which I had left an hour before. One less inhibition and I would have sat down on the curbstone and blubbered. After this, I rode along with a glassy stare, making resolutions at every intersection not to try any more short cuts. Besides, there weren't any. I must give my aunt credit for being a woman with iron nerves. I know very well that even if he did have a bicycle and was expected, I would not have admitted the purple-faced, drooling madman that was I. I would have shrieked bloody murder and called for the squirrel squad, but immediately. Under her kindly ministrations, it was only 36 hours before I was nursed back to a semblance of sanity. That is, I could feed myself, tie my shoelaces, and answer simple questions. However, it was decided
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The Cruise of the "FooFoo Special Jr" * * * 5 As the kinks worked their way out of my muscles in a grey, foggy dawn, I ruminated ruefully on the excellent quality of my hindsight, wondering how I could have been so stupid as to take that thrice-accursed knapsack along and why I hadn't stripped the bike of half the useless gadgets it sported. Oh well. However, I did better than I had expected to and arrived at the Whitestone Bridge connecting the Bronx with Flushing about noontime. Another hour would see my journey's end. As I started to pedal down the complicated twists and turns leading to the bridge entrance, I stopped in consternation. There was a sign that read: NO TRUCKS, TRAILERS, PEDESTRIANS, BICYCLES, KIDDIE KARS, HORSES, PONIES, GOATS, LAME TURTLES, HOMELESS SNAILS, or AGED AND INFIRM BEDBUGS ALLOWED ON THIS BRIDGE. Nuts. (Actually and literally I was not so concise or euphemistic about expressing my opinion of the bridge managers, but "nuts" will have to suffice in this account until people become more broad-minded.) So, putting a hex on the sign which turned all the letters into Sanskrit, I disgustedly set out for Triboro Bridge, ten miles farther on. All went well until I grabbed a truck at a stoplite. The next stoplite chanced to be a pedestrian operated affair, which the yap wanting to cross the street chose to operate and step off the curb when we were ten feet away. The truck stopped very well; in fact, I congratulated the driver on his brakes as I picked myself up off the sidewalk and the bike from underneath the truck. My ankle is still a bit sore from where it knocked down a mailbox. After this, I made a resolution not to hang on the back of any more trucks. Besides, no more came along at the right moment. Triboro Bridge, with a heavy headwind blowing along it, seemed to stretch out to eternity on the level and uphill side. Downhill, it was much too short. It was the same way coming back. Damned clever, these New Yorkers. Ah, Brooklyn, here I come. (It says in the script.) My map had blown away when I was hanging onto the truck, and I thot I could procure another one easily. But gastations were sparse, and all closed. I followed my nose. Finally I blundered on one that was open. Ah, I thot, this beautiful map of New York showing me every street will solve my difficulties pronto. Besides, the attendant gave me explicit directions which I followed faithfully. Sure enuf, a few minutes later I came out on Grand Avenue, which was where I innocently believed I wanted to go. The only trouble was that it was Grand Ave in Queens instead of Brooklyn. On its ten mile cobblestone length, I jolted out what few brains had not been fried searching for my number, until I returned to Queens Boulevard which I had left an hour before. One less inhibition and I would have sat down on the curbstone and blubbered. After this, I rode along with a glassy stare, making resolutions at every intersection not to try any more short cuts. Besides, there weren't any. I must give my aunt credit for being a woman with iron nerves. I know very well that even if he did have a bicycle and was expected, I would not have admitted the purple-faced, drooling madman that was I. I would have shrieked bloody murder and called for the squirrel squad, but immediately. Under her kindly ministrations, it was only 36 hours before I was nursed back to a semblance of sanity. That is, I could feed myself, tie my shoelaces, and answer simple questions. However, it was decided
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