In an earlier post, I mused about the relative lack of serious literature about bicycles, bicycling and cyclists.
What's puzzling is that such a void exists even with the number of well-known writers of the past 120 years or so who were cyclists.
Among them is Henry Miller:
In My Bike And Other Friends, he wrote, "After a time, habituated to so many hours a day on my bike, I became less and less interested in my friends. My wheel had now become my one and only friend. I could rely on it, which is more than I could say about my buddies. It's too bad no one ever photographed me with my friend. I would give anything now to know what we looked like."
What's puzzling is that such a void exists even with the number of well-known writers of the past 120 years or so who were cyclists.
Among them is Henry Miller:
 |
| From "The Daily Bike" in Adventure Journal |
In My Bike And Other Friends, he wrote, "After a time, habituated to so many hours a day on my bike, I became less and less interested in my friends. My wheel had now become my one and only friend. I could rely on it, which is more than I could say about my buddies. It's too bad no one ever photographed me with my friend. I would give anything now to know what we looked like."
