10
THE BICYCLE HAD BEEN made to be ridden by women; there was no crossbar and the machine was of an old-fashioned shape, high off the ground, with tall, prim handlebars. The back wheel had a fan of strings on it, once colored but now bleached and many of them missing; they stretched from hub to mudguard and their purpose, of course, had been to keep the hems of skirts from becoming entangled in the spokes. Being old, the machine rattled, and its natural instincts combined with the decrepitude engendered by years of hard use made it resist Kjellegard’s efforts to drive it along at a speed inconsistent with its own notions of prudence and decorum: whenever it reached such a speed that he could actually feel the wind passing his ears, its rusty chain slipped off the cogs between the pedals,
