Island Antics

With An

Auto Cycle

By W. H. Percival

T F y™ u y e on a Pacific island, and X cannot afford a car or motor , cycle, you may be compelled to pedal several miles to from heat 6aCh day ’ m steamin g tropical If you are as lazy as I am thic cause you to think that life Wte tedwiu”; or that there must But a rinS le J Way to earn a living.

But dont despair, friend. I have a message. Buy an auto-cycle! 0V i. er years ago I —and fi ftld Ji^^otor— going cheap and fitted it to my push bike This amazing contrivance is placed above the rear wheel, and a roller that works °n the tyre drives you forward hL t S p s P eed of 20 mph. Think of the advantages, friend. No more slugging against head-winds no more perspiring under a tropic sun ~.£ asy t 0 °P €ra te—cheap to run. But briUiant ° n * The ldea is obvious ly en?iJi°p d 'tn S «„ We ha X e fitted the engme to our once humble push- Sfe “S are aU set to travel six 3™lcs to work along Rarotonga’s coastal road. It is Monday morn w!’ f nc ? wear a nic e white suit. no 6 o fe fi h^ p P y and confident, be ,¥ onday is different. For the first time in our Island ex penence we will arrive on time, cool and calm, and ready for work.

The engine is new, so we cruise at 15 mph, which is considerably faster, anyway, than our normal muscle propulsion. Almost imme diately we begin a new, boredom

banishing experience.

Amazing how many pot holes there are in this road. Ugh! Didn’t see that one. The combined weights of rider and engine crash down on the rear wheel. A truck, driven by an Island gentleman, hurtles to wards us on the wrong side of the road. We avoid him by inches, and are then forced into the centre of the road to miss a straggling group of pedestrians. This takes us over yards of corrugations which nearly jolt our teeth loose before we finally get back to the comparatively smooth side of the road.

With increasing skill we dodge most of the larger rocks and stones, but occasionally a combina tion of circumstances forces us to hit one. The tyres are driven hard against the rims and the jolt travels up through our body.

Considerately, we reduce speed to pass through a village. The dogs, roused to frenzy by the sputter of the engine, rush out at us in belli gerent packs. They race alongside,

snapping at our legs. We calmly wait our chance, then unleash a kick calculated to decapitate the nearest brute. Our shoe misses by a foot and the momentum of the kick throws us into a front wheel Sk Somehow we avoid disaster—and the screaming urchins who dash across our path, seemingly intent on suicide. Slightly shaken we grin feebly, and press on, regardless. Our target is now less than three miles boys from Public Works have been busy repairing the road s —God bless them. The bend ahead of us is several inches deep with grey basaltic chips which haye been beautifully banked up by the islands motor traffic. On the left-hand side of the road, and three feet below its surface, are acres of swampy taro fields. . nca The front wheel enters the loose gravel—and skids away from us. We yank the handle bars round and stamp our foot down on the road, bringing our machine upright again.

When we stop sweating we begin to smirk. That was smart work. We re getting pretty good.

The smirk vanishes as we see four or five sucking pigs right in front of us We jam over the throttle so that the engine is barely running and swing hard over to the left.

This manoeuvre is designed to scare the piglets away to the right. They all get the idea —except one—which rushes blindly into our front wheel.

There is a vivid impression of be ing airborne, and seeing taro plants and muddy black water rushing up to meet us. Then we are groping around in oozy blackness that smells, trying to find the light.

When we get the mud out of our eyes we note that we are well bedded down, and that our white suit is just a beautiful memory. It is moments like these that a philo sophical frame of mind is a distinct advantage. After all, friend, we could have hit the road and scratched our nose.

The engine has stopped running and not more than half the fuel has spilled out, so we get back into the saddle. Perhaps our .laugh sounds a little forced—but m the Islands one needs such a rooust sense of humour.

Half a mile further, the grey clouds that have been hiding the hills for days, get tired of doing nothing—and open up onus. With in minutes it isn’t possible for us to pt any wetter and the road is well awash. Oh, well, we think.

Just another cloudburst. Nothing unusual in our Island paradise.

The motor falters, sputters, and cuts out dead. For a moment we are puzzled. Then we realise that the roller can’t grip the tyre that slips so easily when wet. Never mind, the noise was getting on our nerves.

Our legs jerk mechanically into the old pedalling routine Only a mile to go. Practically on the door

step. An unpleasant hissing sound comes from the rear. Oh, no, it can’t be! But we know, of course, that it is. A flat—one mile from base—in a storm—without a repair kit or any spanners.

We make ourselves look. The flattest flat we’ve had for years. And four broken spokes besides —little souvenirs of those lovely little pot holes that give character to Raro tongan roads.

Well, friend, things didn’t quite work out the way we planned. But the unkindest cut of all is yet to come. , We limp, somewhat discouraged— and very damp and dirty—into the place that gives us taro and corned beef. The Boss comes out to greet US “Dammit, man. Late again. Can’t you ever get here on time?”

We shrug—and smile a little wearily. Can’t blame the poor old bloke, really. His liver’s crook. And after all—it’s Monday morning. fl Mrs. Pusinelli, of the Gilberts, travelled to Australia on vacation in November.