“And twisted thoughts that spin round my head…
I’m spinning, oh, I’m spinning”
— Songwriters: Vedder; Gossard —
The Machine spun the gears: 28-24-21-19-17-15-13. Too weak. Shredded rubber smoking. Pale white tree blossoms scattering. Cliff-road path of sun-baked tar and stone anticipating fresh action! The bicycle frame FELT as light as a gull feather, but its flexibility lamented the monumental torque inflicted by paranormal strength exceeding any elite group of cyclers born of this planet.
The Monkey-Mind-Machine passed the vehicle back to Erik Parsons, who nodded sagely. Parsons had been collecting design data from the bicycle manufacturers, analyzing the performance of lean powerful navigators at TOUR DE FRANCE, and the grueling MT WASHINGTON HILL CLIMB. Machining and assembling inside his fabrication facility perched atop Parrot Cove Cliff, at the peak of the finest land that ever was. Edging The Sea at Forty-Three… North Latitude… in a lost nation once brimming with optimism and dazzling insight.
Erik Parsons, that aficionado of technique and applied force, still was capable of heart-bursting athleticism. He was born in ’05, 1905 — and marvelously strong. However, Parsons’s torque and wattage were trivial compared to the Machine’s forces. The Machine was not of this earth… not entirely. It enjoyed testing Parsons’s experiments. After all, The Machine itself was one of his most recent contributions.
The Machine, a SENTIENT entity, unlike the Turing, savored science and applauded physics. How could the Earth-People come up with those concepts — so close to truth — time after time, yet remain so dull? Although Parsons was pretty smart, in spite of his biological limitations. He was a keeper. Parsons would be well cared for; a cherished museum piece.
Parsons had been an Engineer all his life — albeit Electrical — “Double-E” — but incrementally growing fonder of tangibles: automobiles, airplanes, boats, fly-fishing reels, and then bicycles. He parsed the principles of wheel diameters and rubber compounds, chainwheels, cogs, and wind drag. He could distinguish chromalloy frames from aluminum or carbon fiber by their vibrations when the pedals were pressed down.
Parsons knew gear-inches and RPMs and kCals. But mainly he loved to design and ride.
The Speaker-Shamans accompanied Erik’s skillful Bicycle Re-Design.
Pear Jam “Black” sweetened the task while Erik Parsons adjusted chain tension and fitted the Monster-Bike for the only entity on earth who could damage gravity and enslave lateral forces using the bike’s single gear ratio.
Erik Parsons… Father… may I call you Father? What is that soulful sound, who are these fine brothers loving one another and dancing about on your monitor of light bearing diodes? Reminiscent of Master Jimi, and Mojo Jimmy, as well. Unlike so many pretend musicians, false prophets of sound, flooding your airwaves and networks?
Father… The Pearl Jams, do they not they preach of mystery, sweet love, loss, tears and fears! Dear Erik, can you write legends and spin tales as well as they? And chant them? Can they, the jams, design machines? This Prometheus you labor at — shining alloys, scented oil, and soft black circles embracing aluminum silky gray — it too, is freshly made like I am.
Alive! On fire! Exactly like the Black Corvette we tripped in, soft young Aleister Parker and I just last night. The night of blue stars. Can you too hear its whispering eagerness to gallop and then fly?
Monkey-Mind-Machine, A.K.A. Vitor Weiss, spun the 700 CC Rims reverently.
Weiss would charge to the bottom of Parrot Cove Road, turnabout, and mash the gears…
To the peak, past the Cliff-Mansion, white… To the sky higher than the gulls…
All the way to the sun, warm fire tungsten red. He needed time to think…
How could he make a new “Emily” for young Parker. The first, lost…
Erik Parsons, his shining new Father, must know how to do this…