found this today at the henry miller LIBRARY, in big sur, california…

“My best friend… Believe it or not, it was my bike. This one I had bought at Madison Square Garden, at the end of a six-day race. It was made in Chemnitz, Bohemia… I had two other bikes of American manufacture.

These I would lend to my friends… But the one from the Garden no one but myself rode. It was like a pet. And why not? Did it not see me through all the times of trouble and despair?… I carried on silent conversation with it. And of course I paid it the best attention. Which meant everytime I returned home I stood the bike upside down, searched for a clean rag and polished the hubs and the spokes. Then I cleaned the chain and, greased it afresh. That operation left ugly stains on the stone in the walkway.

My mother would complain, beg me to put a newspaper under my wheel before starting to clean it. Sometimes she would get so incensed that she would say to me in full sarcasm, “I’m surprised you don’t take that thing to bed with you!” And I would retort, “I would if I had a decent room and a big enough bed.”