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77 dead metaphOr: learninG the bicycle Cracked knees and elbows, bloodied chins, don’t make an archetype. There goes little Sally, trainers off, she’s—uh-oh—going down! Ouch! Ho-hum. Tears and recriminations, question of damaged trust. Next day typically comes next, hard lessons again. Sally or Joey faring better, wobble here, wobble there, maybe a tree leapt in the way, but you will them up, will them safe, and—vóila!—no casualties. Tedious victory indulges tedious conceit, to lead by following, or perhaps you merely gape into the circumstance of empty arms. Joey’s erect by himself now, Sally’s pumping for a whole street of watchful boys. Or worse, it’s young you on the banana seat, clutching handlebars like a hell-raiser, risen high and weaving straight (so to speak) into the future. Dad’s crouched back there somewhere, but you’ve no time to turn, no need for advice. Either story’s the same: Once we master the trick we never forget, then it’s always kamikaze, sayonara, always, you tired old man, good-bye. ...

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