The Story
Mulga Bill lived in a dusty town called Eaglehawk, in the dry Australian bush. He was a large, loud, enormously self-confident man who could ride anything that moved and was not shy about saying so.
He had ridden wild horses, stubborn mules, and a camel that other men had given up on entirely. He had ridden through floods and through dust storms and through patches of prickle-bush that would have discouraged a more sensible rider. Mulga Bill feared nothing on four legs.
So when the new bicycle arrived at the general store — all gleaming metal and rubber tyres and shining spokes — Mulga Bill looked at it with great satisfaction.
"'Tis but a mechanical horse," he said. "And there is no horse born that Mulga Bill cannot ride."
The storekeeper smiled politely. The children outside pressed their noses against the glass.
Mulga Bill purchased the bicycle on the spot, wheeled it outside with ceremony, and climbed on with the confidence of a man who has never yet fallen off anything.
The bicycle had different ideas.
It wobbled. Mulga Bill corrected firmly. It swerved. He corrected again, rather less firmly. It picked up speed on the hill — much more speed than Mulga Bill had intended — and he discovered that correcting did not seem to be working at all anymore.
The bicycle shot down the main street. Hens scattered. A dog fled under the porch. The storekeeper watched through the window. The children ran alongside, cheering, which was not helpful.
At the bottom of the hill was Dead Man's Creek, which had water in it that particular afternoon, as luck — or lack of it — would have it.
Mulga Bill and the bicycle parted ways at the edge of the bank. The bicycle sailed into the creek with a dignified splash. Mulga Bill arrived in the creek a moment later, with considerably less dignity.
He waded out, dripping, and stood on the bank. The children were very quiet. The bicycle lay in the shallow water, still spinning one wheel in a reflective sort of way.
"The thing," said Mulga Bill with great seriousness, "is poorly designed."
He walked home. He never did buy another bicycle. But he told the story himself, always, and he told it very well, and he always ended by saying that a man who cannot laugh at himself is the sorriest rider of all.