My work on the auto-cycle’s clockwork engine complete, it was now, if not exactly gleaming, at the least free of the gritty oil that had so coated its workings, its major mechanisms realigned and tightened in such a way that could only make it a more efficient marvel.
Under K’s instructions I started the ten minute job of winding-up the starter spring. This spring would give the machine its initial impetus. Once the cycle was moving, and owing to the interaction of front and rear wheel springs (as I had deduced during my work), the vehicle would self-wind, with a range of up to five miles at a speed approaching ten miles per hour (on the flat) before the inherent inefficiency in the self-powered mechanism necessitated the starter be wound again.
K mounted the machine with the ease of familiarity and indicated I should climb on behind her. I clambered onto the rear of the saddle rather clumsily, feeling uncomfortably presumptuous to find myself in such close proximity to a lady I had but shortly met. The glossy suit she wore (which she informed me was not leather but a rare Texian material, coated with a by-product of refined mineral oil, named ‘pevecy’) was somewhat slippery, and it was hard to find purchase and maintain my balance whilst also keeping my honour intact.
“Don’t be shy,” she said, “just hold on. Not too tight.”
I squeezed my arms around K’s waist as, with a kick of the ratcheting lever, the clockwork engine clicked to life. The gear cogs engaged and we began to tick-tock our way through the rubble of St John Street for the short (but, I must say, stimulating!) ride to Islington and the Angel Inn where, K assured me, we would find safe lodgings for the night.