He is the terror that flaps in the night.
He is the voice that befuddles and confounds you.
He is -- THE PORTSMOUTH CYCLER.

--

There is a middle-aged man I've seen bicycling around Portsmouth from time to time. The noteworthiness of this guy hit home when I drove by the video rental after work, and there he was, riding by on his bicycle. Until then, I had only ever seen him in the old part of town. He'd be riding around on his bicycle while I was out walking during lunch. He's always riding his bike down the streets, and he always has a bag bound above the rear wheel. He never stops. But he's ALWAYS talking. Not to himself. To other people.

He rides by, talking in a loud tone of voice TO people. He sees someone walking, and he talks. He passes them by, so he continues talking until he is out of earshot, and then he'll talk to someone else who is nearer. His tone of voice is that of someone with a purposeful, direct REASON to be saying something. So whoever he's talking to turns and listens, expecting that he is some official saying to keep off the grass, or that he is some lost tourist asking directions, or whatever.

So as he's riding down the street, one by one, people look over and listen, get confused when what they hear him saying lacks sense and relevance, and, puzzled, move on (but not before he does).

Once he rode by me when I was just reaching the other side of one of the bridges that crosses the bay between Portsmouth, NH, and Kittery, Maine. He said something like, "Don't leave New Hampshire!" but he was gone before he could say anything else. Just before the bridge, the sidewalk area is composed of a metal grate-like thing, and on a later date I saw him ride by a woman who was walking her dog over it, and he said something about dogs and how one shouldn't do something and how some other guy did something with a dog and he had to tell him not to. The woman looked up blankly -- the same look everybody gives him: a look that indicates belief that something should be understood and confusion that it is not understandable. The woman, presumably thinking that the guy was saying something about the metal grating being hard on a dog's paws, stepped off the metal grate sidewalk and onto the asphalt of the road to walk her dog there. But then, after the guy had already moved on and it eventually dawned on her that this was not a town official or indeed anybody with a clue, she stepped back up on the sidewalk.

Still another day, I was just exiting the video store, he was calling to somebody about how these two guys smashed up a car in the parking lot. "...We know who they are, though, and we're going to get them..." he was saying, but then he had already ridden past, and his voice was fading in the distance, and the guy standing on the sidewalk for a smoke was looking after him, dumbfounded.

It's just incredible how his tone of voice grants the impression that he has both sense and authority about whatever it is he's talking about, but really he's just prattling to people about whatever pops into his head.

The day after the video store sighting, I saw him again. I was right in the middle of the aforementioned bridge. The bridge had JUST been raised to let a cruise boat pass by underneath. (The bridge needs to be raised about every half hour.) While I was leaning over the railing to take in the view of the river and the cool breeze, this authoritative voice says, "Stay moving on the bridge. It'll be going up very shortly." Yes, it was the Portsmouth Cycler, and he was just cruising by on his bike. "Don't forget to feed the birds!" he called over his shoulder, and then he was out of earshot. I can only assume he was talking about the many pigeons that flutter about underneath the bridge and perch on the iron struts there. But heck if I know why they need feeding, or why I should do it.

I turned back to the water, then looked after him again. He was still on the bridge, but quite far down, and he had gotten off his bicycle long enough to use a piece of the bridge to support the paper he was writing on. He was preaching something or other to a pedestrian that had started onto the bridge from the other end and was walking my way. I couldn't hear what the Cycler was saying, but I could hear his familiar vocal tones broken up a bit by the light wind. The pedestrian was looking at him uncertainly but still walking. When he passed, the Cycler turned and called things after him. The pedestrian kept walking, and after the Cycler gave up, the pedestrian turned back as he walked, evidently trying to figure out what this guy was all about.

The Cycler turned back to his paper. I was tempted to walk by him and entertain myself with what he'd say to me, but I decided against it. When he got on his bike and started riding away, I walked after him. By the time I cleared the bridge, the Cycler was gone, lost somewhere in the streets of Portsmouth. But there were these two guys walking up the sidewalk toward me, and they were casting looks behind them at something odd that had apparently just passed them by.