My poor deluded friend Orville is sad.
He knows now that he will never ride to the top of Mont Blanc. I keep telling him it’s academic, but that word has never brought comfort to a man in active mourning.
The realisation came after Orville took possession of an electric wheelchair and he read the user manual. Or rather, he tried to. He rang me because he was “having trouble working it out”, which is Orville-speak for something has gone wrong and may yet involve emergency services.
I skimmed the manual. I have always had an aversion to user manuals, but this one rewarded even a cursory glance with immediate disappointment.
Maximum negotiable slope: 9 per cent.
Orville began to sob.
“Mont Blanc,” he said, between heaves, “on its steepest pinches is far more than that.”
I told him again that it was academic. He said it wasn’t. He said that once upon a time the oldest man to ride the Tour de France was Henri Paret, who competed in 1904 at the age of 50, and finished respectably. Orville is well past that age, though neither of us knows exactly how far past. Next time I see him I must remember to count the rings on his bald head. Carbon dating may be appropriate, particularly now that he owns a carbon fibre chair.
The manual itself is a masterpiece of defensive writing. Twenty-three warnings, most of them clearly aimed at people who believe gravity is optional. Do not attempt slopes. Do not attempt kerbs. Do not attempt terrain that looks as if it might have featured in a cycling documentary narrated by someone whispering reverently.
Orville, it must be said, is exactly the sort of person some of these warnings are aimed at.
I explained neutral mode. I explained electromagnetic brakes. I explained that the advertised 20km range applied to one battery only, not a single glorious ascent followed by a victory espresso.
“So I couldn’t even swap batteries halfway up?” Orville asked.
“No,” I said. “And also you wouldn’t be halfway up.”
This made him cry again, though more quietly this time.
At one point he asked whether the wheelchair had been tested in the Alps. I said it had almost certainly been tested in a business park on a Tuesday. This did not help.
In the end, I closed the manual. It had defeated us both, though in different ways. Orville had learned too much. I had learned that modern freedom and independence come with more warnings than a pharmaceutical advertisement.
I told Orville there was a bright side. He looked up.
“You may not ride to the top of Mont Blanc,” I said, “but neither will Henri Paret, and neither will Tadej Pogačar — not without breaching at least three warnings and the slope rating.”
Orville nodded. Perspective restored.
Besides, I added, the Tour de France has always been about suffering. And judging by this manual, we’re already well qualified.
JOHN MARTIN 