Every time I tried to steal a look at a pretty girl, or any other kind of scenery, that single moment of inattention gave the bicycle the chance it had been waiting for, and I went over the front of it and struck the ground on my head or my back before I had time to realise that something was happening.

I didn't always go over the front way; I had other ways, and practised them all; but no matter which way was chosen for me there was always one monotonous result--the bicycle skinned my leg and leaped up into the air and came down on top of me.
Sometimes its wires were so sprung by this violent performance that it had the collapsed look of an umbrella that had had a misunderstanding with a cyclone.

After each day's practice I arrived at home with my skin hanging in ribbons, from my knees down.

I plastered the ribbons on where they belonged, and bound them there with handkerchiefs steeped in Pond's Extract, and was ready for more adventures next day.

It was always a surprise to me that I had so much skin, and that it held out so well.
There was always plenty, and I soon came to understand that the supply was going to remain sufficient for all my needs.