Not thinking there to be any difference between a boy and a man, except in the opinions of girls we meet, which means we can tell one that's up to no good immediately, it would seem that luck has much to do with it, and, further, we would only be able to tolerate the company of those whose luck has been similar to ours.
But after a certain number of years have passed, in which we certainly wish we were still in our boyhood, whether we've been lucky or not, experience leads us to the conclusion that we are indeed in a Common Lot.
Firstly, marbles, which some think is the best analogy for what we're standing on, teach us to resist temptation; at least, the ones I possess suggest to me they'll do marvels for my bouyancy. Secondly, the word spherical has a gender bias when applied to things which cannot be described as inorganic.
This is not to say that girls can't have round heads: someone who has expressed unhappiness with their personal shape might lead us to chivvy them on what they aught to do about it, which is best left to people with natural graces. For the sake of drawing a picture, let's assume ourselves a naturally graceful schoolgirl, who worked on her brother's friends in the chivvying line of business, who herself was one day told that she was looking wonderfully round. Can it be believed that the teller was not chivvying her to get her to do something about it?
Thus before we've come to describing our Common Lot we've had to describe a natural division, which may not be a fair one. And we're tempted to call spheres female, but we won't. But we're standing on one which in truth is our Common Lot.
There being no-one to stop us, we might drill down until we're deep enough such that our conscience allows us to declare ourselves inside. But now we do feel that we've come to a division between what a boy might try as opposed to what a man might try.
Not that it has anything to do with drilling, I gather that some forms of contraception are very good indeed; for some we've known only had children after ten years of marriage, and are still married now that they are grandparents.
But our generation, as much as we must have evolved by a fractional amount, didn't have the secret; which is strange because we were asked, by girls, every little detail of our end of the bargain, whenever we were in mixed company. But with little exception our parties were Nerd parties and the only removing of trousers happened by boys who were playing practical word games by swapping with their friends.
It takes a man to be a father. Before he is one, or if he hasn't quite dispensed with the word boy, he might get himself a motorbike and drive around the world for pleasure; but as far as I know, bikes don't float.
It's nice to live in a hilly town where there are tracks suitable for a light motorcycle. Then, assuming the weather is tolerable, or just the kind of adverse that pleases us most, boredom is something that can only happen to other people. But alas! the town that I lived in was mostly populated by those who thought that living in a tight spot would give as good a feeling as getting in and out of one.
Discovering that Accelerate wouldn't float, a Samaritan happened to be nearby to help pull her through the stream. That's my luck: it's not advisable to ride alone, but the only time I've met fellow enthusiasts, they've been on machines which would make the one or the other of us feel very bored indeed.
Accelerate was the first bike I rode that was in my name. Many of the places I took her reminded me of my bicycle, for reasons obvious to any boy. But a bike suitable for the enjoyment of the unclaimed land round about a hilly town, is only good for making a noise in a city with but parks to ride through. There's not much that can be done about that while the rule is that a boy shouldn't leave town by himself. In truth, Samaritans know that they must give thieves their dues.
Culturally opposed to calling on Mom and Dad when all it aught to take is someone with a vehicle and a few strong men, with a desire to make a bit of pocket money, to get me and my bike home, I nonetheless found, in one instance, that everyone was looking the other way. Taking a chance with a flat rear tyre, which chance paid off but left me with a bit of damage, I made my way to the next town, twenty kilometres away. But this town had also banished the Samaritans.
While that gave me a hint that my days of riding, at least in my present condition, were coming to an end, my Yamaha at last failed in the right place, where strong men and a suitable vehicle were available, were interested in some pocket money, and, circumstantially, would probably have taken me to Bez Valley had I been remotely interested in the Science of feelings.