Spin

by Peter Zheutlin

  There was, I knew, no way to explain this to the children. Libbie was but three and Simon just two. Even Mollie, at five, would be utterly confused and unable to grasp any explanation I could conjure except to say that Mother would be going away for a while and would come back as soon as she could. So inadequate. Though it barely registered then—I was, quite honestly, too selfish and self-absorbed—I have felt in the years since occasional pangs of guilt over a departure that would be as sudden as it was inexplicable to the children. They paid a high price for my freedom, especially Mollie, but we’ll come to that.

  * * *

  The next week I presented myself at the academy for the cycling lessons Alonzo had arranged at Colonel Pope’s direction. The instructor was a young man of about twenty, a handsome fellow named Michael who had about a half-dozen assistants out on the flat wooden floor where men and women of various ages were struggling to master the art of the wheel. They looked like small children trying to ice-skate for the first time.

  “It takes eight or ten lessons before most people are ready to go out on their own,” Michael explained. “It’s not as easy as it looks when you see people riding through the park.”

  “I shall conquer it in two,” I said, looking Michael in the eye. “Look at that.” I gazed out over the assembled students going every which way, falling, stumbling, occasionally gliding a few feet or so, their faces frozen in terror. “Far too much fussing about.”

  “They’re not so much afraid of losing their balance as their dignity,” I added. “If you don’t worry about your dignity, the task looks quite simple.”

  Two lessons later I pronounced myself ready to Michael.

  “I have to hand it to you, Mrs. Kopchovksy,” Michael said with a smile. “You’re a fast learner. Only a handful of students have shown the knack you have for the wheel. I think you are ready for the park.”

  Michael knew nothing of my plan, so my response meant nothing to him.

  “The park cannot contain me,” I replied. “I’m ready for the world!”

  * * *

  It was now early June. Alonzo and I continued to meet during my regular visits to the store, where, in addition to collecting that week’s adverts, we worked out the details of my departure. We chose, with the colonel’s approval, Monday, June 25 as the big day and the steps in front of the statehouse on Beacon Hill as the place for a grand send-off. There was still much to be done.

  I’d purchased a steamer trunk in which I would pack extra clothing and the personal effects I would need to refresh from time to time, with enough room for souvenirs I might collect along the way. My plan was to ship the trunk, by rail or steamer, to be held for me at various points along the way.

  As the purpose of the journey, as far as Colonel Pope was concerned, was to serve as a roving advertisement for his bicycles, Alonzo arranged for a brand-new women’s drop frame Columbia to be delivered fresh from the factory a few days before my departure. The plan was for Alonzo to wheel it up to me as I stood on the statehouse steps.

  The drop frame was a modification to bicycles necessitated by their growing popularity among women. Women were still expected to wear long billowy skirts while astride a bicycle, and not a patch of skin above the ankle was to be exposed. Mounting a bicycle with a top tube running from the seat post to the front stem, the part to which the handlebars are attached, was highly impractical in long skirts: one had to gather nearly the entire skirt and lift it over the top tube as one leg was lifted over as well. It was preposterous and made riding difficult, and so the drop frame was introduced, allowing the woman rider to simply step through the frame.

  The bicycle Alonzo had selected weighed forty-two pounds and had a simple spoon brake, a terribly inefficient device that consisted of a piece of metal shaped like a spoon and attached to a plunger, which was attached, in turn, to the front stem. To slow the machine the rider pushed down on the plunger, and the spoon, slightly curved to match, more or less, the width of the front wheel, would create friction. As a practical matter this brake was a farce. The real braking came from the rider resisting the forward spin of the pedals by applying back pressure. What became known as the “freewheel mechanism” was still a few years in the future, which meant that whenever the bicycle wheels were turning, the pedals were turning as well. On flat surfaces the rider could, with relative ease, bring the bicycle to a stop this way, especially because the casual rider was typically traveling at a leisurely eight miles an hour or so. But when going downhill it was nearly impossible to resist the spinning pedals, which continued to gather momentum the farther one descended. Often the rider had no choice but to move her feet to the side, let the pedals spin wildly, and hope for the best. For a woman in long skirts, this was especially difficult; many women had their skirts caught in the spinning pedals and were either stripped practically naked in the process or found themselves bloody and bruised and seated on the ground next to their ruined bicycles. Prudent riders often walked their machines down long or steep hills. These were skills one could not learn on the flat wooden floor of a cycling academy; I would have to learn, by trial and error, as I went.

  * * *

  I still had to attend to an important detail the colonel had insisted upon. I needed another name, an alter ego, so that the colonel’s marketing plans would not be marred by having as their central figure a Jew. It would have been easy enough to make up a name, but I had a better idea, and it came to me as I made my work rounds in early June. One of my customers, with a branch office in Boston, was a spring water company with headquarters in Nashua, New Hampshire. The spring itself was in the nearby town of Londonderry, and the water had naturally occurring traces of lithium, an element used since the early 1800s to treat gout, but which by the later part of the century was known to have mood stabilizing properties. It was called the Londonderry Lithia Spring Water Company. The product was distributed and widely advertised throughout many parts of the country, as far away as Denver.

  I was aware that some of the more famous bicycle racers of the time, men such as William Sanger, made extra money by endorsing products such as bicycle tires. I was required by the terms of the wager to earn five thousand dollars and to meet my expenses, and I hit upon the idea of turning myself into a mobile billboard. I had been selling adverts for the newspapers for several years; why not sell adverts and adorn my bicycle and myself with them? What a spectacle I would be! It was, if I say so myself, a stroke of genius and would, as you will see, become my principal source of income in the months ahead.

  Londonderry’s Boston sales representative was Benjamin White, a genial man of middle age, who was easily charmed. Being one of the few female advertising solicitors in Boston gave me an advantage my male competitors lacked. Rare was the man who was resistant to a young woman’s flattery, especially if she was attractive (no false modesty here; I was a comely young woman) and a little flirtatious.

  Three weeks before my scheduled departure I called on White. I told him I was taking leave of my job and that this would be our last meeting for a while. He seemed disappointed and asked the reason for my leave. When I told him of my plan he was as aghast as he was delighted.

  “Oh my, Mrs. Kopchovsky! I can scarcely believe it,” he said. “Whoever heard of such a thing! A woman going alone? Around the world? On a bicycle no less?”

  I assured him I was not pulling the wool over his eyes.

  “I have a proposition,” I said with dead seriousness. “Your company stands to profit from this venture, as well as Colonel Pope’s.” I had, through Alonzo, secured the colonel’s permission for this part of my scheme.

  “How so, Mrs. Kopchovsky? How so?” I had piqued his curiosity.

  “The Londonderry brand is quite famous, is it not?”

  “I suppose it is. Recognized in many parts.”

  “I am required on this journey to earn my way, and plan to put my experience as an advertising woman to work during the enterprise,” I explained. “I propose to fix a placard
with the Londonderry name to my bicycle for the duration of my journey in exchange for one hundred dollars.” I sounded as if I fully expected White to agree on the spot. What I really expected was for him to tell me he would need to check with his superiors in Nashua.

  “That’s a large sum, Mrs. Kopchovksy.” He sounded skeptical.

  “There’s more,” I answered. “I propose to go as ‘Annie Londonderry.’ It rings like a bell, does it not?” White smiled.

  “You are an ingenuous woman, Mrs. Kopchovksy. You seem possessed of a limitless supply of outlandish ideas.” He meant it as a compliment.

  “Let me see what I can do. Stop by early next week and I will have an answer for you.”

  The deal was struck and in the weeks and months ahead, Anna Cohen Kopchovksy, the daughter of Latvian immigrants, the wife of a simple peddler, and the mother of three young children, would gradually disappear, and a new woman would be born: the daring woman on a wheel, the globetrotter extraordinaire, Annie Londonderry.

  Four

  June 25, 1894, was a mild, slightly overcast day. I barely slept the night before. As self-assured as I was, the butterflies in my stomach were active all night long. What had seemed in my imagination a lovely flight to freedom suddenly seemed a daunting physical, logistical, and emotional challenge.

  I had, two days before, shipped my trunk by rail to New York, my first destination, to the home of friends on the Lower East Side where I would stay while in the city. I would carry little with me, for all I had was a small leather carrying case secured to the seat post. In that small case I packed a change of undergarments and two “road books” published by the Massachusetts and New York chapters of the L.A.W. These were bound booklets with detailed directions for cyclists, maps, and, down to the finest details, descriptions of road conditions for virtually every mile. One could use the New York book as a guide all the way from New York to Chicago, and my plan was to ride for Chicago after I’d reached New York. In the back were the names of hotels that welcomed cyclists and offered discounts to members of the L.A.W., a membership I had secured. Paved roads were few and far between outside of cities back then, so the descriptions of road conditions were extremely helpful. As I would learn almost immediately, some roads in Rhode Island were nothing but soft sand and impossible to ride; the cyclist would have to dismount and push the bicycle, sometimes for several exhausting miles, before finding a surface firm enough to support the weight of a cyclist and her machine. As you can surmise, long-distance cycling was already a popular pastime, principally for men. But for most, long-distance didn’t mean going ’round the world, and for most of my odyssey I would not have the luxury of the L.A.W. booklets to guide me.

  There was one other personal effect in my saddlebag. It was my idea to bring it, even though I had no idea how to use it, and I purchased it in Boston just a few days before leaving. I never loaded it, though no one knew that but me; it was really just for show. After all, Annie Londonderry was about to put on a ’round-the-world spectacle the likes of which had never been seen. The journey was full of inherent danger, of course, but I never missed an opportunity to throw an extra measure of theatrics into it. Many reporters I would meet along the way were quick to mention it, and I always made a show of brandishing it: with my underwear and my roadbooks I packed a brand-new Smith & Wesson revolver with a beautiful pearl handle. That pistol seemed the perfect emblem for the journey, hinting, as it did, at the danger and excitement ahead, and for the alter ego that would grow with every mile. I wish I had a dollar for every man who said of me along the way, “She’s a pistol, all right!”

  * * *

  Thanks to Colonel Pope’s connections with all the newspapers, and my own affiliations, news of my impending departure had spread throughout Boston, and by late morning a crowd of more than five hundred had gathered at the statehouse to see me off. The colonel had arranged a horse-drawn carriage to take me and a small delegation of women, including Mrs. J. O. Tubbs, head of the local chapter of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union, Frances Willard’s organization, from the store on Washington Street up to the statehouse.

  Susie and another friend of ours, Pear Stone, were waiting at the statehouse, as was my rather forlorn-looking brother Bennett. He barely nodded at me when I looked his way, and he never even came up to say goodbye. I suspect he thought the farce would last a few days at most. The governor of the Commonwealth, Frederic Greenhalge, was supposed to be there but, much to my disappointment, never showed. Needless to say, perhaps, Grandpa and the children did not come. Earlier that morning I kissed each of them, muttered a word of apology to Grandpa, told them I would be back, and left for the walk to Washington Street. There was no time to linger in a sad farewell, nor did I wish to.

  You can see from the photograph I am enclosing with this letter what I wore that day: a long dark skirt, a dark tailored jacket with billowing sleeves, a white shirtwaist with a striped collar and a neat bow tie, dark gloves, and a flat-topped hat. My hair was tied up in a bun under the hat. And that little white ribbon on my lapel? The symbol of Frances Willard’s WCTU. I think I looked rather stylish, don’t you?

  Alonzo stood off to the side holding the Columbia bicycle I was to ride. He was dressed in his formal bicycle riding attire: close-fitting pants and a neat jacket adorned with epaulets bearing the abbreviation MASS. to indicate his rank as a captain in the Massachusetts chapter of the L.A.W.

  The crowd quieted as Mrs. Tubbs stepped to the podium that had been set up.

  “May she set a noble example wherever she goes!” she exclaimed. “We wish her to spread good tidings among the Bedouins and the nations of the earth!” As she introduced me, I kissed Pear and Susie each on the cheek, asked them if my hat was on straight, and addressed the assembly.

  “I am to go around the earth in fifteen months, returning with five thousand dollars, and starting only with the clothes on my back,” I said, speaking as loudly as I could so those far back in the crowd, which had blocked Beacon Street, could hear. “I cannot accept anything gratuitously from anyone.” For dramatic effect I then turned the pockets of my jacket inside out to show they were empty.

  As we had planned on the carriage ride, Mrs. Tubbs stepped forward and offered me a copper coin.

  “A penny for luck!” she said.

  “I can’t take it,” I replied. “I must earn it.”

  “Take it as pay in return for speaking for the white ribbon, then,” Mrs. Tubbs responded. Then she pinned that little white ribbon on my right lapel, and the crowd applauded.

  There was more staged theater to come. Next, Mr. White of the Londonderry Lithia Spring Water Company stepped forward and held up a one-hundred-dollar bill, a very substantial sum in those days. He handed it to me and then, using picture wire, affixed a small placard that simply read “Londonderry” to the skirt guard, a screen mesh that fit over the rear wheel and kept a woman’s skirts from getting caught in the spokes. As agreed, I would carry the Londonderry banner to publicize the brand and would, as I traveled, call myself “Annie Londonderry.”

  “Anyone else make a bid for space on the wheel?” I asked the crowd. That day no one did, but in the days ahead I would be nearly covered head to toe in small patches, ribbons, and banners advertising all manner of things, from milk to perfume.

  “There being none, I will now say farewell!”

  Alonzo wheeled the bike forward, and we made our way to Beacon Street, the crowd parting to permit us through. Alonzo held the wheel as I stepped through the frame. I tried to catch Bennett’s eye, but he was looking down at his feet in despair. I waved to the crowd and with a gentle push from Alonzo I sailed away like a kite down Beacon Street as a huge cheer rose up from the throngs behind me.

  I did not go far before turning into an alley near Susie’s house. Up on Beacon Hill the crowd began to disperse.

  This was my official start, but I didn’t actually leave Boston for another two days. As we had arranged, Susie arrived in the alley about twent
y minutes later and we moved the bike into the basement of her building. Other than lie with Susie for the next two days, early on the morning of the twenty-sixth, before sunrise, I rode the wheel to the Towne Portrait Studio, where I had arranged to have formal photographs taken, the one I have enclosed among them. I had several hundred made and shipped to New York, where I would add them to my trunk. As I became better known, I figured people I met would gladly pay for a photograph and an autograph and I could earn some of my money that way. I would not be disappointed.

  As you can imagine, the next two days with Susie were bittersweet. She never wavered in her support of my venture, but as the hours till my actual departure ticked down, the sense of longing and sadness grew deeper and deeper. Men, especially of that time, understood so little of women, and rare was the man who even conceived that a woman might have a rich inner life, thoughts worth weighing, and feelings that needed tending. That, as I have said, is why many, many more of us than anyone understood sought comfort and communion with each other.

  Again before dawn, so as to minimize the risk of being seen, on the morning of June 27 I left at last, after spending the night wrapped in Susie’s arms. We went to the basement together to retrieve the wheel, and as we stood at the basement door, gripped each other with such intensity I thought we might pass right through each other. We didn’t speak. We didn’t have to. We had said all we needed to say in the previous thirty-six hours.

  I wheeled the Columbia onto Charles Street, gave Susie one last kiss, mounted the wheel, and bumped along the cobblestones toward the Fens, near where Fenway Park stands today. Many streets in Boston were paved with macadam, and for the first few miles as I pedaled from downtown through Jamaica Plain, Forest Hills, and West Roxbury, the riding was smooth.