by Emma Carroll
June 20th
The gossip at the synagogue is this: some of the men, in particular our neighbour, Mr Kleinmann, have been sayin’ shame on Max for allowing me to skedaddle off on a bike without a chaperone, but my old man’s a new man if ever there was one. He says Mr Kleinmann is an ol’ windbag and can go whistle. Max is behind me all the way. He even found me a fine tour book so I could plan my route. It tells all the distances, road conditions, and hotels that offer cyclists a discount. Goodbye, my darlin’ Max. Annie Londonderry may be leaving for Chicago tomorrow, but I will always be your ever-lovin’ Mrs Kopchovsky.
June 27th
Set off from Massachusetts State House on my bicycle at 11 am, for the official start line in Chicago. Pleased to see quite a big crowd gathered to wave me on my way, along with the press and the big bugs from New Hampshire’s Londonderry Lithia Spring Water Company, who fired the starter pistol. I’m feelin’ fit and dandy and with a good wind behind me, I am hoping to return to Chicago by early September next year to claim my prize money. I just hope my bonnet doesn’t blow off!
June 30th.
I’ve been riding hell-for-leather in the heat without my bonnet, which blew over a bridge a while back, to the amusement of several little guttersnipes. It is not the done thing for a lady to sweat, but after a long schlep like this I sure was glowing like a horse. I got so dry, I drank Londonderry Spring Water like a fish and as you can’t cross your legs on a bicycle no how, I hung on until I hit countryside and ducked behind some reeds to answer the call of nature. It’s none too easy squatting in a corset, and, while exposing myself to the elements, a bullfrog hopped down my unmentionables, which I did not realise until I hauled them back up around my waist and heard it croak. I do declare I shrieked – not because I’m afeared of frogs, I just like everything in its place, and as he didn’t seem to know his place, I fished him out and flung him in the swamp for his impertinence. Times like this, I wish I was born a man. They sure are lucky, knowin’ they can just stand and do their business whenever and wherever they please.
August 5th
I have taken a single room tonight at the Beehive Motel, and am bracin’ myself for the next leg of my journey. I am sittin’ in the dark with my bruised sit-upon plunged in a bath of icy-cold water. Boy, am I saddle-sore. The man who built my bike didn’t have a darn clue about women, or my saddle woulda come with a wide velvet cushion. I have heard tell that lining one’s bloomers with cabbage leaves is a cure for the chafin’, but, just my luck, cabbages are out of season.
August 24th
Been on the road almost two months, and I confess I miss my home comforts a little, but nothin’ compared to how much I miss Max and the chicks. My calves are black and blue from being pedal-whacked and all this exercise is takin’ a toll on my curves. I’ve lost two whole inches off my waist and had to make a new hole in my belt to keep my skirt from slippin.’ My bosom is as flat as fried eggs, which means my corset is now three sizes too big, no matter how tight I lace it, and while the lack of bounce is a good thing when I hit a bump on the road, the looseness of the garment makes it jump up and catch me right on the chin. When I’m feelin’ low like this, I think of the winnin’s, because what little gelt we have doesn’t go far, but mostly I’m doin’ this to show my girls and my boy chick what a woman can do if she has half a mind to, and that’s what keeps me going.
September 24th
Have arrived in Chicago to begin my round-the-world trip. I should be cock-a-hoop but I don’t feel so good. I’ve lost twenty pounds, winter’s comin’ and there’s no way I can make it alive across the mountains to San Francisco before snowfall. I hate to quit, but if I die, that’s three kids without their ma.
Now, I know Max would take great care of them but it ain’t the same. I lost my ma and pa when I still had milk teeth, so I know how it feels to be an orphan, and no way do I wish that for Malkie, Libs and Si. I think I’ve come to the end of the road. All bets off, I reckon.
October 4th
Folk say many things about women, but the one saying I love is this: it’s a woman’s right to change her mind. Well, I sure have changed mine. Heck, I’m not quitting already! I just hit a glitch, but now I’ve had a real nice meeting with the people at Sterling Cycle Works. They have a factory and an office in Carroll Street, and I reckon they must have put a huge bet on me, because they want to sponsor me and give me a brand-new bicycle!
October 11th
I have my new bike and it’s a doozy! It’s a men’s bike – an Expert Model E Light Roadster – but it’s real pretty; ivory and gold with “The Sterling” painted on the frame. It has a single gear, no freewheel mechanism and no brake for lawk’s sake, but there’s a good reason for that – it’s a whole twenty pound lighter than my clunky old Columbia, which will give me a much faster ride for a lot less effort. The notion of this no-brakes thing does make me fret somewhat, but if anyone crosses my path I’ll holler like a fishwife, parp my horn and hope and pray they leap outta the way.
October 21st
I am determined to complete my world trip. I have ditched my heavy skirt, petticoat and rib-crushin’ corset, and taken to pedalling in my bloomers. This has given me a real sense of liberation. I feel much cherkier now I can fill my lungs to full capacity the way nature intended and move my knees up and down without getting tangled in yards of flannel. Ten miles per hour is no problem – no one can catch me any more than they could catch a weasel asleep, although the sheriff was so shocked by my “lack of modesty” he did try. That poor man didn’t have a leg to stand on. I am not breakin’ any law. What could he do except blush and look the other way?
October 30th
Since I set off, I’ve noticed things are a-changin’. I am not alone in wearing minimal attire to assist my safe and speedy ridin’ these days. Other ladies I’ve met who joined the bicycle craze for their good health have adopted the same fashion for themselves, and found the going far easier physically, if not socially. The only inconvenience is that with fall fast approaching, the northerly breeze blows right up the bloomer legs, causin’ them to billow like twin windsocks, and while I don’t give a hoot if folk laugh and point, maybe I oughta ride in that old tweed suit of Max’s before I catch a chill. I don’t want a little thing like double pneumonia to put me off my stride.
November 24th
Having followed my route back to New York City, I am now onboard the French Liner La Touraine, destined for Le Havre on the north coast. Unless the ship sinks, I should arrive in about ten days, which gives me a chance to catch my breath and plot out the best route.
I hardly recognised myself when I looked in my cabin mirror. My hair is somewhat wild, as I have been wearing it shoved under Max’s wool cap to keep it out of my eyes. My skin is no longer fashionably white and my childhood freckles have returned. My limbs, which had become soft and fleshy, are firm and as defined as knots in an oak, and while some might be appalled, I am thrilled by my new athletic appearance. I may not reflect the old-fashioned notion of feminine beauty, but why should there be only one kind? I believe there is something beautiful about a woman lookin’ and feelin’ strong that need not be described as masculine, except by those with very tiny minds.
December 3rd
I’m spittin’ feathers! Soon as I arrived at Le Havre, my bike was confiscated by the French officials for no good reason I can see. They have snatched my money and I have just read the meanest article in the newspaper insulting my appearance, describing me as some kinda down-and-out hobo, and questioning my gender, despite me being a mother of three.
I very much doubt Mr E.C. Pfeiffer had to suffer an assassination on his looks or good character just for riding a darn bike. Nor did he have his choice of clothin’ criticised none. I’d like to see those numbskulls ride a bike in a skirt, I really would, and anyway, why should I dress in ribbons and lace to please a man? The line of thinking is that I’m some kind of deranged hussy, a bad mother and generally a blight on womankind. Well, they can
go hang. Their blinkered way of thinking has just made me more determined. I want a world where my girl chicks are free to strive for the same things as their brother. What’s so wrong with that? I’m gonna go see those officials and tell them straight.
December 5th
“Hell hath no fury like a woman’s wrath”, or so the Bible-bashers say, and I say good!
I went stormin’ up to those officials. I waved my sponsorships and my press clippin’s in their red faces, and I made mincemeat outta those boys. By the time I’d said my piece, they were quaking in their boots and could not wait to see the back of me, but I would not leave until I got a sincere apology. After that, I turned on my feminine charm and they gave me my bike back and my money, and to show them no hard feelin’s, I gave them a signed photo, which I know the young handsome one hid in his tobacco pouch.
December 9th
I am now drinkin’ black coffee outside a little café in Paris and selling my promotional pins for French francs after giving a riding demonstration down the Champs-Elysées. Paris, France is a fine place with more bikes than an onion-seller’s convention. Although my French isn’t so good, I have been in conversation with flocks of local folk, and the press are all clamourin’ to know my story. And if they want to believe I truly am the daughter of the US senator, a wealthy heiress and that I invented a new method of stenography, who am I to disillusion them? I swear half of what they say in the papers is bunkum anyhow, so I figured I might as well give them something a bit more entertainin’ to write about. It’s called publicity, it’s in a good cause and the way I see it, if I embroider things a little, it’s harmin’ no one and it’s fun. Much as I’d like to stay and enthral them with my adventures, I must leave soon and hit the road to Marseille.
December 15th
Dang! Got halfway to Marseille in the pourin’ rain and fell off my darn bike. A stray mutt ran out in front of me, I went to slam on the brakes, then remembered there weren’t none! Lost control down the hill, hit a rock and sailed through the air like a scarecrow shot from a cannon. Landed, skidded into a tree, tore the backside outta my pants and twisted my ankle. It’s fine. I just tore up my old petticoat and strapped it up best as I could. If I rest my foot on the handlebar, I reckon I can still ride to the nearest train station and hitch a lift. Nothin’ in the rules to say I can’t go part of the way by rail, and when the swellin’ goes down I should be ridin’ into Marseille within my deadline. I only have eight months to get back to Chicago, so no time to lie down and cry about it.
January 2nd, 1895
Made it to Marseille in one piece. Glad to report my ankle is no longer swollen like an elephant’s. Am now aboard a 413-foot steamship to Sydney. I sail from place to place, completing day trips at each stop along the way – Alexandria, Colombo, Singapore, Saigon, Hong Kong – you name it, I’ve cycled it.
February 12th
I have scrubbed up well enough to dine at the captain’s table, and have been amusing the passengers with tales of my wild adventures. I’m not saying that I tell ’em any wilder than they happened, but if someone in first class asks if I was kidnapped by bandits in Colombo and danced with the King of Saigon, it would be rude to disappoint ’em. Mind you, the mere idea of me adventurin’ alone is a wild and darin’ enough notion for the likes of them. The ladies on board are rich and well travelled, but as far as their real lives go, they don’t seem to look much beyond the horizon. I do detect a little envy in their eyes, seeing as how I’m not glued to a man’s side like they are, and the duchess did confide in me that she would swap all her jewels and finery for a similar taste of freedom. Next stop, Shanghai.
March 9th
Have ridden through Nagasaki and the cherry blossom sure was a sight for sore eyes. Cycled through Kobe without a hitch, although I did dodge a bullet and get arrested. By now, my fame has spread to the Orient. The Japanese fishermen threw down their nets and hollered “Annie Londonderry!” as I cycled by, and the workers in the paddy fields stood up and waved. I made good time although it was mighty hilly in places. So far, so good. Those boys who bet a woman couldn’t ride around the world are sure gonna lose their wager, I reckon. I am now sailing from Yokohama and hopin’ to reach the Golden Gate at Francisco around March 23rd if this ship stays afloat. The sea is mighty choppy tonight and I do feel a little green around the gills, but that might just be because I ate raw fish and it didn’t agree with me none. The passengers were fascinated to hear about my tiger huntin’ expedition with the Shoguns and how I almost died after being shot and thrown in a Japanese jail, but when they asked to see my bullet wound, I had to excuse myself, run to the deck and hurl.
March 23rd
Arrived at San Francisco on time! The next part of the journey won’t be so easy, what with there being a heck of a lot of sand along the way and me not being in possession of a camel. After Arizona, I’ll be passin’ through New Mexico and El Paso, which sounds like tough goin’, but according to my guide book this is where the Southern Pacific Railway tracks offer many benefits to the cyclist. Riders can follow service roads made of hard-packed dirt and stop at shelters built for the train crews, where they can take a welcome bath and have a half-decent meal. Arizona, here I come!
April 27th
New Mexico was a breeze, though I did have a little run-in with a rattlesnake. He wasn’t gonna back down, and it was either him or me, so I had no choice but to shoot him and make him into a belt. Things didn’t go so good in El Paso. I’m sure I looked left and right and gave a good hand signal, so is it my fault if the locals can’t drive straight? It is no exaggeration to say I was darn near killed by a runaway horse and wagon. Luckily I got away with a minor injury and lived to the tell the tale, but how I tell the tale when I arrive at Mozart Hall in Stockton to give my lecture is a different kettle of fish. I may have taken a blow to the brain from that horse’s hoof, and if my memory does not deceive me, I was coughing up clouds of blood for two days and had to swallow a big ol’ darnin’ needle to stitch my own lungs back together on the sidewalk. They pay good money to hear me speak and I intend to give them the full dollar. Who would want to hear me bellyaching over a little scratch? Go figure.
July 14th
I have just read in the paper that some folk are presumin’ I took the train across the desert, but hand on heart, I declined many a ride from passing train crews. I confess that when I left Albuquerque for Denver, I took advantage of the train across Nebraska, but only on account of the roads being impassable. After the floods, they had been churned into a swamp, infested with alligators with a likin’ for chasing bikes, so I did the sensible thing and went by rail. I would just like to point out that in no way did I break my wager by doin’ that. I have followed every rule right down to the darn small print, and if ignorant folk are saying I travelled more with a bicycle than on one, they can go swing. I would never play a hoax like Mr E.C. Pfeiffer. No, sir. If I did that, I’d never hold my head up high again.
August 20th
There has been a slight annoyin’ delay. I’m laid up in an alms hospital near Gladbrook, Iowa for a little while as I have broken my darn wrist. Snapped it like a corn fritter. How was I to know there was a herd of pigs comin’ round the bend? I steered sharply to try and save their bacon, but one of the boars got real mad at me and charged my back wheel, and I went straight over the handlebars and didn’t land too gracefully. Luckily my bike didn’t suffer none, apart from a few scratches to the paintwork. I have a plaster cast up to my elbow, but it doesn’t hurt so bad now the laudanum has kicked in. I’m feelin’ pretty mellow. The Jewish nurse has asked me to quit singin’ as I’m disturbin’ the other patients, but when she found out I was the genuine Annie Londonderry, she asked if she could sign my cast. She said I had guts and gumption and should be real proud of my achievement, and that it was an honour to nurse the likes of me. Well, that’s the first time I shed a tear on this whole darn trip but only because when she said those sweet words, it reminded me of Ma. She even shared the
same name – Beatrice. I wish Ma had seen me grow up and go so far, but I guess if hopes and wishes were hugs and kisses we’d all be happy as hogs.
August 27th
It ain’t so terrible trying to steer a bicycle with a plaster cast – look, Ma; no hands! My arm’s real itchy on the inside and I’m dying to give it a good scratch, but Nurse Beatrice says the cast has to stay on until I get to Chicago. I’m ahead of schedule despite my hospital stop, so I can afford to slacken my pace and just mosey along. Eat your heart out, Mr Pfeiffer. If you thought ridin’ round the world was so darn painful you had to cheat, try givin’ birth to three kids.
September 1st
I met two sassy young gals today, nicely turned out and dressmakers by trade. Seeing me riding by, they called out for me to stop and, openin’ their purses, offered me a few dollars apiece to give them both a cycle lesson. Seems their husbands refused to learn ’em, afeard they might ride off into the sunset, so I took them to a discreet place and after demonstrating the basic skills, I let them have a try. Well, makin’ sure no one was lookin’, they hitched up their skirts and took it in turns to mount the saddle, and boy, did they wobble and giggle, but with my sound instruction they soon got the hang of it, as any woman can if she puts her mind to it. They left with a spring in their step, insisting they were gonna save up and get cycles of their own, no matter what their old men said, and I left with a few extra dollars in my pocket. Win–win.