by The Lost Cyclist: The Epic Tale of an American Adventurer;His Mysterious Disappearance
That summer, Lenz eagerly read up on a four-day cycling extravaganza scheduled to take place in Buffalo that fall in conjunction with the International Industrial Fair. Grandly billed as the "World's Cycling Tournament," the program was to feature a vast variety of safety and high-wheel track races, ranging from one-quarter of a mile to five miles in length. Effused one reporter: "There is not a champion for any distance in any country that will not be there."
The culminating event—the one that caught Lenz's eye—was to be a one-hundred-mile road race from Erie to Buffalo. As fast as he was on the track, Lenz knew well that his strong suit was long-distance racing on regular roads. In his first two seasons, he had amassed over four thousand miles riding outdoors—more than anyone else in rugged western Pennsylvania. He could just imagine himself arriving in Buffalo on the specially built track at the fairgrounds, making his victory laps while thousands of fans in the grandstand roared their approval. Where exactly a victory would take him in life he did not know. But he was certain of one thing: both cycling and fame were intrinsic to his destiny. He vowed to prepare diligently for the race.
The ambitious program was the brainchild of Henry E. Ducker, the veteran cyclist turned promoter who, earlier that decade, had introduced untold Americans to the towering "English" bicycle of his homeland. His annual tournaments in Springfield, Massachusetts, were lavish affairs that for several years drew top international talent and thousands of fans. And now he aspired to work similar magic in Buffalo by making the proposed tournament an annual event. The Queen City, whose proximity to Niagara Falls ensured a constant flow of tourists, was in fact a shrewd choice for a new cycling capital. A number of local firms were pumping out large numbers of safety bicycles, and Buffalo already boasted an expansive network of asphalted, tree-lined roads as well as several bicycle clubs, including one just for women.
The great road race, designed to bring the sport straight to the people, was the main attraction in Ducker's inaugural program. Admittedly, the idea was not entirely novel. Nearly twenty years earlier, in November 1869, James Moore had rumbled some eighty miles from Paris to Rouen atop a primitive, eighty-pound bicycle with a solid iron frame and wooden wheels. His time—nearly eleven hours—was widely considered a stunning achievement and a compelling mandate to improve bicycle construction. Five years later, the newly formed bicycle clubs of Cambridge and Oxford Universities hosted a lively intercampus race, signaling the advent of high-wheel road racing. Covering a comparable distance on a vastly improved mount, the victor required a mere eight hours. Even Americans—relative newcomers to the sport—were occasionally treated to road races. For the past several seasons, Boston-area clubs had been running an annual century race, the record time standing a shade under seven hours.
Still, Americans had never seen an outdoor cycling contest quite as enticing as the one Ducker proposed, which was destined to feature the best amateur cyclists in the land as well as posted telegraphic reports to keep the crowd at the fairgrounds apprised of the racers' progress. Their dramatic arrival on the track and a possible struggle to the finish over the final laps would provide thrilling theater unlike anything ever witnessed in the annals of American cycling. To all but guarantee that the affair would end with a new world's record, Ducker routed the course over one of the country's best highways, the flat shore road skirting Lake Erie.
At last the big day arrived. In the wee hours of September 8, Lenz boarded a train bound for Erie. Reaching the starting place, the corner of Seventh and Sassafras, he found several hundred curious citizens of Erie jammed into every accessible niche, despite the ungodly hour and the pounding rain. Obviously, neither he nor anyone else would be smashing records on this miserable day. Still, should the contest come off, the courageous winner would no doubt enjoy even greater glory. Meanwhile, to pass the time, the bare-limbed Pittsburgher, seemingly oblivious to the deluge, bantered with the crowd.
The six o'clock hour struck. The starting gun should have sounded an hour earlier, but all one could hear was the relentless rain and the murmuring of the restless crowd. The organizers were huddling together, debating whether to spring the poor devils loose into a quagmire of mud. For their part, the wheelmen quashed any talk of postponement, insisting that they would not linger another day in Erie. They all had jobs to get back to come Monday morning, and some had long train rides ahead of them. Either the great race would come off that morning or not at all.
Of course, the racers were eager to get a move on. These were, after all, the "sturdy fifteen," as one reporter pronounced the diminished field. These were the hearty ones who had refused to shy away from "an awful trial of physical stamina." They did not "dread a drenching," nor were they afraid of a little "heavy wheeling." They could do without sensational times or lusty roadside cheers. All they wanted was a clean shot at glory and the shiny gold medal offered by Bicycling World.
A loud cheer erupted at a quarter after six, when the organizers announced that the race was on. The cyclists dutifully scurried out from under their cover to reclaim their wheels, stowed under an expansive tarp. They were all ordinaries, except for three. One was a Star, an innovative American design that reversed the order of the large and small wheel for greater stability, and another a safety tandem. Only one, belonging to Peter J. Berlo of Boston, was a Rover pattern bicycle. That past season, its third on the American market, the "dwarf" had continued its surprising surge. And thanks to a series of refinements, the safety had considerably narrowed the performance gap. Many old-school riders now grudgingly conceded that the upstart might indeed suffice for the faint of heart. For them, however, the ordinary remained the paragon of elegance and efficiency—the only sensible choice of wheel for the serious cyclist.
As the racers took their positions, several girls scampered about handing each competitor a cup of lukewarm coffee and a small basket filled with broiled chicken and stale bread. Should the racers need more nourishment along the route, they could procure sandwiches from any of three designated roadside hotels. For any other assistance, they could appeal to the timekeepers at the six checkpoints.
Lenz felt extremely confident about his chances. For the past few months, he had been training hard, riding up and down freshly paved Forbes Avenue, zipping past horse-drawn vehicles and their irate drivers. He knew this road well, having taken it on his return from New York, and he was used to riding in rain and mud. The Bulletin had also voiced its confidence, affirming: "There's good stuff in Lenz, and his friends do right in expecting much of him."
The Pittsburgher was nevertheless a decided underdog, blithely dismissed by Bicycling World as a "delicate youth." He would indeed face stiff competition, since all the favorites remained in the running. Twenty-six-year-old Fred Eldred, the captain of the Springfield (Massachusetts) Bicycle Club, had just ridden his high bicycle twenty miles in one hour over the level roads near his hometown. The strapping and explosive Robert Gerwing of Denver was one of the top guns in the West. The swampy course seemed tailor-made for G. A. Tivy of St. Louis, nicknamed "Mud Horse." Frank Dampman, a five-foot-five dynamo rumored to relish moonlit rides over the roughest of roads, had brought along two teammates from the fabled Wilmington (Delaware) Wheel Club to pace him to victory. Among the wildcards were the local boys George McIntire of Erie and Roy Blowers of Westfield, New York.
At last the gun sounded. Lenz pushed his bicycle forward, planting a foot on the small step at the base of his bicycle's backbone. His small wheel instantly sank several inches into the mushy ground. He gamely vaulted onto his saddle and stood up on his pedals, applying all his weight and might. The stubborn creature lurched forward, just fast enough to avoid a nasty spill. Miraculously, it picked up momentum and straightened itself out as it emerged from a murky pool of water.
The racers spurted en masse toward Lake Erie. The townspeople along the way had been warned by their newspapers to expect an invasion of cyclists that morning. Had good weather prevailed, the locals would no doubt have lined the
roadside to absorb the spectacle and lend their cheers. As it was, the smattering of spectators offered only faint applause. No matter. The racers would be showered with accolades soon enough, should they reach the sheltered compound in Buffalo.
Eldred, the favorite, quickly charged to the forefront and set a surprisingly fast pace. He was anxious to distance himself from the three Wilmington boys so that they could not gang up on him. Upon reaching the shore road, however, the pack was still at his heels. Eight miles out, at Harbor Creek, Eldred nursed a slim lead over the top five, with Lenz occupying fourth place, about thirty seconds off-pace. The stragglers had already fallen at least ten minutes behind.
As the vanguard approached North East, the second checkpoint fifteen miles out, the rain finally stopped. But that was small consolation since the terrain was mushier than ever. Several racers had already suffered severe spills, and all had stopped at least once to remove fistfuls of mud from their wheels. A reporter on hand got the distinct impression that the "travel stained" men were now riding "for something other than pleasure." By the time the caravan reached Ripley, the third checkpoint twenty-one miles out, the three safety riders had already abandoned the race, leaving a dozen competitors.
Just after Ripley, Eldred, too, dropped out. "He was in condition to finish," his hometown newspaper, the Springfield Union, would insist, "but it would have been a mere act of bravado for which there was no call. The glory of having pushed through 100 miles of mud and clay he sensibly deemed insufficient recompense for the physical disabilities that might result."
The lanky Gerwing surged to the forefront. As he passed the struggling Dampman, the cocky Denver giant ordered his diminutive challenger to "cheer up" and advised him to follow in his wake if he wanted second place. Dampman ignored the taunt and stuck with his teammate Frank McDaniels. The other Wilmington pacer, Steven Wallis Merrihew, who had suffered a mechanical mishap, soon rejoined his mates. Lenz, meanwhile, clung to fifth place, two minutes off-pace.
At Westfield, a large crowd cheered the local boy, Blowers, who was mired in the back of the pack. By Portland, thirty-six miles out, the scrappy Dampman had overtaken the deflated Gerwing to claim a narrow lead. Lenz, who seemed to be pacing himself for the long haul, continued to hang on to fifth place, though his deficit had grown to five minutes.
Nine miles later, at Fredonia, Dampman held on to his slim lead. Just behind him were his two teammates and the pesky Gerwing. Lenz continued to hold fifth place, six minutes off-pace. By Silver Creek, fifty-seven miles out, Dampman had widened his lead over his teammates to two minutes. But Lenz had suddenly sprung to life, blowing past the fading Gerwing, and was now just a minute behind the Wilmington trio.
Four miles farther on, at Irving, Lenz surged ahead to claim the lead for the first time. With less than forty miles to go, he could already taste victory. Indeed, to onlookers the fresh-faced Pittsburgher seemed like a sure winner. The roads, however, were at their soggiest, causing yet another round of tumbles. The brave few who remained in the contest were now doing more walking than pedaling. Lenz failed to pad his slim lead.
Compounding the racers' ordeal was a lack of sustenance: the promised sandwiches never materialized, and the desperate men had gone for miles without food or water. One heartless spectator emerged with a pail of milk and tried to sell drinks. He did not realize that the racers had no change in their pocketless woolen tights. Responding to their pleas, some of the spectators hopped on their own bicycles to fetch water and food. Despite their relatively fresh state, however, they were unable to deliver the goods to the contestants.
At Evans Center, about thirty miles from the finish, Dampman pulled even with Lenz. A distant third was the Star rider, who had emerged out of nowhere. Dampman's pacers, meanwhile, had seemingly fallen out of contention. McDaniels in fact had seriously damaged his machine after jumping full force onto its backbone to avoid a header. The race appeared to be coming down to a fierce duel between Lenz and Dampman.
As the racers approached Bayview, eighty-one miles out, the checker gave a sigh of relief. Unaware of their late start and underestimating the weather's toll, he had expected them a good two hours earlier. Dampman was the first to pass the checkpoint, followed closely by Lenz. But in an ominous twist for the Pittsburgher, the two Wilmington pacers, working together, had somehow managed to rejoin their leader. Lenz's situation improved slightly when Merrihew faltered once again (he would later blame his hunger), but it would still be two against one going down the home stretch.
At that point, Dampman coyly suggested to the Pittsburgher that they let McDaniels set the pace. Lenz, having noted McDaniels's damaged vehicle and exhausted state, saw no harm in that arrangement and allowed the Wilmington pacer to spurt to the forefront uncontested. As soon as McDaniels was out of their view, however, Dampman suddenly burst forward to rejoin his teammate. Lenz, ever-confident of his superior stamina, failed to react with a surge of his own.
Once Dampman regained his teammate, the two co-conspirators began to work in tandem, furiously swapping positions as they pushed themselves to the brink of exhaustion. Gradually, they widened their lead over their unsuspecting rival. Not until Lenz reached Limestone Hill, the final checkpoint ten miles from the finish, did he realize his tactical blunder. He had fallen a good eight minutes off-pace with precious little time to catch up.
Still, all was not yet lost. From that point to the fairgrounds the road was level and smooth. Drawing on his natural speed and ample reserve, Lenz knew he could still catch his treacherous rivals. But he desperately needed help. Fortunately, at this very point volunteer pacers were allowed to jump into the fray to assist the contestant of their choosing.
Lenz frantically scanned the faces of the dozen or so newcomers, hoping to find his rescuer. His pounding heart sank. Here he was, the most popular rider in all of Pittsburgh, waging the race of his life. Where the hell were his friends at this critical juncture? Where were the Banker brothers, confound it! Blind with rage, Lenz made a wrong turn, quashing any hope for a comeback victory.
Dampman and McDaniels, meanwhile, approached the fairgrounds utterly spent but with an insurmountable lead. The only question remaining was which Wilmington man would take the gold. All things being equal, McDaniels, the stockier of the two and the better sprinter, figured to prevail. But his wheel was badly damaged, and the persistent Dampman was not about to yield to his pacer without a struggle.
The animated crowd of fair goers, which numbered twenty-five thousand, braced itself for a thrilling finish. There was, however, one last snag: the track where the men were supposed to finish was utterly decimated after days of relentless rain and hard use. Ducker had made a last-minute adjustment: the racers would forgo the track and finish with a lap around the road encircling the fairgrounds.
The fans spilled out of the grandstand and planted themselves alongside the ring road, fixing their eyes on the horizon at the point where the racers were expected to appear. A Buffalo paper, the Lightning Express, described the chaotic scene. "Occasionally some smart Aleck would raise the cry of 'here they come' and everyone would crane his neck and strain his eyes for a sight of the vanguard." After repeated false alarms, the crowd was getting increasingly anxious.
At last, at precisely 3:42 according to a report in Bicycling World,
a murmur of voices was heard in the distance, which gradually swelled into cheers, announcing that the leader was in sight. Half a hundred excited wheelmen came tearing down the road shouting and demanding a clear track. Then came a couple of the sorriest looking objects it has ever been my fortune to see: McDaniels, and right on his little wheel, Dampman. The men and the wheels they rode were one mass of mud.
As McDaniels staggered to the gate, one reporter related, he was "rapturously cheered and smiled all over. But when told that he had to continue his journey around the Park Meadow and return to the bridge his look of joy vanished in an instant." In fact, the pacer had nothing left. Dampman blew past his spent teammat
e and never looked back, crossing the finish line at four minutes after four—just under ten hours since the gun had sounded in Erie. His dejected mate gamely crossed the line three minutes later.
Bystanders quickly pried the groggy Wilmington men from their bicycles and carried them to awaiting cots. There the racers were at last given badly needed food and water. A Buffalo reporter noted that McDaniels was especially "fagged out," adding: "He was a pitiful sight. There was little left of his tights, and the boys threw a blanket around him to cover his nakedness."
Seven minutes after the Wilmington pair had reached the gate, Lenz appeared at the same spot. One reporter found the resigned Pittsburgher "as white as a sheet," but everyone agreed he looked much fresher than the two men from Wilmington. Informed that he had to loop around the park road, Lenz was nonplussed. This was, after all, merely a ceremonial lap, for he was comfortably ahead of the two remaining stragglers.
As Lenz methodically circled the ring road, he heard the deafening cheers directed at the Wilmington pair. It pained him to think that he would have been the object of their adulation had he run a smarter race or received a little help down the stretch. Crossing the finish line, a frustrated Lenz hollered: "Where do I go now?" The Banker brothers made a belated appearance, lifting their teammate off his bike and laying him down on a cot. While the Bankers gave him food and water, their masseur began to work on his stiff legs.
The barbaric contest had left all the entrants badly bruised and cut; one had even temporarily lost consciousness after a terrible tumble. Still, the race was a smashing success. A reporter with the Pittsburg Times affirmed that it was "the talk of the bicycling world." Indeed, the champions assembled in Buffalo regarded it as the "greatest feat of human endurance ever performed on a wheel." Marveled the Springfield Union: "No other race was ever run, or probably ever will be run, under such conditions." Many found it unfathomable that the winner could have plowed through that frightful sea of slime averaging over ten miles an hour.