David Herlihy
Page 4
Pedaling around the world was a wildly ambitious and dangerous quest, however, even for the likes of Sachtleben and Allen. They were destined to encounter Asiatic peoples who had never even seen Westerners, let alone their strange flying machines. There was no telling what perils or hardships they might face along the way, and for that matter, there was no guarantee that they would come home alive. Nor did their proposition meet with universal approval. "You have to be an American to come up with an idea like that," scoffed one French observer after interviewing the latest pair of self-anointed globe girdlers.
To be sure, for four centuries the West had been producing and idolizing fearless explorers who routinely risked their lives, and those of their followers, to plumb the unknown. The present generation was relentlessly canvassing the last uncharted corners of the globe in Africa, the Amazon, and the Arctic. And just like those explorers, these cyclists would have to rely on their hearts and wits to survive beyond Western civilization. The explorers were courting disaster, however, for a noble scientific cause: the mapping of every square inch of the human domain, the raison d'être of the fabled London Geographical Society. To critics, the cyclists' mission lacked any such redeeming scientific value, especially since Thomas Stevens had already demonstrated that both man and machine could withstand a jaunt around the globe.
At least the young Americans would fulfill one time-honored role: educating the public about distant lands and cultures through travel writing. As Stevens himself had put it, readers would benefit from "the theatre of their experiences" without "the trouble of wandering all over the earth themselves." Long popular as a form of escapism, this genre was increasingly relevant with the rise of leisure time and disposable income combined with ever-faster means of transportation and communication. Indeed, as the twentieth century dawned, the idle rich were rapidly losing their stranglehold on international travel.
In truth, the cyclists had had no plans for such an audacious adventure when they docked in Liverpool on the fourth of July in 1890. They merely intended to tour select cities in Europe and Asia and to put a "finishing touch" on their liberal educations. (They held the only two bachelor of arts degrees issued to their graduating class of fourteen.) Figuring that bicycles could at least partially fulfill their transportation needs, they immediately purchased a pair of hard-tired Singer safeties for about $80 apiece—nearly half the going rate at home.
Mounting their forty-pound wheels, loaded with an additional fifteen pounds of gear, the pair proceeded south to the charming medieval city of Chester. After visiting the famous castle of Caernarfon in Wales, they rode to Holyhead on Anglesey Isle, where they sailed to Dublin. They then made a clockwise loop around the northern tip of the Emerald Isle, passing through the famous Giant's Causeway where rows of basalt columns meet the North Sea. From Belfast, they sailed to Glasgow, whereupon they slowly made their way south toward London.
By mid-August, the two young tourists had already cycled more than one thousand miles. Sachtleben would later characterize this stretch as the highlight of their entire journey. They felt quite at home in the birthplace of the modern bicycle, where wheelmen were ever-present. Everywhere they enjoyed fine roads, gorgeous scenery, good food, and restful nights at cozy inns.
Although the joys of cycle touring had far exceeded their expectations, they still entertained no thought of girdling the globe on their wheels. That idea dawned one evening after a chance encounter at a village inn in Galashiels, Scotland, near the English border. There the Americans met two English travelers who had just returned from Constantinople. In gory detail, the Britons described the bold Armenian uprising they had witnessed in that city on July 15 and the brutal response of Turkish soldiers. The cyclists listened intently, feeling both revulsion and fascination. Ever the adventure seekers, they resolved to include Turkey in their travels.
And then it occurred to Sachtleben: why not bicycle all the way to Constantinople upon reaching the European mainland? After all, they had enjoyed cycling so much—why stop? Moreover, as he had discovered, "it is easier to travel by bicycle than with bicycle." For that matter, if they could get as far as Turkey, why not keep going all the way across Asia to the Pacific coast? From there, they could catch a steamer to the West Coast. At that point, all they would have to do to complete a global circuit a la Thomas Stevens would be to pedal across the United States.
True, they would face strange languages and cultures, not to mention poor roads, hostile citizens, and extreme hardships—but why not have a little youthful fun?
Settling in London in early September, the pair began to set their wild scheme in motion. First, they struck a series deal to help cover the projected costs. The Penny Illustrated Paper (PIP), a popular weekly, agreed to pay for periodic progress reports. John F. Walters of the Iroquois Cycle Company furnished two of his Minnehaha safeties featuring light nickel-plated frames, blue rims, and the latest "cushion" tires—hollow rubber tubes designed to give a soft ride. With Walters's help, they also designed, patented, and procured leather bags customized to fit neatly inside the central triangle of their bicycle frames.
Though novices at photography, they were determined to record their exploits on film. They had heard about the new Kodak film camera, a remarkably compact wooden box introduced with the slogan "You press the button—we do the rest." In fact, once a roll was completed, the owner sent the entire camera back to the factory to have the film developed and reloaded.
Paying a visit to the London sales office of the manufacturer, the Eastman Dry Plate and Film Company, they met William Hall Walker. This American inventor, in collaboration with George Eastman, had designed Kodak's roll holder. The cyclists purchased two Kodak No. 2's, the latest model, which sold for about $35. With every roll, it took up to one hundred circular, black-and-white "snap shots" measuring three and a half inches in diameter. Walker showed the young men how to load and unload the film in the dark, but explained that they would have to send the rolls to the factory for development.
To secure travel papers, the cyclists called on the embassies of the four foreign powers whose territories they would be traversing: Turkey, Persia, Russia, and China. The incredulous Ottoman and Russian officials would do no more than write letters of introduction, deferring any decisions to their colleagues in Constantinople and Teheran, respectively. The Persian minister demanded to see their bicycles and gear. The Chinese minister was the most uncooperative of all, warning that he could not vouch for their safety. Nor would he even consider the bizarre request without a letter of introduction from the American minister in London.
The lads thus paid a visit to Robert Todd Lincoln, the only surviving child of the assassinated president. The bewildered minister fetched several enormous atlases from his bookcase to study their proposed route. He quickly surmised the foolhardiness of their venture. "Do your fathers know what you're up to?" he demanded at last. Sachtleben responded with a "good old-fashioned Alton fib," adding that they planned to proceed with or without papers. The exasperated minister reluctantly wrote out a letter to the Chinese minister requesting his cooperation. Handing it to Sachtleben, Lincoln muttered: "I would much rather not have written it."
The young men purchased maps and joined the Cyclists' Touring Club (CTC), the popular London-based organization that promoted two-wheel travel. Although they were headed well beyond its reach, they identified with the club's ideals. "Traveling always by first class," Sachtleben explained, "is like staying in your own country. There is such a thing as too much convenience. For our part, we have long since tired of trains and artificial, modern hotels. We love to roam on our bicycles, unfettered, among the scenes of unsophisticated nature and the common people."
As summer drew to a close, the lads went public with their plans. PIP published a studio portrait of the aspiring globe girdlers seated on their loaded bicycles. Their compact luggage carriers held all their modest gear, which included "a complete change of clothing, toilet fittings, revolver, writing mat
erials and a Kodak camera." Noted the paper: "The whole outfit, including valise, weighs exactly 36 pounds, being 20 pounds lighter and much stronger than their earlier mounts."
On September 16, 1890, the newly famous pair headed to the port of Southampton, escorted by fawning members of the Catwick Bicycle Club. At Newhaven, they were delighted to learn from the manager of their CTC-approved hotel that Thomas Stevens had slept there on his tour. Before retiring for the night, they gave their first in-depth interview to a reporter from the Associated Press. The next day the cyclists took the overnight ferry to Dieppe, where they started their tour of continental Europe.
After a weeklong romp over the verdant hills of Normandy, they reached Paris. They spent ten days in the capital city, exploring its sites and cavorting with members of a cycling club. They quickly became almost as comfortable and conversant in France as they had been in Great Britain. The day of their departure their French friends escorted them south to the cathedral town of Chartres for a boisterous farewell banquet.
Arriving in Bordeaux in mid-October, they were heartily received by the staff of Velo Sport, a cycling weekly. The editor, an experienced cycle tourist, admired their tenacity, audacious itinerary, and lightweight gear. He questioned, however, the wisdom of traveling without brakes or lanterns. He also talked them out of going to Spain, just then afflicted with an outbreak of cholera. Following another lively banquet, the lads proceeded toward Italy via southern France.
Over the next few weeks, the cyclists collected a host of pleasant memories, many captured on film. Near Perigueux, they watched peasants harvest grapes. Farther along, a marquis served them a lavish meal at his country estate. While crossing rugged central France, they took in breathtaking natural scenery. At Garabit, they admired Gustave Eiffel's newly constructed viaduct, the world's highest bridge, spanning a canyon some five hundred feet below. At Nimes, they toured the ancient Roman arena and the famous Maison Carrée. They lingered at the papal palace in Avignon before reaching the magnificent Mediterranean coast.
Passing into Italy early on All Saints' Day, the first of November, the travelers were suddenly disillusioned. The roads were markedly poorer, and the carriage drivers were loath to yield to the rare cyclist. Streaking through small towns, they drew cold stares as women looked up from their chores and men eyed them from their gambling tables. To the cyclists' disgust, they discovered that many cities forbade cycling in the streets. "The fact is, the bicycle of today is a form of nineteenth century progress and cannot be barred or restricted," Sachtleben huffed in his report to PIP "It is only a question of time before some form of it will be as common a vehicle as the modern carriage."
But soon they began to feel at home in the sunny land celebrated for its warm hospitality and fine cuisine. In Genoa, they met with members of the local cycling club, who gawked at their svelte wheels and cushion tires. Their friends gave them a tour of the town, showing them the house of Christopher Columbus. When the Americans finally set off to cross the Apennines, they were told that it would be "impossible" to pedal for the first fifteen miles. Undaunted, the pair managed to reach the highest village without dismounting, and just in time for lunch. Afterward, they charged down the mountains at breakneck speed, resting their feet on the footrests while their pedals spun furiously.
Entering the Po Valley, the cyclists veered northward through Brescia. They passed the southern shore of the spectacular Lago di Garda, Italy's largest lake, with its five sparkling island jewels. In Milan, the cyclists had an enjoyable meeting with fellow wheelmen who had read of their presence in the newspapers. From there it was smooth sailing to Verona, the legendary home of Romeo and Juliet. Passing through Padua, they reached Venice. There they treated themselves and their wheels to a gondola ride, drawing quizzical looks. Zigzagging their way down the boot of Italy, they rolled through fertile plains to Ferrara and Bologna.
Heading to Florence, they again crossed the Apennines, but this time the going was much tougher. They had to walk many miles between mountain villages, at times in total darkness. In mid-November, the cyclists reached the city of David, where they stopped for a few days to take in the numerous treasures of art. One afternoon they rode their bicycles in Piazza della Signoria, only to find themselves being marched to the local police station in step with two officers and hundreds of curious citizens. The offenders elected to pay hefty fines rather than languish in jail for a night.
The cyclists charged over the hills of Chianti country, visiting Sienna and Viterbo. In Rome, they rode freely about town and even made laps within the Coliseum. On their last night, some forty members of a local bicycle club hosted a banquet in honor of the Americans at their elegant clubhouse. Rolling down the Mediterranean coast past olive orchards and orange groves, the cyclists reached Naples in mid-December. Resident cyclists led them through the city's narrow streets and took them on excursions to Mount Vesuvius and Pompeii before throwing a ball on the eve of their departure.
The lads again crossed the Apennines, heading east and braving the cold. They spent Christmas Day in Foggia as guests of an American engineer. A man on a donkey told them in perfect English that he had worked in New York as a blacksmith for three years, making $2.50 a day. He longed to go back, for in Foggia he barely made a fifth of that sum. At Bari on the Adriatic coast, Sachtleben's crank axle snapped, forcing the pair to take a train to Brindisi. On New Year's Day, they sailed to the Greek isle of Corfu. After a day of sightseeing, they took another ship to Patras. There they boarded a train to Athens, skirting magnificent coastal bluffs.
In the ancient Greek capital, they settled into a modest hotel and quickly adjusted to local life. Their smattering of modern Greek, as well as their French, came in quite handy. Typically, they started their day at a café, sipping thick coffee and devouring heaps of doughnuts sprinkled with honey. In between errands to the bank, post office, and grocery store, they visited libraries and museums. Sachtleben often rode their one working bicycle in the city, drawing enormous crowds. In the countryside, he relished a good race against farmers driving mule carts. In the evenings, the cyclists holed up in their quarters and exercised their fountain pens.
"It seems as if we can never finish writing," Sachtleben groused. In addition to their numerous letters home, the cyclists penned reports to PIP, which the Coventry review Wheeling pronounced "remarkably particular as to trifles." They tallied their riding days in Europe: seventy-five in England, forty-four in France, and sixty-one in Italy. Their daily totals ranged from forty-two to fifty-two miles. Of the four thousand miles they traveled in all, the pair trudged some five hundred on foot. The miles they covered with assistance included one hundred by rail, fifteen on horseback, ten in carriages, and five in a gondola. Their financial accounting was no less precise. Each cyclist had spent over $600, including minuscule offerings to street musicians and church beggars.
Despite their routines, the Americans' days in Athens were anything but predictable. Shortly after their visit to the Acropolis, on January 6, 1891, they were surprised to find everything shut down. They soon learned that it was the Greek Christmas. They were better prepared for the corresponding New Year's Eve, when they donned costumes and wheeled their way around the revelers. The next day they awoke to the sound of cannon volleys. Following a military band, Sachtleben arrived at the royal palace just as a bevy of elegant ladies spilled out from a reception. He marveled at "all the gold lace, silk, satin and jewels," adding: "I saw plenty of bare arms and low necked dresses, but no pretty faces."
Once, Sachtleben spotted an ornate carriage as it pulled away from the palace gate. He managed to get close enough to the royal couple to snap a photograph and was elated when the young monarch turned his head back to smile and wave. Not all surprise encounters, however, were as pleasant. One afternoon Sachtleben was passing by a café when chairs suddenly began to fly through the air. He watched in horror as two men came to blows. One brandished a knife, while the other produced a pistol and began firing at his o
vermatched foe from point-blank range. Fortunately, the police soon arrived, rescued the wounded man, and took both combatants into custody.
One day the young men watched the elaborate state funeral of Heinrich Schliemann, the famed German archaeologist who, twenty years earlier, discovered Homer's lost city of Troy in modern-day Turkey. He had died the week before in Italy, and per his arrangement, he was about to be buried in his beloved Greece. "It seemed as if all Athens was out from the number of carriages," Sachtleben noted. "We followed the procession a piece to the graveyard, but turned back before reaching it, the crowd was so thick." On the way back, they saw a simpler, but no less striking, funeral led by chanting priests. "You could see the dead body and face," Sachtleben recalled. "She was dressed in white garments and her hair was flying loose in the wind."
Everyday people often provided curious spectacles as well. Several times Sachtleben observed frantic firemen, wearing cumbersome coats, as they dashed off to duty with overflowing pails. The workmen restoring ruins were methodical, though woefully ill-equipped. Sachtleben's favorite street character was an industrious milkman who employed a "slow, curious but good way" to deliver fresh milk. His goats at his side, he "knocked at the doors of his customers and inquired how much they needed. Forthwith, he milked out the requisite amount and handed it over."
No mere passive observers, the cyclists enjoyed an active social life. Naturally, they were quick to introduce themselves to resident diplomats. The American minister to Greece, A. Loudon Snowden, took an instant liking to the young men and regularly invited them to dine at his luxurious home, where a large American flag flew over the doorway. His son, a budding cyclist, was surprised to learn from Sachtleben that the mile record for the low mount stood at a mere 2:30, nearly half a minute faster than the comparable high-wheel record.