David Herlihy
Page 7
Lenz had also retained his legendary nerve. The St. Louis reporter admired the reckless way the Pittsburgher charged downhill at breakneck speed. He removed his feet from the furiously spinning pedals, slipped his lower legs under the handlebar, and slouched back until he was almost completely horizontal, thereby minimizing wind resistance. Lenz insisted that he could still bring his machine to a full stop if ever the need arose. One could only shudder at the prospect.
Just a few months earlier, in fact, Lenz had once again shown his fearlessness. He and McClarren had taken a train out to the popular resort of Ohiopyle. After frolicking on the massive rocks beneath the spectacular waterfall, the pair wheeled down the railroad side path over the mountains toward Connellsville. "The scenery for the entire distance is wildly picturesque," reported the Bulletin, "but it requires skilful and plucky riding to retain one's equilibrium. A single waver to one side would have hurled a careless rider and wheel upon the rocks fully two hundred feet below—into the boiling Youghiogheny River. Track walkers stated that this pair were the first bicyclers that had ever attempted this dangerous ride."
Lenz had other qualities befitting a globe girdler, like tenacity. Once, returning from Butler, he and McClarren tried to cross Pittsburgh's Seventh Street Bridge. The toll collector demanded five cents apiece. Lenz refused to pay, arguing that it was unethical for the company to charge on Sundays. The collector finally let Lenz pass, on the condition that he meet with the company president the next day to argue his case. True to his word, Lenz called on Mr. Orr. "As in past interviews of a like nature," the Bulletin reported, "Mr. Orr was obdurate though courteous." He told Lenz point-blank that he would not change the policy and "did not want the patronage of wheelmen." Even the reporter had to question the point of challenging the rule, obnoxious though it was, considering that one could either walk the bicycle over the bridge and pay only one cent or use an alternative bridge and pay nothing at all.
Above all, Lenz was resourceful. He devised an ingenious method to photograph himself riding his wheel. He would rest his camera on a ledge or secure it to a tripod, then choose his background through the finder. He would then grab the bulb at the loose end of a thirty-six-foot rubber hose, the other being connected to the camera, and strategically place it on the road. When he rode over the bulb, it triggered a snapshot. At that moment, he often looked straight at the lens to register a smile or a tip of his cap.
To overcome inclement weather, Lenz also devised a special umbrella that attached to a thin pole mounted atop his camera case. As he explained in a letter to Bicycling World, it was designed to provide "excellent shade in the hot sun" and also protection from "light rain." His buddies laughed it off, but they could not help but admire Lenz's imagination and ingenuity.
Despite all these compelling credentials and qualities, Lenz was convinced that his window of opportunity to circle the globe by bicycle was rapidly closing. Every day newcomers were taking up the sport. It was only a matter of time, he believed, before someone else with greater means embarked on a similar mission. He had to find a sponsor while the idea still held some novelty and appeal, or forever relinquish his dream.
Compounding his sense of urgency was Lenz's gnawing feeling that he had reached a crossroad in his life. His new club mates were getting younger by the day. Some, like Ned Friesell, were mere teenagers who favored the safety. Many of the old-timers, like McClarren, had either drastically curtailed their cycling or hung up their wheels altogether to start careers and families. Perhaps, if he failed to find a backer, it was time for him, too, to settle down to the business of life, just as his mother constantly implored him to do.
One way or another, Lenz knew he had to move out of his parents' house. For despite his cheerful public persona, he was increasingly miserable inside. In fact, he had never known a happy home. He had no recollection whatsoever of his biological father, Adam Reinhart, who had emigrated with his mother, Maria Anna, née Schritz, from Malsch, Germany, in late 1865. A year later, the couple settled in Philadelphia, where Adam found work as a cigar maker. But Adam soon died, and Anna and her toddler moved to Pittsburgh. When Frank was six, his mother married the German-born William Lenz. Though he gave the boy his name, he never truly accepted Frank as a son. Lately, their relationship had become even more strained. William often came home from work reeking of alcohol. Frank could not bear to watch his stepfather mistreat his mother, a loving, strong-willed woman who, like himself, deserved a far better existence.
Several weeks after returning to Pittsburgh, while awaiting his replies, Lenz decided to enter the annual Keystone Road Race. He was curious to see how his big wheel would fare against the latest pneumatic safeties. The fifteen-mile route started in De Haven, about ten miles north of Pittsburgh, and continued over the Butler plank road just beyond Bakerstown, at which point the contestants were to turn around and retrace their route. The course included a steep hill, making the event, according to the Press, "more of a hill climbing contest than a road race."
Still, the paper looked forward to the showdown, noting: "Mr. Lenz is the only rider of note who remains true to the grand old ordinary. He is always out with the best safety riders, but has no trouble showing them his little wheel." Lenz planned to do exactly that in this race too. As a warm-up the previous Sunday, he had reeled off 162 miles—a new regional twenty-four-hour record. Concluded the paper: "Lenz will be looked upon as a dangerous man against the pneumatic, though he will have to do good work to win."
On the afternoon of the race, about 150 animated cyclists, one-sixth of them women, met at the clubhouse of the Keystone Bicycle Club to cycle en masse to the starting line. Thirteen racers presented themselves, including Lenz, the lone high-wheel entrant. The handicapper awarded Lenz a three-and-a-half-minute head start, but the indignant cyclist refused to accept it. The gun sounded. Lenz surged forward but soon struggled over the hill. Meanwhile, several competitors overtook him. He finished a disappointing fifth. His time of 1:23 was a good six minutes off the best pace. The humiliating loss to inferior riders only underscored what he already knew: it was time to switch to a pneumatic safety.
Coming home from work a few weeks later, Lenz found a thick envelope marked Outing Magazine, 239 Fifth Avenue, New York City. Opening it with trembling fingers, he retrieved a letter from James Henry Worman. The distinguished publisher expressed a keen interest in Lenz's proposal, provided the cyclist agreed to ride a Victor safety bicycle. Lenz was ecstatic. He immediately dashed off a letter to convey his wholehearted acceptance of Worman's terms.
The forty-seven-year-old German-born editor, a short, balding man with a bushy white mustache, was a former professor of classics and linguistics who had made a fortune penning French and German grammar books. Four years earlier, he had purchased Out ing, a richly illustrated monthly glamorizing outdoor life. Despite a robust circulation of twenty thousand, it had been struggling financially—until the exacting editor and a succession of harried underlings managed to turn things around.
Worman knew well that Stevens's series had been hugely popular, and he had even briefly retained the celebrity as his cycling editor. Worman anticipated that his readers would eagerly devour Lenz's reports as well, especially if they were illustrated with Lenz's own photographs. The editor was already convinced that Lenz had all the necessary skills to complete his self-appointed task. Still, before accepting the proposition, he wanted to vet the intriguing young man who had declared in his first letter: "I will go if I have to go alone and unaided; the world I will see."
At the close of 1891, Worman sent his young assistant, Robert Bruce, to Pittsburgh to interview Lenz. Years later, Bruce would recall how he was accosted by both Mrs. Lenz and A. W. Cadman, the owner of the brass manufactory where Lenz worked. "Both requested me to exert any influence I might have to discourage the scheme," Bruce reflected, "but I think that Lenz would have gone anyhow, as he was entirely wrapped up in the idea."
Bruce gave Worman a favorable report, pronou
ncing Lenz "an unusually keen observer" and "no mean philosopher." In fact, Bruce was deeply impressed by Lenz's wanderlust and idealism. "The whole world is man's heritage," Lenz had asserted, "and as long as I am on this earth I shall feel as much at home by the banks of the Euphrates as by the Monongahela." True, Bruce conceded, the cyclist might not be a gifted writer. But at least he was sincere, as there was "nothing in his nature suggestive of the artificial." Besides, Bruce could tend to the heavy editing.
In early 1892, wanting to meet the young man himself, Worman summoned Lenz to his office. There the Pittsburgher cheerfully described his upbringing, recounting how he had sold newspapers as a boy to help with family expenses. He had diligently pursued his studies, earning the favor of his high school principal. He had put himself through business school, where he learned accounting and exquisite penmanship. While still a teenager, he had secured an enviable position as a bookkeeper.
Yes, Worman liked Lenz's persona all right. Here, before him, was the quintessential plucky American boy, of modest origins but bent on making something of himself. In fact, the editor saw a bit of his own younger self in this ambitious and hearty wanderer. At the age of sixteen, Worman had run away from his home in Germany to enlist in the Union Army. The authorities, however, got wise and sent the lad back to his homeland. After studying at the University of Berlin and the Sorbonne, he had returned to the United States a few years later to start a distinguished academic career.
In early April 1892, Lenz and Worman worked out the final details of their pact. The editor would cover up to $2,000 in traveling expenses, nearly twice Lenz's annual salary. Worman also agreed to take out, in secrecy, a $3,000 insurance policy on Lenz's life, payable to his mother. For despite his ever-cheerful and confident air, the wheelman knew well that he would be risking his life and potentially depriving his mother of not only her pride and joy but also her financial pillar.
For his part, Lenz stood by his bold plan to traverse North America, Asia, and Europe. He would send reports and photographs every other month. Although he would aim to complete the journey within two years, he would not race time. Rather, he would observe the world at his leisure, with an intimacy only a cyclist could enjoy. He would start May 1 from Pittsburgh, pass through Washington to collect his passport, then stop in New York City for his official sendoff, at which point he would begin his journey in earnest.
Their deal struck, Worman and Lenz traveled by train to Chicopee Falls, Massachusetts, to visit the sprawling plant of the Overman Wheel Company, makers of the Victor. Settling into the president's plush office, they conversed with Albert H. Overman. A decade earlier, the Illinois native had established a small factory in Hartford, Connecticut, that specialized in tricycles. He soon moved the thriving enterprise up the Connecticut River to western Massachusetts, becoming Pope's chief rival. An early advocate of the Rover style who imposed the highest manufacturing standards, Overman was happily presiding over a booming business. Some one thousand employees struggled day and night to meet the seemingly insatiable demand for his safety bicycles.
After some consultation, Lenz placed an order for a customized nickel-plated bicycle he deemed strong enough to withstand the rigors of a world tour. To ensure a reasonably comfortable ride, even over rough roads with a heavy load, he requested a well-sprung and elongated leather saddle and massive springs acting on the front fork blades. He also ordered two sprockets on the rear hub so that he could flip the wheel to engage either a high or low gear, in accordance with the terrain. In a bold gamble, he opted for the latest pneumatic tires rather than the puncture-proof cushion variety.
Returning to Pittsburgh, Lenz promptly resigned his position at Cadman's, which he had held for seven years. His boss graciously accepted the inevitable and even promised to hire Lenz back upon his return. Frank's mother, however, was distraught, having a premonition that her only son would never return alive. "But, Mother," Frank insisted, "I shall see things and accomplish deeds to remember until I am eighty years old." He did his best to console her, promising that he would write every week until he returned home.
While awaiting his bicycle, Lenz took care of some paperwork. He sent his passport application to Washington, declaring his intention to return to the United States within two years and pointedly listing his occupation as a bookkeeper in the past tense. He also took one more discreet measure on his mother's behalf. Somberly seating himself at a large wooden desk in a lawyer's office, he methodically wrote out in his beautiful cursive a two-page will. In the event of an untimely death, he specified, everything he had was to go to his dear mother. If she was already gone, his estate was to go to his "beloved" Annie Leech, his Irish Catholic girlfriend from the neighborhood who worked as a dressmaker. She, too, feared for his life. But Lenz had promised her that he would settle down upon his return and the two would enjoy a happy and comfortable life together.
Up to this point, Lenz was still counting on Charlie to join him on his great adventure. But Petticord was having second thoughts. He was reluctant to leave his sister Amelia, with whom he lodged, and he had just received a good offer for a clerking position he had long coveted. Charlie bowed out, though he promised to join his friend in Europe for the final leg. Lenz turned to Ned Friesell, who would later reflect: "I had a hard time deciding whether to go to college or around the world with Lenz." Dental school won out.
Having resolved to go it alone, Lenz carefully selected his gear to minimize his load. He packed a change of clothing, a spare inner tube, a handful of tools, a collapsible aluminum tripod, his homemade umbrella, and a leather belt with pouches to carry his watch and cash—what he jokingly called his "time and money." He allowed himself several small harmonicas with which to entertain company or break the long stretches of solitude. Lenz also acquired a trunk to store a stash of inner tubes, parts, and other provisions, as well as mementos gathered en route. He planned to ship it ahead of himself to strategic locations.
And of course, he would continue to carry a camera in a case strapped to his back. To save weight, however, he bought a new film-loaded camera manufactured in Rochester, New York. The latest Kodak would have been even lighter and more portable, but he considered that a mere toy. Mindful that people in certain cultures were averse to having their pictures taken, for fear of compromising their souls, Lenz devised a timer from the parts of a music box so he could set up his camera and allow a delay of five, ten, or fifteen seconds—enough time to get himself into the picture.
Lenz borrowed a friend's bicycle and began a crash course on safety riding, suffering what the Chronicle Telegraph described as a "narrow escape from death." Elaborated the paper: "He was speeding down Fifth Avenue on a new solid rubber tire wheel when, just in front of our office, he struck a rut and was almost thrown in front of a cable car coming at full speed. Lenz was badly scared."
In early May, Lenz was set to go, but the non-arrival of his bicycle forced a two-week delay. In the interim, the Allegheny Cyclers held a farewell banquet. Mayor Kennedy gave a rousing speech at the clubhouse, and the festivities lingered into the early morning. Several days later, the Keystone Bicycle Club held another emotive affair. Recounted one attendee: "The rooms of the club were filled with happy people, all the prominent wheelmen of hereabouts being present." Lenz was presented with an engraved silver Smith & Wesson revolver to take with him for protection.
At last, on May 9, Lenz received his shiny new Victor. Hundreds flocked to see it hanging in the window of the sporting goods dealer A. G. Pratt. The Bulletin attributed their fascination to the growing popularity of cycling, marveling: "A few years ago, a man on a wheel in our town was a target of criticism [and] a universal curiosity. But to-day, the solitary wheelman has become two thousand of his kind." The paper expounded on the magnitude of Lenz's mission:
Mr. Lenz's trip is of interest to everybody who admires courage and manly strength. When he gets home two years hence, provided he survives, he will no doubt have plenty of marvelous traveler's stor
ies to tell, and he should have a rousing welcome. When we reflect that a very few years ago many parts of the globe over which he will travel were terra incognita to white people, the contrast between then and now will strike us with irresistible force. Truly, the world moves, and the bicycle is responsible for much of that motion.
Finally, Lenz's big moment was at hand. Early Sunday morning, May 15, some eight hundred animated well-wishers, including scores of wheelmen, gathered by the central post office in downtown Pittsburgh, where the world tourist was due to appear. For six straight days rain had fallen, but at last the sun poked a hole through the dense clouds. Suddenly, a transfigured Lenz appeared with all his gear, amid shouts of joy.
A broad smile brightened Lenz's cherubic face. He sported a natty dark blue uniform and a cap with raised golden letters spelling out OUTING. Of course, his faithful camera box rested on his back. Hanging over his handlebars was a canteen and a small sack, while atop his rear rack sat a large satchel, sandwiched between two cylindrical cases, one holding his tripod and the other his umbrella. Obscuring the top portion of the rear wheel, on either side, were placards announcing himself and his mission, to be changed periodically to stay in sync with the local language.
Those who were unfamiliar with the man of the hour were startled by his youthfulness and short stature. In fact, he did not look even his twenty-five years, despite the newly grown blond mustache intended to age his appearance. His muscular physique notwithstanding, he hardly looked the part of a superhuman. Still, as one witness recounted, "everyone seemed to think that he was quite a novel person—one possessed of great pluck, energy and determination to even think of starting out on so long a journey."