by The Lost Cyclist: The Epic Tale of an American Adventurer;His Mysterious Disappearance
In the meantime, the young men resolved once more to make the most of their hiatus. They again took language lessons, but this time they studied up on Chinese to prepare for an eventual excursion through that country. At the same time, they initiated their inquiries to determine whether that was a practical plan that would meet with the approval of the Chinese authorities.
Not all was business, however. With the cooperation of local authorities, they staged their most memorable public performance yet: a bizarre two-mile race against four horsemen for the benefit of three thousand animated citizens. At the sound of the gun, the cyclists took off atop the ancient city walls. The horsemen, who were making comparable loops along the ring road at ground level, bolted ahead and had built a comfortable lead after the first mile. By the third lap, however, the charging cyclists had overtaken their rivals, and they sailed to victory amid deafening cheers.
As for their future travel plans, the cyclists got plenty of contradictory advice. Minister Denby would note in his report:
Russian friends in Kuldja did what they could to dissuade the two adventurous wheelmen from their bold undertaking, pointing out not only the difficulties of Gobi, whose shifting sands afforded a most difficult and uncertain surface for their fragile vehicles, but also the danger of venturing alone into China in such an unusual fashion, amongst a people little acquainted with foreigners and never too friendly to them. Perseverance, they were told, would probably cost them their lives.
The local missionaries, however, were far less pessimistic. They not only believed that it was possible to traverse the Gobi but also outlined the best route to the desert. That was exactly what the cyclists wanted to hear. And when the Russian consul concluded that their papers from the Chinese minister in London did indeed authorize transit to Peking, their decision was made for them. They would follow the most adventurous route, across northern China.
When the bicycle parts arrived in early July, they readied their mounts with the help of a local blacksmith. To minimize the weight of their bicycles, they shortened their handlebars and seat-posts. At the same time, they took steps to reduce their own weight. They trimmed their clothing, removed buttons, and exchanged their shoes for flimsy Chinese sandals. They even shaved their heads and faces.
To limit their load to about twenty-four pounds apiece, they sold one of their cameras, ditched their leather bags, and replaced their blankets with two light sleeping bags. Their minimized cargo would include a tin of chain oil, two handguns, notebooks, a map, a shaving blade they used on each other, a small supply of medicines, including eye lotion and quinine tablets, and a stash of tea and sugar provided by the Russian consul. They also abandoned all surplus clothing, resolving to frequently wash their scant garb with soap bars in streams. They could always cycle bare-chested, after all, while their shirts, tied to their handlebars, dried in the sun.
For currency, they would carry a wad of Russian paper money and about five pounds of silver chips apiece, to be stored in their hollow handlebars—enough, they calculated, to last them to Peking. This clever arrangement not only eliminated the need for additional containers but also concealed their wealth from potential robbers.
Finally, in mid-July, after a seven-week lull, the cyclists set forth for the desert. Their initial experiences hardly underscored the wisdom of their decision. One evening, while ingesting sheep's fat at a Kirghiz campsite, the two young men explained their plans to the chief, who could only stare back at them in disbelief. The next morning he dispatched a band of horsemen to lead the travelers to the caravan road. Upon reaching it, the horsemen somberly dismounted and formed a circle around the cyclists. They proceeded to utter a prayer to Allah for the safety of their guests. As the horsemen bade farewell to the cyclists, a few of them silently drew their fingers across their throats, as a warning to look out for treacherous Chinese.
Indeed, the cyclists could not shake off a gnawing sense of impending doom. Reaching a desolate valley, they came across a gruesome reminder of their dangerous surroundings and their own fragile mortality. Mounted on a pole, in a cage, was the shaggy, severed head of an erstwhile brigand, staring blankly ahead. The local authorities had installed the spectacle to serve as a stark warning to all would-be marauders. Though it no doubt served its purpose, it gave the innocent passerby little comfort.
Four days out of Kuldja, Sachtleben's chainwheel suddenly broke in two, rendering his bicycle useless. The tourists decided to leave both their vehicles at a Kirghiz camp, while they headed back to Kuldja on horseback with the broken piece. Once it was repaired, they intended to travel back the same way to reclaim their wheels, fix the broken one, and carry on.
The locals were hardly surprised to see the cyclists back in Kuldja so soon after their departure. Naturally, they figured that the young Americans had finally come to their senses. Much to their amazement, however, the adventurers exhibited no intention of abandoning their mission. On the contrary, once the local blacksmith had successfully repaired the chainwheel, the pair promptly headed back to the campsite where their wheels awaited.
Over the next several weeks, the cyclists slowly made their way through a variety of terrains, ranging from arid valleys to lush mountains, passing through the cities of Manas and Urumtsi (now Urumqui). On occasion, when faced with a hill or a swamp, they had to dismount and walk. They continued to brave the usual Asian hardships, including hostile dogs, animated mobs, demanding officials, and grimy, insect-infested inns with hard mattresses and overcharging owners. Their rooms invariably lacked locks and at times even doors, exacerbating their vulnerability.
On the bright side, the Chinese diet was generally varied and satisfying. At the abundant teahouses, the cyclists gleefully sunk their chopsticks into piles of sliced meat and stewed vegetables, soaked in zesty sauces. Moreover, local officials were generally accommodating, and rarely did they foist guards upon the cyclists. Some even posted notices in the local villages warning citizens not to molest the foreigners.
Finally, on August 10, the wanderers reached the last oasis village on the western edge of the great Gobi Desert. Suddenly they found themselves, as Allen put it, "standing at the end of the world, looking out into the realm of nowhere." Stretched out before them, as far as the eye could see, was an ocean of red sand, rippled by the howling wind. The magnitude—and perhaps the folly—of their mission was beginning to sink in. Perhaps their Russian friends in Kuldja had been right after all. The young men spent a restless night in town, contemplating their precarious fate.
As they began their trek across the desert, however, they were pleasantly surprised by the tolerable conditions. They found the roads reasonably firm and conducive to bicycle riding. Nor did they lack for company. This was, after all, the only highway connecting western and eastern China, and the caravan traffic was heavy. To their great relief, they found a post station—a sparse cluster of mud huts encircling a well—every thirty miles or so. Every station offered a kitchen where weary travelers could prepare their own food. That is, if they had any. The cyclists soon discovered that the managers had little to offer in the way of provisions. "When we asked if they had an egg, or a piece of vegetable," Allen recalled, "they would shout 'Ma-you!' ('there is none!'), in a tone of rebuke, as much as to say, 'My conscience, man! What do you expect on the Gobi?'"
In fact, all they could procure at the stations was coarse flour. But by mixing in sugar, drawn from their personal stash, the clever cyclists were soon producing a sweet treat they dubbed "Gobi cakes," which they gratefully consumed with tea. They always baked a surplus so that they would have a ready supply to take with them on the road. Occasionally, they found supplementary food in Kirghiz camps along the roadside. Once, upon reaching the top of a rare hill, they were astonished to find a Mongolian monastery looming in the distance. The resident monks, however, were even more surprised to see the cyclists at their doorstep. Re-covering their composure, the priests graciously suspended their prayers to serve the wheelmen tea.
The cyclists made surprisingly good progress in the Gobi, covering up to fifty miles a day. But just when it appeared that they would enjoy relatively smooth sailing, Allen's health deteriorated. He had developed, it seemed, a bad reaction to his intake of salty water. Sachtleben stepped up his production of Gobi cakes for added sustenance and nursed his companion back to health.
Twelve days after entering the desert, the cyclists finally reached the other side. They were not only much relieved to enter a genuine town but astonished at what they saw there. Looming before their own eyes was the western extreme of the Great Wall, "rising and falling in picturesque undulations as far as the Tibetan ranges."
At that moment, it struck the pair that they were on the verge of accomplishing something truly epic. Before they had entered the Gobi, their ride, though remarkable, had largely mirrored that of Thomas Stevens. That was obviously no longer the case. Moreover, once they reached Peking, only a few thousand miles away, they could claim to have accomplished, as Denby would put it, an "exceedingly original and remarkable" feat: the crossing of China from west to east, a monumental achievement unheard of since the distant days of Marco Polo.
The lads nonetheless wisely resolved not to let the jubilation of the moment jeopardize a successful conclusion to their Asian adventure. Following the Great Wall for a good four hundred miles, they reached Lanchou (now Lanzhou), the bustling capital city of the Gansu province, alongside the Yellow River, in the dead center of China. There they gratefully accepted the thoughtful gifts of a viceroy, who presented them with yellow cloth flags to fly on their bicycles identifying them as "traveling scholars" not to be disturbed. Over the next two months, they rolled relentlessly through the provinces of Shensi, Shansi, and Chikli and, finally, into Peking.
In his lengthy report, Denby declared that the young Americans' adventure "shows, if nothing else, that for traveling immense distances over rough and mountainous roads, the bicycle is a swift and reliable means of locomotion." He suggested that American officials take due note of the young men's singular accomplishment and its profound implications for military maneuvers.
Denby also asserted that the cyclists' experience revealed much about present-day China. He summarized their rude reception: "They excited the unbounded curiosity of the natives, who had never seen a bicycle before. They encountered some hostility, which manifested itself in showers of stones and abusive epithets." Denby nonetheless praised the local officials who, "from the highest to the lowest, gave them every aid and attention." He attributed their cooperation to the "admiration and wonder" that the lads' "remarkable exploit" commanded, though he also credited "the excellence of the passport received from the Chinese minister in London."
Denby freely acknowledged his own esteem for the intrepid young men, even as he offered a fatherly reproach: "It would be justly estimated a foolhardy undertaking for two young men, ignorant of the languages and customs of the countries through which they were to pass, and unaccompanied by guide, servant, or interpreter, to venture across the comparatively unknown lands of Central Asia on bicycles." Still, the diplomat conceded, their courage, determination, and resourcefulness had somehow seen them through. Quoting the seventeenth-century French poet Jean-François Regnard, Denby concluded: "Qui parvient au succès n'a jamais trop osé" (Whoever succeeds never risked too much).
At last, the cyclists' long ordeal was effectively over, and their fame, if not yet their fortune, seemed assured. True, they still had to get to Shanghai, where they would board a ship bound for the west coast of North America. Then they would face a third continent. Still, their worst travails were clearly behind them. For the time being, they were content to linger in Peking. Thanks to Denby's son, who kindly replenished their wardrobes, they miraculously reverted to elegant young men. Taking advantage of their newfound celebrity, they became the toast of numerous foreign legations.
The travelers wisely opted to proceed to the coastal city of Tientsin (Tianjin) by houseboat, given the woeful state of their vehicles and the swampy terrain they would have had to cross.
After a leisurely thirty-six-hour float down the Pei-ho River, they stepped off the vessel to meet the resident American consul, William Bowman. The aging southerner kindly hosted the cyclists at his comfortable residence. He delighted his young countrymen with a most unexpected proposition: a private audience with General Li-Hung-Chang, China's foremost statesman. Needless to say, they accepted wholeheartedly.
The next morning the young men made their way to the American consulate, where two ornate sedan chairs awaited, surrounded by a dozen "coolies," or lower-class laborers. The young men took their seats and were promptly carted off to the viceroy's residence, a sprawling, one-story structure built of wood and adobe brick. A servant at the doorway greeted the honored guests. He then led them through a maze of stark rooms and a dark narrow hallway leading to an airy courtyard. There they entered a lavish parlor reserved for foreign dignitaries.
As they waited for their host, they sat down beside a warm hearth and chatted amiably with the viceroy's nineteen-year-old son, who peppered them with questions about the United States in fluent English. Charles Tenney, Bowman's American secretary, soon joined the party to act as an interpreter.
At last, two body-servants briskly strode into the room, followed by the statuesque statesman himself, his colorful silk dress flowing behind him. The Americans rose as the general approached them with a faint smile and an outstretched hand. Barely breaking stride, he led them into an adjoining conference room. After filling an armchair at the head of the long table, he motioned for the wheelmen to sit in the two seats to his left, while his son and Tenney dutifully assumed opposite positions. Allen later recalled the awkward lull that ensued:
For almost a minute, not a word was spoken on either side. The viceroy had fixed his gaze intently upon us. Like a good general perhaps, he was taking a thorough survey of the field before he opened up with a cannonade of questions.
"Well gentlemen," he said at last, "you don't look any the worse for your long journey."
"We are glad to hear Your Excellency say so," replied Sachtleben, adding with more tact than sincerity: "Our appearance speaks well for the treatment we have received in China."
The viceroy, however, showed little inclination to prolong the small talk. "What was your real object in undertaking such a peculiar journey?" he demanded minutes into the conversation. The startled cyclists promptly replied that they were seeking a greater understanding of the world and its peoples, and the bicycle was merely the most convenient means to get around.
The viceroy then asked them to name their favorite country. The lads responded without hesitation that it was the United States. If that was the case, the viceroy asked testily, what was the point of traveling elsewhere? They replied that they would not have known this for sure if they had not traveled so extensively.
Li-Hung-Chang seemed to doubt that their objectives were purely educational. Nor could he understand why sensible men of means would opt to travel under their own power when they could easily induce others to do the work for them. In any case, he wondered aloud, why had they not gone through India and southern China, an obviously easier and safer route?
While listening to their replies, the viceroy frequently paused to draw whiffs of tobacco from a long pipe held to his mouth by one of his servants. He continued to ask the lads about the lands they had seen and solicited their thoughts on various pressing diplomatic issues. Finally, he focused the conversation on his own country: What did they think of China's cuisine and her roads? What did his countrymen make of their strange vehicles, and what did they call them? Had they ever been robbed? How had the people and gov
ernors of the various provinces treated them?
The Americans, who likewise paused periodically to puff their cigarettes, responded freely, if tactfully. For the most part, they had enjoyed the cuisine and found the roads tolerable. Huge crowds had assembled to view their vehicles, which were called everything from foot-moving machines to self-moving carts. They had lost nothing en route, although they often felt threatened by the populace. The officials were helpful, though they frequently demanded that the cyclists demonstrate their wheels.
By now the men had grown quite comfortable with one another. They shared a bottle of champagne and exchanged toasts to their respective countries. The viceroy's questions suddenly became more personal and pointed. He asked the Americans how much they had spent during their travels and whether they expected to make a profit. How rich were their parents? What were their political allegiances, and would they ever run for office? Did they realize that they could easily have vanished deep in China, without their loved ones ever learning their fate?
The cyclists deftly deflected most of the viceroy's questions, revealing only that one of them was a Democrat while the other was a Republican. When asked how this could be so, Sachtleben offered a simple and succinct explanation: "You see, Your Majesty, we have different thinkers inside our heads."
Overall, the Americans were greatly impressed by the viceroy's insatiable curiosity. Back home, they had met a few aggressive reporters and dogged investigators, but those fellows were hopelessly lax compared to this distinguished gentleman. Several times the young men politely signaled their restlessness. But just when it appeared that the inquisition was at last winding down, the probing statesman opened up a new line of questioning.