by The Lost Cyclist: The Epic Tale of an American Adventurer;His Mysterious Disappearance
Although, by treaty, foreigners did not need special papers to visit or reside in six Japanese ports, including Yokohama and Tokyo, Lenz would need special papers from the Japanese government to enter the interior. He thus made his way to the American embassy in Tokyo to procure a passport. The eighteen-mile ride was popular with the wheelmen in both cities, a sparse but enthusiastic lot.
Reaching the capital, Lenz was impressed by its horse-drawn streetcars and other signs of modernity. He also appreciated its many captivating shrines and temples, but was taken aback by the city's huge red light district, with its "large and spacious buildings." At night from ten to twenty "beautiful girls" sat in plain view at the street level, "like so many wax figures." Lenz elaborated: "The windows have no glass, simply bars of wood, enabling passers-by to converse at will with the inmates. Their costumes are magnificent and their toilets and hair-dressings are carefully attended to. So runs house after house for entire blocks, all brilliantly illuminated and without the slightest concealment."
Lenz explained to his readers that "in the Flowery Land it is considered no disgrace to be a prostitute." He added that Japanese parents were prone to sell their daughters to these houses of ill repute to raise money for acquisitions or to pay off debts. "And so self-sacrificing are Japanese girls," he asserted, "they obey their elders without question." Just as shocking, Lenz observed, was the fact that Japanese men often plucked their brides from this "degraded sisterhood," although they retained the right to divorce their wives "on the smallest pretext."
Lenz returned to Yokohoma on November 18 to make final preparations for his ride through Japan. By the time he left the city the next morning, at least ten local newspapers had announced his presence and his intention to cycle to Nagasaki. Wrote one: "Lenz claims that at high speed, the bicycle he rides can run 15 miles an hour, a rate of 70 miles per day." Added another: "Lenz is a talented photographer and is carrying with him a light-weight camera. He takes fine scenic photographs of the locations he passes through."
Starting down the eastern coast of Honshu, Japan's central island, Lenz sailed past endless rice paddies, where men and women were wading up to their waists to cut the ubiquitous grain. He soon reached Kamakura, home of the famous giant bronze Buddha cast around the year 1250. Its face alone measured eight and a half feet in height. As Lenz pushed on, he was struck by the friendliness of the locals, who yelled to him "ohayo" (good morning) and "sayonara" (goodbye). He soon made his way to his first beach and the picturesque island of Enoshima, where he explored a cave.
Meanwhile, Lenz was rapidly adjusting to Japanese life. He feasted on rice, eggs, and fish, though he preferred to use his own utensils rather than the supplied chopsticks. He learned to remove his shoes indoors and to kneel on the floor while socializing. At inns, he even partook in coed bathing—that is, once he got over the initial shock. The first time he naively headed toward a tub, clad only in a bathrobe, he was flabbergasted to discover that he was about to join six naked Japanese ladies and gentlemen. "Re-covering my breath," Lenz recounted, "I thought it best not to appear surprised. So I disrobed nonchalantly and joined the group as if I had been doing this for years."
Halfway to Nagasaki, Lenz came across a formidable mountain range and wisely hired a coolie to help him haul his machine over the summit. "Together we struggled for two and a half hours," Lenz recalled, "stepping from stone to stone. Sometimes the coolie gave out and sometimes I did." Still, the work was not entirely unpleasant. From his lofty vantage point, Lenz took in pristine forests, sparkling mountain lakes, and spectacular ocean views.
Suddenly, daunting China seemed a world away. Lenz felt nothing but joy traversing the enchanting land of the rising sun. He found the cost of living quite reasonable. Hotels were basic but clean and comfortable. The food was good and plentiful. Three or four times a day he would stop at roadside stands for nourishment. The roads were generally tolerable as well. Sailing along the Tokaido, a tree-lined, graveled road paralleling the Imperial Railway, he found level stretches as long as sixty miles. The land was stunningly beautiful, and the countryside was dotted with captivating relics, notably ancient pagodas and graceful wooden bridges.
Most intriguing of all were the denizens. Lenz met no end of interesting characters. Once, he spotted three gentlemen teetering along on old-fashioned boneshakers, making a frightful racket. "When they saw me they dismounted," Lenz recalled, "and gazed with envy at my pneumatic tire, rolling easily and silently along." Another time he knelt down with a local police chief and his daughter to hold conversation in English. When his legs cramped, he stretched them out, only to learn from the daughter that he was showing bad form, whereupon he reluctantly resumed his painful posture. Another time a blind masseur, hearing that Lenz had just cycled sixty miles, offered his services. Lenz could hardly refuse, though he would later lament: "The man proceeded to finger, push and bore every muscle in my body until I feared he would spend all night at it."
The onset of winter, however, tempered his bliss. One morning he awoke to find a Japanese attendant at the foot of his bed pointing out the window while uttering "Yuki." Lenz had a look for himself, and sure enough, he beheld a mantle of snow cloaking the city's rooftops and surrounding hills. Undeterred, he bought a pair of gloves and glided through the slush toward Kyoto, where the emperor had resided until the advent of the current Meiji era twenty-five years earlier.
After a brief stay in the former capital city filled with smoking factories, Lenz reached Kobe and its busy harbor reminiscent of Yokohama, jammed with vessels from all over the world. On the overlooking hills loomed "the beautiful homes of the foreigners." Checking into the Oriental Hotel, he was happy to be among white people again after nine days in Japan. He called on the two missionaries he had met aboard the Oceanic. He also met Robert Hughes, a middle-aged English businessman, who invited the wheelman to stop by his residence, eight miles west, on his way to Nagasaki.
A few days later, heading out from Kobe, Lenz hit a smooth stretch. To his great surprise, he came across a huge American flag draped from a bamboo arch spanning the width of the road. He suddenly remembered Hughes's invitation. His host had thoughtfully installed this prominent reminder near the entrance to his residence. Lenz sheepishly descended from his wheel and received a warm reception from Hughes and his large staff of Japanese servants.
On his final stretch in Honshu, Lenz suffered his biggest setback in Japan when a sly chambermaid lifted a $20 bill from his wallet. After persistent protest, he managed to recover it, but the affair left him embittered. Fortunately, his mood brightened a few days later when he came across a flock of laughing school children lined along the road to watch him pass. Partaking in a shrimp feast in Hiroshima also helped to restore his faith in Japan. At Iwakuni, he took in "one of the oldest and most peculiar bridges I ever saw. It consisted of five arches, each describing part of a circle from pier to pier, independent of one another. Crossing over it was like climbing over five immense casks."
To reach Kiusiu Island across the strait, at the base of Japan, Lenz boarded a small steamboat. He soon found himself negotiating one last Japanese mountain range, this time unassisted. At last, on December 10, the stunning harbor of Nagasaki loomed into view. He admired its beautiful setting, surrounded by "tier after tier of forested hills." The Rising Sun recapped his visit:
Frank Lenz arrived here at 11:00 am on Saturday last from Yokohama, having traversed the intervening distance, some 960 miles, in seventeen and a half riding days. From the very limited acquaintance he has had with the people during his flying visit he has formed a very favourable impression of them, and considers the country a very interesting and pleasant one to travel through.
A popular Japanese magazine for youth, Shonen-En, also made note of Lenz's successful arrival in Nagasaki, though it deemed Allen and Sachtleben's recent arrival in Peking "even more incredible." The paper praised both parties and drew a parallel with a homegrown hero: "Although horseback riding and cycling have
certain distinctions, these cyclists can be compared to our nation's own adventurer, Major Yasumasa Fukushima." Indeed, the military leader had left Berlin on his horse the previous February for Vladivostok, some nine thousand miles distant. He was making steady progress, compiling copious notes.
After a two-day sail, Lenz reached Shanghai. Its densely populated, walled-in center reminded him of San Francisco's congested Chinatown, on a much larger scale. He noted that some 200,000 unfortunates lived there in filthy and cramped quarters, amid "fearful" odors. Along the narrow streets, which were barely ten feet wide, lay scores of beggars and cripples pleading for alms. Outside the ancient walls, Lenz observed how the other half lived. There, too, conditions were often deplorable. But at least the populace seemed gainfully employed. Countless numbers toiled in dingy little shops, while scores of coolies scurried about hauling wheelbarrows and rickshaws. Others toiled at construction projects, belting out soulful tunes to lighten their load.
Lenz quickly detected numerous Chinese foibles: they wrote backwards, kept their hats on during social calls, shook their own hands, and wore white when mourning. One habit was downright repulsive: the propensity of wealthy women to bind their feet to make themselves more attractive to men. "Some have feet not more than three inches long," Lenz observed, "and upon these poor, wee, concentrated tootsies they manage to stump awkwardly, as though they were upon pegs."
In San Francisco, Lenz had pondered American attitudes toward the Chinese. In Shanghai, he contemplated the reverse sentiment, wondering in particular what sort of treatment the populace would "mete out to a prowling American wheelman." He was certain that "the Chinese hate all whites." After all, the vast majority of China's 400 million citizens "struggle hard for an existence." It was only natural that they would resent Western prosperity and might.
Indeed, Lenz conceded, "John Chinaman" had a legitimate grudge against the "foreign devil" who routinely abused him abroad and imposed unspeakable evils at home, such as the deadly opium and senseless imperial wars. Lenz saw for himself how British officials routinely manhandled the poor coolies and generally abused the locals. He reasoned: "I fail to see how Europeans can expect anything but bitter hatred from the Chinese in return for their policies."
During his week in Shanghai, Lenz busily prepared for his trek to Burma. He sought advice from missionaries, diplomats, and telegraph operators. Invariably, they implored him to abandon his dangerous scheme. Of course, he entertained no such thought. He did, however, agree to change his course. Originally, he planned to follow a more southern route to Bhamo, similar to the one taken by Augustus Margary (a British diplomat who was murdered in 1874 on the way back to Shanghai). But the telegraph operators persuaded Lenz to follow their poles instead. Although this route would add about one thousand miles, it was better marked, and it followed a river for most of the way. Lenz could present his letter of introduction and stay overnight at the stations along the way.
For currency, he assembled a bagful of silver and brass coins. Warned to expect bitter cold and meager bedding at inns, he purchased an overcoat and a blanket, even though they added twenty pounds to his already considerable load. At last, two days before Christmas, he bade goodbye to the Astor House staff and began to pedal with "a feeling closely akin to dread."
Shortly after concluding his deal with Outing in April 1892, Frank Lenz struck this studio pose, probably in Chicopee Falls, Massachusetts. This was not the equipment he would actually use, but it served for this publicity shot.
Lenz, an avid amateur photographer, superimposed three images of himself in distinct moods.
Lenz lounges with his friends during a ride near Pittsburgh, about 1890. Left to right: Charles Petticord, Warren T. McClarren, Lenz, and an unidentified man. Note Lenz's homemade sunshade, attached to his camera case.
Top: McClarren, Petticord, and Lenz ride through Glenshaw, near Pittsburgh, about 1890. Bottom: The same trio (Lenz in center) poses in Cleveland's Wade Park, July 4, 1890, the same day Allen and Sachtleben arrived in Liverpool to start their world tour.
Petticord and Lenz stop in Collinsville, Illinois, en route to St. Louis, August 1890.
Lenz (under his sunshade) leads his buddies and members of the Canton Bicycle Club, July 9, 1890. Petticord is on the far left.
Top: Lenz (far left) and Petticord (middle) on Pittsburgh's Smithfield Street Bridge, August 9, 1891, departing for New Orleans. Between them is Ned Friesell, who considered going with Lenz on his world tour. Bottom: Two days later in Petersburg (now Addison), Pennsylvania, Lenz and Petticord share a bed.
En route to New Orleans, Lenz surveys the rugged road across the Alleghenies.
On the same trip, Petticord stands ready to greet the citizens of Trenton, Georgia, while Lenz takes the photo. Petticord would later call Trenton "a bum little town."
Petticord and Lenz take in the view from Lookout Mountain, Tennessee. Note the cable Lenz is using to snap the photograph.
The pair reached New Orleans in September 1891. Lenz took this view of Canal Street.
Thomas Allen and William Sachtleben pose in a London studio in September 1890, shortly after announcing their plans to circle the globe. Their light bicycles had cushion tires.
(No Model.)
T. G, ALLEN, Jr., W. L. SACHTLEBEN & J. F. WALTEES,
LUGGAGE CABEIEB FOB CYCLES.
No. 444,642. Patented Jan. 13, 1891,
Above: Early ad for a Kodak camera. Left: U.S. patent taken out by Allen, Sachtleben, and Walters, the maker of their bicycles. The leather bags were designed to fit within the central triangles of their bicycles.
Scenes from Allen and Sachtleben's European tour, fall 1890, taken with their Kodak cameras. Left: The Maison Carrée in Nimes, France. Right: The Coliseum in Rome, where the pair pedaled freely.
Left: Portrait of Serope A. Gürdjian while he was a student at Bowdoin College in Maine, c. 1877. The Armenian rebel befriended the boys during their stay in Athens in early 1891. Right: The Manatt family aboard a steamer. Winnie, Sachtleben's flame in Athens, is on the far left. With her are her siblings (dressed in traditional Greek garb), her mother, and her father, the American consul.
July 4, 1891. A year into their epic journey, Allen (raising a bottle of champagne) and Sachtleben (firing his revolver into the air) celebrate their arrival at the summit of Mount Ararat. Shortly thereafter, they entered Persia to resume their ride across Asia.
Allen and Sachtleben raise their pith helmets to the crowd gathered in front of a gate to Teheran, October 5, 1891, as they head for the holy city of Meshed.
A map of their route from their book Across Asia on a Bicycle, published after their return to the United States in the spring of 1893. After some hesitation, they decided to cross northern China via the Gobi Desert.
The cycling review Bearings celebrates the return of the globe girdlers.
Sachtleben (third from left) and Allen (far right) on an outing with the Los Angeles Bicycle Club in January 1893. They are riding new Victors, their fourth set of wheels but their first with pneumatic tires.
Preceding pages: Allen (left, steadied by photographer) and Sachtleben pose in Taiyuan, capital of the Shanxi province, two weeks before their arrival in Peking. Sachtleben's cloth banner identifies the pair as "traveling scholars."
6. VANCOUVER, CANADA
December 20, 1892
AFTER DEBARKING FROM the Empress of India, Thomas Allen and William Sachtleben headed straight to the Manor House, a comfortable lodge in downtown Vancouver. There they granted their first interview in North America, to an enterprising journalist. They spent the next two days canvassing the port town, which only a few years earlier, before the arrival of a train line, had been a non-entity. Since then, it had blossomed into a thriving trade center of some thirteen thousand citizens, and it now boasted impressive landmarks like an elegant opera house.
The travelers were tempted to cycle down the coast, but the weather was cold and rainy. Besides, they reckoned, if they too
k the coastal train, they could arrive in San Francisco in time for a Christmas feast. So they booked berths in a sleeper car and climbed aboard. The ride was quite pleasant, offering panoramic views of forests, Mount St. Helens, and the Columbia River Gorge.
The relentless rain slowed the train to a crawl, and as Christmas unfolded Sachtleben and Allen were still riding it. Unfazed, they made do with the meager offerings of the buffet car. "After two and a half years on bicycles, running through the wildest parts of the world," Sachtleben reflected, "we could easily put up with a little inconvenience." Indeed, they were thrilled simply to be back in their homeland. After finally arriving in the city in the wee hours of December 26, they made a dash to the fashionable Occidental Hotel on Montgomery Street, where they enjoyed a sound sleep.
The next day they received a stream of reporters in their hotel room. They managed, nonetheless, to take a long lunch break featuring "the biggest porterhouse steak in the city." At last, Americans were about to learn the full details of their extraordinary adventure. The next morning the Call reproduced their likenesses from photographs and devoted an entire page to what it described as "the most remarkable journey of the century, and perhaps of any century."
The travelers had a few things to catch up on themselves. Democrat Grover Cleveland, backing the gold standard, was about to return to the White House after a four-year hiatus. During the cyclists' absence, the Union had admitted two more states, Idaho and Wyoming, raising the total to forty-four. The West had been effectively won, at long last, following the massacre of the Lakotas at Wounded Knee, South Dakota. Thomas Edison was rumored to have invented a cabinet through which one could view a moving picture, called the kinetoscope.