by The Lost Cyclist: The Epic Tale of an American Adventurer;His Mysterious Disappearance
One of the most extraordinary—and for the cyclists, fortuitous—developments was the continued success of the safety bicycle. In 1890, when Sachtleben and Allen left for England, a mere seventeen American bicycle makers were producing a modest forty thousand wheels a year, while English firms supplied much of the growing domestic demand for hard-tired safeties. Dozens of manufacturers across the United States were now catering to the astonishing demand for pneumatic safeties, having produced nearly one quarter of a million units in the season just passed.
True, the typical price for a well-made bicycle remained about $100, a significant sum to the average citizen, who was lucky to make $20 a week. Still, the safety wheels of 1892 not only sported inflatable tires, but they were also significantly lighter and better built than their immediate forerunners. All signs indicated that the American cycle industry would enjoy an even greater bonanza in the coming season.
Clearly, the globe girdlers were well poised to capitalize on their fame, which seemed to grow by the day. Shortly after their arrival in San Francisco, they shared the limelight with no less a celebrity than Albert A. Pope, the bicycle magnate himself, at a banquet hosted by the San Francisco Bicycle Club. They knew they could count on other bicycle clubs to extend royal treatment as they made their way back to the East Coast. There they would shop their book proposal to major publishers. With twenty-two diaries between them, all crammed with meticulous notes, they were not short on material. No doubt a lecture tour featuring their numerous snapshots was also in the offing.
Before they could resume cycling, however, they would need a new pair of wheels to replace their battered Humbers. They sent the relics home by rail and accepted two brand-new Victors from the firm's San Francisco agent, their fourth pair of cycles in three years. These were by far their best mounts, and now they, too, could enjoy the benefits of the pneumatic tire.
The tourists were inclined to make a beeline to St. Louis, where their families anxiously awaited their return. Hearing reports of wintry weather in the Midwest, however, they decided to head south instead, passing through Los Angeles. From there, they could head east along the main line of the Southern Pacific, all the way to New Orleans. At the Crescent City, they could swing up to New York City just in time for spring weather. Once they had taken care of business there, they could return to their homes by rail.
Their plans secure, the cyclists left San Francisco on January 11, 1893. That very evening the Garden City Cyclers of San Jose entertained them with music and humorous songs. They enjoyed smooth sailing in California, reaching the southern city of Santa Barbara within a week. There they assured a local reporter that "they had seen no finer scenery than that here." In Los Angeles, they made a day tour with the local wheelmen through Pasadena, Santa Anita, and Monrovia, where they had lunch. In Riverside, hundreds lined the main street to welcome the globe girdlers. Meanwhile, the local wheelmen led the pair to their new clubhouse. At the center of the table rested a huge basket filled with oranges and a pile of cigars, courtesy of the local druggist.
For five days, the cyclists made their way across the Colorado Desert, sleeping in the open air two of those nights. Making liberal use of the railroad beds, they averaged over fifty miles a day. Compared to the Gobi, they found these arid environs downright pleasant. At the end of January, they emerged in the frontier town of Yuma, Arizona. The editor of the Sentinel judged them "intelligent, educated and refined young men," while noting approvingly that they were "greatly interested in Yuma and her future."
At Maricopa, five cyclists from the Valley Cycle Club of Phoenix persuaded the lads to spend the night in their city. The group took off under a full moon, arriving at three in the morning. Later that day, according to a local reporter, the tourists were "lionized" by adoring wheelmen. That afternoon they visited a photographic studio and had their picture taken with club members. In the evening, a prominent citizen held a music-filled reception in their honor, complete with oysters.
Passing through Tucson—where they consumed a hearty breakfast courtesy of the University of Arizona—the tourists reached Deming, New Mexico, near the Mexican border. The local newspaper editor was impressed by their modesty, having detected "nothing of that petty conceit which so often marks those who have won fame by means of some extraordinary feat." For their part, the cyclists were surprised to find that even this small city, barely a decade old, boasted an active cycling club with a dozen members.
Approaching El Paso, Texas, the lads were again met by local cyclists and escorted to the big city. The next day their hosts, eager to extend "the courtesies of the town," put on a lavish program. The lantern parade had to be scuttled owing to strong winds, but the banquet went off without a hitch. The globe girdlers sat down with fifty fellow wheelmen at a "richly laden table" to enjoy a sixcourse meal and a "flow of soul." Vice President Payne, addressing the topic of "The Progress of the Bicycle," recapped the glorious transformation "from the treacherous old ordinary, which had landed so many riders on picket fences, to the modern Safety."
Riding the railroad tracks out of town, past sandy stretches devoid of vegetation, the wheelmen made good time. One day they even set a new personal record, covering ninety miles. Finally, in early March, they reached Dallas. This time it was not only the cyclists who greeted them but also Sachtleben's resident relatives, including his brother Charles, sister Emma, and brother-in-law James Wilkinson. Feeling increasingly homesick, the pair decided to head straight to St. Louis after all, the snow be damned. All they had to do was to follow the Missouri-Kansas-Texas railroad for about seven hundred miles. After a suitable rest, they could resume their ride to New York City in the spring.
The tourists headed to Sherman, where they enjoyed yet another banquet. They entered the Indian Territories (now Oklahoma) and made their way to the southeast corner of Kansas. At Fort Scott, Harry E. Harris, the president of the Kansas division of the LAW, escorted the cyclists across the state line to Sedalia, Missouri. A reporter in Tipton, in the dead center of the state, noted their arrival: "About 5:30 in the afternoon, a young man on a bicycle was seen speeding down Moniteau street. He pulled up at the City Hotel. A few moments later a second young man appeared and headed for the same destination." The reporter tracked the visitors down and discovered their identities.
In late March, the pair toured Jefferson City and met with the newly elected governor, William J. Stone. Continuing along the tracks, through heavy snow, they finally reached Kirkwood, a suburb of St. Louis. The next morning they were greeted by dozens of St. Louis cyclists who had come to escort the heroes back to the city they had left almost three years earlier. A large crowd awaited their arrival there, including Sachtleben's father, who had taken the morning train from Alton. News of their dramatic return was cabled around the world. That evening the jubilant pair continued on to Ferguson, where they settled into the home of Thomas Allen Sr.
The following week the cyclists declined numerous invitations to attend events in St. Louis so that they could attend a long-planned banquet in Alton instead. The Sentinel Democrat described their rousing reception in Sachtleben's hometown:
It was just 6:15 pm Monday, April 3, when Messrs. Sachtleben and Allen dashed down Second street hill to the store of Joestling & Sachtleben. They dismounted from their wheels and received a most flattering welcome. They were not expected so early, but as soon as they were recognized a shout went up all along the line and in five minutes the store was filled with a crowd of old friends eager to congratulate the boys on their arrival home. After fifteen minutes they escaped from the throng and went to the home of Mr. Sachtleben on Langdon street. Throughout the evening and next day the boys held an impromptu reception and received the handshakes of hundreds of old friends.
The next evening the cyclists were the stars of the "happiest and most largely attended banquet ever given in the city of Alton." Reported the Telegraph:
The World Cyclists were banqueted in grand style last night. At 8:30 a stylish clo
sed carriage drove up to the entrance of the Hotel Madison and Messrs. Sachtleben and Allen stepped out. Upon ascending the stairway an orchestra of string music announced their arrival and they were immediately surrounded by an interested audience and escorted to the parlors. Here they related to the attentive listeners anecdotes of their great journey. At nine o'clock supper was announced, and seventy-six guests entered the brilliantly lighted dining room to take seats at tables covered with snow white linen. The tables were arranged in the form of an "H." Stands of fruit and table palms added to the attractiveness of a well-set board. Toastmaster McMillen then called upon Hon.
F. W Joestling, and the mayor welcomed the visitors cordially to the Bluff City. Next came the supper of six courses.
The first speaker that evening was Colonel John J. Brenholt, a local attorney. He defined a hero as someone who successfully accomplishes "a great undertaking." Noting that Sachtleben and Allen were about to achieve the "stupendous work of traveling with the sun around the globe," he pronounced them heroes, to deafening cheers. (Ironically, four years later, Brenholt himself would be widely regarded as a hero, at least by Alton's black residents, after he led the fight to overturn the city's decision to segregate its grade schools.)
In response, Allen arose, "not the least bit ruffled by the resounding applause." Speaking
in clear tones, he delighted the audience with an impromptu speech. Mr. Allen has a very attractive manner. He thanked the citizens for their excellent banquet and drew a parallel to the menu they were subjected to in the heart of China. He paid a warm tribute to his companion Mr. Sachtleben, proclaiming him a true friend upon whom he could depend in any emergency.
Several more prominent citizens spoke on a variety of topics before Sachtleben got the last word. He described numerous travails, starting with their struggle to get Robert Lincoln to write a letter of introduction and going on to describe their hardships in the Gobi as well as their clashes with hostile Chinese. On a humorous note, he recounted an anecdote about Allen. One morning his companion, fresh from the Gobi Desert, "fancied eggs for breakfast." He tried "every known method" to explain what he wanted to the befuddled innkeeper, to no avail. A dejected Allen started to walk away, when suddenly he wheeled around and began to jump up and down, flapping his arms like a rooster's wings. "The Chinaman was much amused," Sachtleben related, "and got the eggs."
Finally, just after one in the morning, the banquet broke up. Allen and Sachtleben remounted their carriage and headed for Langdon Street, feeling quite content. They had a busy schedule ahead, including a lecture at the Academy of Sciences in St. Louis. They planned to leave for New York City on their bicycles sometime in early May, though that task was beginning to feel like a frivolous formality.
7. KIUKIANG, CHINA
January 27, 1893
PEN IN HAND, Frank Lenz gazed out his bedroom window, watching wistfully as the heavy snow blanketed the Yangtse Valley, obscuring his view of the river itself. Although he was quite comfortable in the cozy and cheerful bungalow of the Reverend and Mrs. John R. Hykes, nestled in Kiukiang's foreign settlement, he was worried about his slow progress. Just then he heard the collective laughter of the Hykeses' four children, aged three to eleven. For a moment, his somber mood brightened, until he resumed his letter to Charlie Petticord.
Here he was, a month after leaving Shanghai, barely five hundred miles upstream. And he still had nearly two thousand miles to go in China, mostly over mountain passes "where a bicycle would seldom be of use, and often a great hindrance." He had fallen months behind schedule, and with all this snow it might be weeks before he could start moving again. Indeed, he noted to his friend, "it has been the severest winter here in twenty years." Confessed Lenz: "It may be three or four months before I reach Calcutta. But I am determined to cross China on wheel or on foot, no matter what the consequences."
As Lenz began to recount his travails in China, his spirits sank even lower. "The cry of 'foreign devil' greets me everywhere," he complained to Charlie.
Twice I have used my revolver to frighten off Chinese who stoned me. The roads here are fearful, the tires of my wheel stand alright, but the frame and rim I have had to patch. I put up with chopsticks among the Chinese and subsist mostly on rice and greens. Although I expected beastly accommodations, words cannot describe the filth that abounds here. The Chinese have stolen my tripod, tool bag and tools, opera glasses and spool of film. I am compelled to watch my wheel and camera like a hawk.
Trying hard to strike a more positive note, Lenz continued: "Occasionally, I reach missionaries who kindly welcome me to their homes. Foreign food and beds are indeed luxuries." He noted with pride that Thomas Stevens had also come to this city, six years earlier, and that the locals still talked about him. Stevens had marched into town with a band of soldiers, leaning an arm on his saddle, prompting the locals to construe the wheel as an elaborate walking aid. "The weather will soon get warmer," closed Lenz, "and I may make better time through this heathenish and God-forsaken country. I am exceedingly happy in getting this far, as everyone who heard of my intention to wheel through China thought it impossible. Of course I will be glad to see the hills of old Pennsylvania again."
Lenz's frustration with China was understandable. He had barely pushed off from Shanghai when his troubles began. The telegraph line, which was supposed to lead him all the way to Burma, quickly stranded him at a canal with no side path. Then came the huge crowds. He had expected attention, of course, having attracted an animated following from time to time in Japan. But nothing like this. "The curiosity of the Chinese is something fearful," he reported. When he pulled over for his first roadside meal in China, he had hoped that the restaurant at least would provide a temporary refuge from the rabble. He even gamely employed chopsticks in an effort to blend in with the clientele. But to no avail: "The eating house was jammed with pushing and squirming Chinese," Lenz lamented, "eager to see the foreigner."
Thirty-eight miles from Shanghai, with no inn in sight, darkness fell on poor Lenz. He spotted a vacant shed by a rice field and settled there for the night. He retained his overcoat and wrapped himself in his blanket in a fruitless effort to stay warm. All night long he heard the barking of dogs and the muffled voices of oarsmen as they glided along the nearby canal. "My first night out of Shanghai was surely discouraging," Lenz conceded in a gross understatement.
At Soochow (Suzhou), a silk center famous for its enchanting stone bridges and elaborate gardens, Lenz descended from his bicycle to walk the crowded, narrow streets. Evading a mob, he hustled over to the home of Alvin P. Parker, a Southern Methodist missionary, who kindly took in the weary wheelman. After summarizing Lenz's trip in his diary that evening, the reverend added tersely, "He has a hard trip before him between here and Calcutta." The next day Lenz and the minister devoured a hearty Christmas dinner. Before leaving town, Lenz stopped at Parker's school to demonstrate his bicycle to the howling children.
Paralleling the Grand Canal, Lenz rattled thousands of honking ducks. He also caught the attention of the men in the boats. "Loud yells and laughter arose everywhere," he noted, "and there was much craning of necks." Reaching Wusih, Lenz delivered a letter from Parker to an English-speaking Chinese doctor, who took in Lenz for the night. His host candidly discussed his people's aversion to Westerners and their medicine. Lenz soberly surmised that a real devil on the loose in these parts might be less conspicuous than he.
From this point on, Lenz had little choice but to lodge at inhospitable inns. To claim his miserable cot, he quickly established a modus operandi: "On arriving at a Chinese inn, I never ask any questions, but simply roll the wheel right in. I then sit down among the Chinamen, and order my rice as unconcernedly as a native." Some inns, however, offered only communal dining. The guests helped themselves to bowls of rice, fish, and greens placed in the center of a long table. Lenz typically devoured between two and four bowls at every sitting, easily besting the competition.
At Tanyang, where rio
ters had recently burned down a Jesuit mission, Lenz narrowly escaped a disaster of his own as he strolled down the main street with his bicycle in tow. A crowd quickly enveloped and jostled him, and he accidentally knocked over a table. As the irate merchant vented his anger, Lenz nimbly picked up a stray stone and hammered the detached leg back into place. He then handed over a fistful of coins and was allowed to proceed. He later realized, however, that during the hubbub someone had deftly lifted his handkerchief and field-glass from his coat pocket.
Working his way along the river, heading ever deeper into China, Lenz stopped in Chinkiang, Nanking, and Wuhu, all major cities with large foreign enclaves where he happily took refuge. By the time New Year's Day 1893 dawned, however, he was beginning to feel more at ease with the Chinese. "My distrust of the natives had partially vanished," Lenz affirmed. "I rubbed shoulders with them in their towns and inns as though they were the friendly Japanese."
Still, the near-disasters kept coming. One morning, while getting dressed, Lenz heard a loud bang at the rear of the inn. "I rushed out to find a crowd of scared Chinamen surrounding my bicycle," Lenz related. "One of them had pulled out the revolver from my luggage, which I had forgotten to remove before retiring, and pulled the trigger, luckily without damage. It might have fared hard with me had he accidentally shot a bystander."
Two weeks earlier, when the snow began to fall, Lenz had found himself stranded in a freezing country inn. He passed his time planted in front of a fireplace, trying desperately to stay warm. Meanwhile, the locals, old and young, male and female, streamed in on a daily basis to pay their respects. The conversations were limited, but his uninvited guests seemed particularly amused by his tools, especially the small monkey wrench, which they kept screwing and unscrewing.