by The Lost Cyclist: The Epic Tale of an American Adventurer;His Mysterious Disappearance
Despite the blizzard, Lenz resolved to push on to Kiukiang, preferring to wait out the winter with the Hykeses. He hired two coolies with a wheelbarrow, and for twelve days the trio marched through "cold, ice, snow and mud." Along the way, they bickered over wages and got lost, extending their ordeal by four days and 165 miles. Finally, Lenz reached Kiukiang, where he stopped at the telegraph office to inquire about the way to the Hykeses' home. The couple was overjoyed to see him at long last at their front door.
Lenz felt a strange attraction to the walled city of Kiukiang, population 100,000, with its ruined pagoda and temple, though its charm faded the longer February progressed. He passed much of his time at the customhouse, fraternizing with the British officers. He also became quite friendly with Reverend Hykes, a forty-year-old missionary and fellow Pennsylvanian who had spent half his life in this remote outpost, serving the Central China Mission of the Methodist Episcopal Church. Hykes had just returned from his first furlough in sixteen years, and Lenz pumped him for news of home.
Lenz was deeply impressed with the reverend's dedication to his work, a subject Hykes himself had recently addressed in an article entitled "The Importance of Winning China for Christ," published in the Missionary Review of the World. "China is unquestionably the greatest and most important field for missionary operations on the planet," Hykes declared, "especially when one considers her vast territory and population, her abundance of natural resources, ancient culture, and the character and possibilities of her people."
To be sure, Hykes readily conceded, converting the Chinese was "an extremely difficult task." He even acknowledged the argument against the practice: "Some would have us believe that the evangelization of the Chinese is an unnecessary and presumptuous task. They say: 'The Chinese are good enough. They are vastly superior in civilization and morality to many heathen nations; they are perhaps even better off in their beliefs than we are in ours. So let them alone. Keep your meddlesome and fanatical missionaries at home and give them work among the slums of New York.'"
Hykes countered, however, that none of China's major religions—Confucianism, Buddhism, and Taoism—were adequate substitutes for Christianity. "Confucianism contains many beautiful sentiments and is a splendid system of ethics," he conceded, "but it contains no hope for ordinary mortals either in life or in death. After forty centuries of trial, it has failed to elevate the nation morally and spiritually." Buddhism, too, he maintained, "after more than 1,800 years of trial, has failed to elevate the Chinese to a higher life and nobler purpose." Taoism, he insisted, was not even a true religion but rather a school of philosophy.
Summing up the case for conversions to Christianity, Hykes asserted: "God has great plans for the Chinese race. China is destined to become one of the great factors in the future development of the world." Although he did not agree with those who predicted that China would become "the great military power of the future, conquering Russia and India, and crossing swords with England and the United States," he closed with the sobering thought: "What might not an awakened, civilized China do with forty million soldiers? I repeat: the evangelization of China is the most important work in this age. Self preservation alone demands as much."
On the sixteenth of February, Lenz was pleasantly surprised by the clamorous arrival of the Chinese New Year. "All the shops, stores, and houses are lit up with lanterns," the cyclist reported, "and paper picture charms are pasted on the doors and overheads. At midnight, there was a terrific banging, crackling and rushing of crackers and rockets. At daybreak, every Chinaman dresses in his best hat and clothes, silks and satins and white soled shoes, to make his New Year's calls."
Lenz soon discovered, however, that this was no passing holiday. "Two, three and four weeks are idled away," he surmised,
until empty purses compel the revelers to work again. The business streets on New Year's Day are as deserted as Broadway on an early Sunday morning. Some owners of the poorer shops open up within a week, but the wealthier ones do not renew their business until the fifteenth of the following month, on which the dragon celebration is held.
At last, in late February, a month after his arrival in Kiukiang, the winter thawed. Lenz bid a fond farewell to his gracious hosts and resumed his journey. One week and 170 miles later, after enjoying a relatively smooth ride and the hospitality of several agents of the London-based China Inland Mission, he reached Hankow.
Still, his situation had hardly improved. Lamented Lenz in a letter home: "the roads continue to be bad. From ten to forty-five miles a day has been my record, sometimes walking mile after mile." He had had to patch up his frame with the help of a blacksmith. The locals continued to hurl mud, stones, and sandals in his path. Added Lenz: "When I come along they yell like so many demons out of hell. Day after day I run the gauntlet and only by tremendous will power can I control my temper. If I ever strike one of them I would no doubt get killed on the spot." Lenz wisely resolved to "never show fear and to try to satisfy their curiosity." At least, he noted, "the tires hold out wonderfully," and he had collected many "splendid pictures."
In mid-March, Lenz lodged at the telegraph station at Shashe in Hubei Province, near Hunan, the province where Mao Tse-tung would be born nine months later. The Chinese clerk implored the cyclist to take a riverboat at least as far as Ichang (Yichang), eighty-six miles distant, warning that he was about to enter the most hostile part of the Yangste Valley. But the stubborn wheelman refused, declaring: "I had traveled too far in China by overland to shrink from any seeming danger." He reluctantly agreed, however, to hire an escort, a young soldier named Cheng Hong Yuen, who wore a bright orange coat with red borders.
Unfortunately, Cheng quickly proved something of a liability. Lenz frequently had to pull up and wait for his sluggish escort. Even when Cheng resurfaced, the people he was supposed to deter exhibited "no respect whatever" for his authority. In fact, Lenz himself had little regard for his escort, whom he proclaimed to be "as lousy as any other coolie," citing Cheng's constant consumption of rice wine and opium. Still, he was glad to have Cheng's company when the attacks occurred, for moral support if nothing else.
The pair barely made it to Ichang after all. When spring bloomed, a correspondent with the North China Daily News found Lenz languishing in that port city, thankful just to be alive after a near-fatal clash in the countryside beyond Shashe. In riveting detail, the journalist related Lenz's ordeal:
Mr. Lenz, after a sharp spin over a bit of flat country, pulled up to await a telegraph soldier who was traveling with him. He was immediately surrounded by a dozen or so agricultural laborers. They began to yell and hoot at him. One of their number bared his breast and arms, and made motions challenging the cyclist to fight. Mr. Lenz simply smiled good-naturedly and signaled he had no desire for pugilistic honours.
Their attitude then became so threatening, and the cyclist and his machine were being so badly mauled, that Mr. Lenz reluctantly drew his revolver and fired three shots over their heads in quick succession. The fast increasing crowd drew off a bit. Mr. Lenz was on his machine in an instant, and rushed off at breakneck speed along the narrow path that led across the plain, amid a peal of diabolical yells.
Meanwhile, labourers were at work in their fields on either side of the path. "Strike! Strike! Kill! Kill!" was the cry taken up from the mob in the rear, and passed along from field to field far quicker than the rider could cover the distance, riding for dear life though he was. The labourers suddenly looking up, beheld a sight well calculated to rouse their worst superstitions: a foreign devil literally flying over their country on a hellish contrivance of glittering wheels and pumping legs. It was as if the thing had dropped straight out of the sky. With inflamed passions and uplifted hoes they darted towards the path.
Mr. Lenz pressed on, thinking it more prudent to run this murderous gauntlet than to find himself surrounded by a howling crowd, eager for his blood. He dodged this blow, charged that man, and besides a knock or two on the knapsack and some bad br
uises on his machine, was doing wonderfully well—until he was suddenly confronted with an embankment, about forty feet high, whose crest was crowned with about one hundred and fifty excited Chinamen, awaiting his arrival with hoe and bamboo. He was now encircled.
In a letter home, Lenz himself described what happened next:
I got off and walked right toward them, to meet my fate then and there. For a moment it was touch and go. Two score of hoes and clubs were many times more than a match for my revolver and I knew it. To fight was useless; to pray seemed equally vain, for it appeared as if the Lord had overlooked his lonely Yankee wanderer. But for some unknown reason, Providence interfered, I firmly believe. The mob held their hands. It was a dramatic pause—like the paws of a grizzly bear. One may need experience it but once in his life. The scene is burnt into my memory and will never be forgotten. I was calm, for in truth I could hear the rippling of the dark river. There was no need to think of struggle any more—I realized that I had probably enjoyed my last outing.
Then one old gentleman leveled a blow at my head with a hoe that, had I not dodged it, would have cleft my skull and finished the business right away. As it was I got a bad bruise on my ear. Fortunately, my camera saved my shoulder, but was smashed by the blow. What happened then for a few moments I cannot tell. "Vic" and I somehow got parted. I presently found myself on the edge of the crowd, while one of the better-class Chinamen bid it to desist.
When he had succeeded in this, I picked up my machine. Instinct told me I must make these people laugh. So I began to explain by gesticulation, for I only know two words of their language, food and bed. I began fooling around and falling off the bicycle. I mounted one of their number and dexterously gave him a header. The wrath disappeared from their faces like magic. Stolidity gave way to smiles, and smiles to peals of laughter. Meanwhile, the crowds who had been chasing me came up in rear, and soon joined in the chorus. I thus turned men thirsting for my blood into an admiring audience, and presently begged, and was allowed, to proceed unmolested.
During his four-day layover in Ichang, a suddenly somber Lenz gave another introspective interview, this time to Thomas Holman, a British sailor writing for the Pall Mall Budget, a popular illustrated London weekly. The transcript, published three months later, read as follows:
"How do you like the Chinese, Mr. Lenz?" I asked.
"Oh, they're a plaguey bad lot," he answered, with an American accent.
"Do you expect to get through the country after your recent experience?"
"Guess I shall give it a try. Everyone tells me I shan't. From the United States consuls to the oldest foreign inhabitants."
"Yet you expect to?"
"Certainly. I may not get the machine through, though. Still, the worst, most hostile, and thickly populated part of the journey is now accomplished. I was told I should not get two hundred miles from Shanghai. Yet here I am, sound in wind and limb, at over a thousand miles from that city. Old 'Vic,' though, got a few broken ribs in that last scrum," said Lenz smiling, as [he] looked down complacently upon his wheel.
"Did you have a narrow squeak yourself, Mr. Lenz?"
"Very narrow, and in the country too. All the trouble before has been in the cities and big towns. There they have stoned me, pulled my hair, forced me to ride in narrow and crowded streets, upset me, and knocked me about generally. But always in a town or city or its suburbs. The countryfolk and I had gotten along wonderfully before this. I have always arranged my journeys so as to put up at a village or hamlet for the night, so as to avoid hostile crowds in the cities."
"What brought about the last attack?"
"Well I can hardly tell. I was in a bad district—I can tell that. The day before, I got through a city in darkness, but not without a good deal of mud, stones, and old sandals being thrown at me before I put up for the night. The next morning, I was about early and had already ridden for about three or four hours, passing my only coolie, a telegraph employee, who was to show me the way, as I had to leave my only chart, i.e., the telegraph poles, for a while. I stopped and dismounted to await for him in the middle of a plain and was instantly surrounded."
Lenz explained once again how he had mollified the crowd by doing stunts on his bicycle.
"That was very cleverly done, Mr. Lenz."
"Yes, you see I am alone and too weak to fight a mob, so must hold parley and fool with them. My object is to get through the country, and the end justifies the means."
"Why are you traveling alone?"
"I know I can command my own temper. A companion might be hasty, and lead us both into trouble."
"Are not the officials bound to protect you?"
"Oh yes, but I never go near them if I can help it. They create no end of a pother, and hinder me in the morning when I like to be away early."
"And how do you get on at the inns?"
"Ah, there I do capitally. I eat and sleep exactly the same as an ordinary Chinaman, and frequently pitch into a meal with, or sleep beside my own coolie, if I happen to have one, which only occurs in hilly districts. When I arrive in the evening I order my supper and bed, and allow the crowd to satisfy their curiosity about me and the machine to their hearts' content. If they get too troublesome, I produce this puzzle key and set them to work on it. A mechanical puzzle is, as you know, a powerful attraction to the natural curiosity of the Celestial. They squabble and quarrel about the solution of the puzzle and entirely forget me, and I eat my meal and write up my notes. When all have failed, I show them the solution, and each man despises his neighbor for not having discovered so simple a trick, and there is a hearty roar of laughter. Then I produce this mouth organ, and after running down the scales as a preliminary, get to business thus."
Lenz then interrupted himself, playing several popular and lively airs.
"Then I get tired, and as we are by that time on the best of terms, I say good night, make my kowtow with a bland smile, and retire to bed. But they insist on accompanying me to my room, and make what further investigations they choose while I am undressing—it would be simple madness to resist or resent. Then, when I am in bed, the landlord takes away the candle and I am left without further molestation. In the morning, I am up and off with the notes of the first chanticleer. That is the way to fool them."
"But they seem to have had the last innings with you, haven't they, Mr. Lenz?"
"Oh, yes! But I shall be even with them yet. Here is my camera, for instance. I get pictures of them when they have no idea what I am about. It never comes out of its leather case. I simply uncover the lens and rest it on a wall or mound, and get the picture by my 'Finder.' Then I set the clockwork arrangement of mine in motion and mingle with the crowd, arrest their attention on some particular object until I hear a click. Then I know the clockwork has done its work and I have got a shot with the exposure I adjusted for, while the Chinamen have been taken willy-nilly."
"But how did you come through the worst districts?"
"Simply traveled by night, when their superstitious nature keeps most of them within doors. Then I can pass through their cities and towns in spite of them."
"How about the soldiers at the gates?"
"These Chinese documents are sufficient to open the tightest gates in China, when only officials are present. It is the uncontrollable mobs that yell at my heels all through the country that are the greatest nuisance."
"And what is the object of your tour? What does it prove if you succeed?"
"It is chiefly educational. I have always had a strong desire to travel and my trip before I got to China, and I hope after I get out of it, will go to prove that there is a fraternal feeling among the human race, besides the natural love of self; that with civilization comes toleration, and a more sympathetic appreciation of fellow men among all nations. It will certainly bring this home to young Americans, if it does no more."
"Is China the worst part of your journey?"
"Yes, I am doing the worst part first. Afghanistan, Persia, and Asia Mi
nor, each have formidable difficulties. But they are not of so dangerous a nature as those who entertain the superstitious belief that a man on a bicycle is a flying devil from the clouds. They will, at least, give me the credit of being human, however badly they may use me for other reasons."
"Your camera, you say, is broken?"
"Broken, but not useless. Mr. Edwards, of her Majesty's ship Esk, himself an enthusiastic amateur photographer—will help me repair it, and he has kindly promised to doctor my old friend 'Vic' for me."
"When do you expect to be in the United Kingdom, Mr. Lenz?"
"All being well I should get there by midsummer, or early autumn, 1894."
And no doubt the cycle clubs throughout the kingdom will see to it that so valorous a champion of their favourite pastime will receive such a welcome as he will richly deserve, should he succeed in accomplishing the task he has set himself to do.
Lenz, in fact, was desperately looking ahead to his arrival in fair Europe, when he would have Petticord at his side. The Daily News Ichang correspondent, however, openly doubted that Lenz would get that far, even as he paid tribute to the wheelman's sterling courage and character:
Whether this plucky gentleman will ever succeed in accomplishing the task he has set for himself remains to be seen—even whether he will ever get out of China alive. But one thing is certain. Any man who can keep his head and extricate himself from such a dangerous position by such coolness, tact, and judgment deserves to succeed. He obviously knows more about human nature than the ordinary crank.
8. ARDMORE, PENNSYLVANIA
May 31, 1893
DECORATION DAY 1893 found Allen and Sachtleben sailing along Pennsylvania's Lancaster Pike, the oldest paved road in the United States. After nearly three years on the road, their world tour was at last nearing completion. Approaching the leafy suburb of Ardmore, they broke into wide smiles. In the distance, they could make out about fifty cyclists waiting in the shade by the roadside. The travelers knew instantly that these were members of the West Philadelphia Cyclers. The welcoming committee soon erupted into cheers as it set off fireworks.