David Herlihy
Page 16
The Cyclers had offered to host a banquet that evening at their clubhouse, but the tourists had regretfully declined, explaining that they were bound for Haddonfield, New Jersey, where Allen's sister lived. The wheelmen had nonetheless insisted on meeting the tourists about ten miles out on the pike, to escort them to Philadelphia's City Hall. There another fifty cyclists from New Jersey awaited, ready to accompany the globe girdlers the rest of the way. Among that group was Allen's sister Elizabeth, who had ridden there on a tandem with her husband George H. Clement, a prominent merchant.
Later that afternoon, after Allen and Sachtleben met the New Jersey—bound contingent, they took the Market Street ferry across the Delaware River to Camden. From that point, the group cycled another ten miles to Haddonfield. The prosperous town gave the globe girdlers a hearty welcome. Recounted the Philadelphia Item: "The military company honored the pageant with a salute from their cannons. The fire company drew out their engines to the roadside and rang every available bell. Meanwhile, the streets were thronged with people anxious to catch a glimpse of the far-famed travelers." The cyclists proceeded to the Clement estate on West End Avenue, where they were "sumptuously entertained."
It had been only three weeks since Allen and Sachtleben left St. Louis for the final push to New York City. Returning to the rails, they followed the Vandalia track for three days to Terre Haute, Indiana. From there, they took the rugged National Road to its terminus in Cumberland, Maryland. They then headed north into eastern Pennsylvania, stopping for a day in Gettysburg to survey the famous battlefield. Along the way, several bicycle clubs had given them receptions, as well as a fresh pile of medals.
At every stop they attracted curious crowds and inquisitive reporters. In the larger cities, like Columbus and Indianapolis, they were instantly recognized and glowingly written up in the local papers. Declared the Wheeling Daily Intelligencer: "Their trip will pass into history as the greatest bicycle journey so far attempted knocking out the record of Thomas Stevens." Some of the small-town reporters, however, were just catching on. "They told a great story of their travels," wrote one journalist in St. Clairsville, Ohio, "and the tale is doubtless true."
Indeed, the cyclists projected an aura of importance befitting globe girdlers. They dressed in "neat bicycle suits of light corduroy, with knee breeches, blue velvet jackets, and bicycle caps." With their tan faces, they radiated "that hardy wholesome and healthy look which is the natural result of an active outdoor life." And their rambling discourse was thoroughly convincing. "Both are ready and bright talkers," observed a reporter in Washington, Pennsylvania, "overflowing with a fund of reminiscence which would take them months to tell."
And now here they were, in Haddonfield, New Jersey, just ninety miles from New York City. As eager as they were to get to the metropolis, they decided to linger the next day at the Clements' home. Early on the morning of June 2, they left that town for one final push. With the help of a friend who served as a pacer, they made fast time to the ferry in Jersey City. At five in the afternoon, they rolled up to the Astor House, widely considered one of the finest hotels in the country, located on Broadway between Vessey and Barclay, by City Hall Park. Their spirited finale put, in effect, an exclamation point on a trip that had itself been designed to serve as a "finishing touch."
On hand at the hotel to greet them were a handful of reporters and a small group of wheelmen who had seen to their hotel expenses for the next few days while they lingered in town to tend to their business. After all their adventures and banquets, they found the low-key reception a touch anticlimactic. Still, they were just as glad to forgo further fanfare. They had had their fill of adulation, at least for the time being. It was time to secure a publishing deal and get on with their lives.
By their own calculations, they had logged a total of 15,044 miles in 344 days of riding. "A mathematical genius," reported the Wheel, "has figured out that their wheels revolved 5,327,857 times." The lads had indeed eclipsed Thomas Stevens. Having crossed the entire landmass of Asia, they could claim the "longest continuous land journey" on record. They were now, in sum, the greatest travelers since Marco Polo and Christopher Columbus.
Still, they were well aware that their fame might prove fleeting. With so many people taking up the wheel and heading off on long tours, it was perhaps only a matter of time before someone eclipsed their performance. They confessed to one reporter that, under ideal conditions, a similar journey "could be done in half the time." They even professed some doubt as to the wisdom of their course of action. "They say they have wasted three valuable years," noted the Wheel, "but that it will repay them eventually, as they have a stock of health and vitality."
Of course, they were also counting on a healthy return from a book and lectures, if only to offset the $5,000 each had invested in the tour. And they were eager to seal a deal while their feat was still fresh. To make themselves more appealing to the public and to a prospective publisher, they stressed that they were not athletic freaks or publicity seekers, but merely two disinterested gentlemen who had set forth "to see a bit of the world before settling down for life." They added that they had traveled without the financial support of any newspaper, conveniently overlooking their falling-out with PIP and their fruitless efforts to enlist a new sponsor.
Their apparent lack of an ulterior motive smacking of crass commercialism placed them a cut above similar adventurers in the employ of a journal, such as Thomas Stevens or Outing's current representative, Frank Lenz, now languishing somewhere in China. Wrote the Wheel about Allen and Sachtleben: "They are not showmen, nor is there anything sensational about them. In a word, they are gentlemen." The paper noted that they even had a "graceful way of giving in to each other when recounting their experience."
Indeed, speaking to reporters, the pair often decried the ugly mercantile instinct that afflicts the human race. "The first thing we learned," Sachtleben asserted to the Wheel reporter, "is that the people of every nation are out for the almighty dollar. They overcharged us for everything at every place." Their forthcoming book and lectures would, of course, serve to fulfill their educational duties to humanity, not to line their own pockets.
After settling in New York City, the cyclists spent a week making the rounds with publishers. They then retreated to Haddonfield to enjoy a leisurely summer while they mulled over a number of "flattering" offers. By August, they had come to terms with the Century Publishing Company. The wheelmen agreed to produce a series of eight articles detailing the Asiatic portion of their trip, leaving out their less sensational rides across Europe and the United States. For its part, Century would publish each article in its monthly magazine, using the cyclists' own photographs for illustrations. By Christmas 1894, the articles would be bundled into a volume and sold as a book.
In mid-August, Sachtleben and Allen finally headed back to the Midwest by train. Before they retreated to their respective homes, they shared one last adventure: a week in Chicago to tour the magnificent Columbian Exposition. There they were widely recognized and cheered. The program, after all, reflected the bicycle's enormous popularity. It included the inaugural world championships for track cycling and a large collection of historic bicycles on display in the Transportation Building.
By fall, Sachtleben was back in his father's house in Alton decompressing from his long journey. Lacking the patience to devote long hours to book writing, the cyclist all but delegated that task to Allen. Sachtleben, meanwhile, occasionally lectured the locals about his trip, but at the publisher's request, pending the re-lease of the book, he refrained from going on tour. To help pass the time, he took up acting. In December, he played a leading role in a play entitled A Dream of Ancient Greece, put on at Alton's Temple Theater.
The following spring, in 1894, just as his first Century articles appeared, Sachtleben again turned to the bicycle for amusement and reward. Along with Homer A. Canfield, a prominent local cyclist, Sachtleben opened a three-story bicycle store in downtown St. Louis tha
t specialized in Victor bicycles. He also helped launch the Victor Cycling Club and frequently led its excursions. He even dabbled in racing, easily taking a ten-mile road race in St. Charles that summer before some fifteen hundred adoring fans.
Yet as much as Sachtleben relished the role of cycling celebrity, he craved something more. He was not content to confine his wanderings to a salesroom floor, busy as it was. After having experienced one harrowing adventure after another the world over for three straight years, he desperately needed some new challenge to absorb his considerable energies. But what could he possibly do for an encore?
Suddenly he had a wild idea: why not be the first to cycle across the breadth of Africa? After all, the Dark Continent was one of the last partially uncharted territories. Only a generation earlier, Dr. David Livingstone had famously, if unsuccessfully, sought the source of the Nile. Sachtleben's bold proposition caused a buzz in the press, much of it disparaging. "In spite of his achievement in China," observed the Wheelmen's Gazette, "the critics generally agree that he cannot cross Africa in the manner proposed."
The paper suggested that Sachtleben follow footpaths instead. "Africa is a perfect network of paths from one end of the continent to the other," it asserted, "and every village is connected to every other village. It is true the natives are not engineers. The paths are narrow and winding, turning aside to avoid every obstacle like a tree or rock, which is easier to go around than remove. But they are beaten hard and smooth by the tread of countless feet for centuries, and are perfectly feasible for bicycles."
Still, the paper cautioned, "haste will mean disaster," adding,
If Sachtleben is content to take it easy he has many chances in his favor. But he will need to be a man of resources and nerve, as he will meet with wild animals and wilder men. A rifle, revolver and knife will be as necessary as a tent and provisions. Doubtless Mr. Sachtleben is aware of the obstacles and is prepared to meet them. Certainly, he is not going to be deterred by the reflection that no man has been able to perform the feat before. There has to be a beginning to everything, even to crossing Africa on a bicycle, and there is no time better than the present.
Sachtleben reluctantly abandoned the idea, however, after failing to enlist a sponsor. That fall, to occupy his time, the globe girdler immersed himself in the affairs of his cycling club. He was soon quoted in the newspapers denouncing his own Victors as a "drinking club," angering certain club mates. In a special meeting called to consider his expulsion, which he failed to attend, a critic read aloud Sachtleben's offending remarks. An irate Louis Meidner went up to the podium next and demanded to know: "What has the accused member ever done for the club?" Meidner then sarcastically answered his own question, thanking the absent wheelman "for the watch he had donated for the Victor meet and won himself." After the howls of laughter had subsided, the orator declared that Sachtleben had to be expelled "or the club will go to ruin." He might well have been, then and there, had not Canfield come to his defense and succeeded in staving off a final decision until the next meeting, when Sachtleben would presumably defend himself.
Several weeks later, in mid-October, Sachtleben got his say. Speaking over hoots and howls, the defendant maintained that he had been misquoted in the papers. He had not meant to denounce the entire club—only "certain members who get drunk and are far from respectable." He singled out the absent Meidner as a case in point. Indeed, Sachtleben declared that he would no longer associate with certain members, "owing to their beer-swilling propensities and general rowdyism." He urged the club to purge itself immediately of its "tough element."
In light of Sachtleben's deft posturing, the club dropped all charges against the globe girdler. But rather than beat a discreet retreat, Sachtleben took the floor once again to deliver what one paper described as "an unmerciful tirade against Meidner's character" filled with "drastic and violent language." The club agreed to defer the matter of Meidner's expulsion. Eventually, his membership was upheld.
Many found Sachtleben's petty and vengeful outburst entirely unbecoming of a gentleman of his stature. Indeed, Sachtleben himself recognized that his harsh words and poor judgment had badly tarnished his carefully cultivated image of culture and refinement. He knew it was time to embark on a new adventure that would take him, once again, to some distant and exotic destination.
9. CALCUTTA, INDIA
September 17, 1893
"I'M A BICYCLIST by choice," chirped Frank Lenz to a reporter representing the Englishman, a Calcutta daily, a day after reaching that city by steamer from Rangoon (now Yangon), Burma. "I am fond of it, even after thousands of miles of varied and wearying riding. And I'm fairly strong through it all, though I am none too big, am I?" The journalist, startled by Lenz's folksy manner, dutifully sized up his subject before conceding that the celebrated cyclist was in fact not "unusually stalwart." Beaming, Lenz continued his discourse: "I hold that, weight for energy, small men are better than big ones. Not that I profess to be overly energetic, mind you. On the contrary, I rarely ride above eight miles an hour. That's probably due to laziness."
Lenz had good reason to be in a playful mood. He had finally arrived in India's major port, the sprawling and captivating "City of Palaces" by the Hooghly River. True, his last six months had been excruciating. He had practically trudged across western China, and the arrival of the rainy season had forced him to renounce cycling across Burma. His bicycle was "done," and he had fallen a good six months behind schedule. He even had to scramble to recover his trunk, which had been sold by the shipping agent as unclaimed merchandise. Still, there he was in Calcutta, safe and sound. The worst was behind him, and the end was in sight.
As news of his progress filtered back to the United States, his fame was already eclipsing that of Allen and Sachtleben. "However foolhardy his tour may be," remarked the Chicago Interocean,
Lenz must be given great credit for the hardihood he displayed in his dangerous trip across China. While the stories of his narrow escapes and terrible hardships may have been exaggerated, it is nevertheless a fact that he has traversed a country totally unknown to white men. He has, moreover, gone through it all alone. Lenz has been absent now something over a year and a half, but the pleasantest part of his journey is before him. All through Europe he will undoubtedly receive the plaudits of every wheelman he meets.
Lenz had indeed come a long way. At the start of the past spring, he was still entrenched in Ichang, tending to his damaged wheel and camera. Fortunately, he soon managed to restore both instruments to working order, with the help of two British machinists aboard the gunboat Esk. He vowed to exercise greater caution the rest of the way, painting his wheel black to make it less conspicuous. To be sure, he had lost a bit of his swagger. Still, he remained determined to complete his mission. Indeed, to his mind, it had grown in meaning and importance.
On March 24, Lenz finally left Ichang to face what he called a "maze of mountains" stretching to the Burmese border. Recognizing that he would be unable to cycle most of that distance, Lenz began a routine he would continue throughout his long trek. He hired a "line walker," an employee of the telegraph company who knew the layout of the poles, and two coolies, who often sang heartily as they carried his bicycle suspended between two bamboo poles, one end to each shoulder.
Every day the party logged between twenty and thirty miles. "Sometimes we welcomed a restful downgrade," Lenz recounted, "but climbing was the rule, frequently along narrow ledges with steep dropoffs, where one misstep meant the destruction of bicycle and coolies." In the descent, Lenz led the way. He often glanced back nervously at his plodding entourage, praying that they did not "lose their foothold and come clattering down on me."
The spectacular scenery, reminiscent of the Rockies and the Columbia River Gorge, proved a healthy distraction. At times Lenz could even see the Yangtse, running some three thousand feet below. "The valley was so narrow and quiet," he recalled, "a loud voice would echo and re-echo from one mountain to another." Occasionally
he came across striking reminders of an ancient civilization in the form of graveyards, pagodas, and gigantic Buddhas carved in the rocks.
Whenever possible, Lenz lodged at telegraph stations. There he would draw from his supply of brass coins to pay off his men, who would return to their starting point by sampan, sailing along the Yangtse. Lenz, meanwhile, would spend a restful night at the station, which was invariably well equipped with cots and a kitchen to accommodate its small staff. His hosts were generally Chinese but occasionally European. After a day or two of rest, Lenz would resume his trek with a freshly hired crew.
On occasion, the coolies would convince Lenz that they could not possibly proceed in the wilds with the suspended bicycle. He would allow them to take the wheel and go by sampan to the next major town, where they would all reunite by nightfall. Lenz and his lineman, meanwhile, would gamely push on by foot. At times the ledges were so narrow that they had to crawl on all fours. "How the linemen stretched their cables over these fearful chasms is a mystery to me," Lenz marveled. "Some of the poles are on the edges of the highest cliffs, where only a man of iron nerve could have climbed to string wires."
On April 1, Lenz and his men found themselves alongside fearsome rapids, stepping from stone to stone. They reached the walled town of Wusan, the first telegraph station in the Szechwan province. "The sun shone warmly," Lenz recalled, "and the fields in the valley were all green." Among the many crops Lenz spotted were beans, wheat, vegetables, tea leaves, and opium. The cyclist's spirits were on the rise. He and his men were making slow but steady progress, having become quite adept at negotiating mountain passes and coping with the occasional thundershower or wild goat.