by The Lost Cyclist: The Epic Tale of an American Adventurer;His Mysterious Disappearance
The relatively few villagers Lenz met along the way were, for the most part, "pleasant and agreeable." He no longer felt threatened by the populace and had even learned to enjoy their attention. They often asked him where he had come from and where he was headed. In response, the wheelman would give only "the last city I had left and the next one ahead." He knew well that they would find the answer unsatisfying, but he was determined to keep the conversation short. Besides, he deduced, "America and India are hardly known to the lower classes, and then only as barbarous countries."
The locals, it seemed, were thoroughly convinced that "every foreigner is a doctor of sure cure." During the evenings when he stopped at inns, Lenz was often approached for medical advice. Once, an anxious innkeeper introduced his ailing son and lifted up the boy's garments to reveal "ugly running sores on his hips." Another time the wheelman was shown an old man "in the last stages of consumption." The best Lenz could do in these hopeless situations was to shake his head in silent sympathy.
The townsfolk, of course, were anxious to see Lenz's strange vehicle in action. At Wusan, with the help of the telegraph clerk, Lenz staged a memorable exhibition along the river beach. One eager and confident pupil, a young man who "prided himself on being a good horseman," gamely mounted the wheel. Lenz began to push it along, but he soon noticed that the novice was having great difficulty keeping his feet on the pedals, which were battering his ankles. To end his agony, as well as to discourage any more onlookers from tempting fate, Lenz unceremoniously "dumped him in the sand," to the great amusement of the spectators.
One evening at a village inn, a mandarin's son gave Lenz a good look-over before asking how far he could see with those blue-gray eyes. He took Lenz at once to his yamen, "a large building containing much handsome furniture and surrounded by an artistic garden." There Lenz staged another demonstration "for the benefit of the ladies of the household." He circled the courtyard while servants held up hand-lamps and lanterns. Lenz then rolled around his host, who became so enthralled with the bicycle that he wanted to buy it on the spot. After tea, Lenz took in a musical performance featuring a two-string violin and an elaborate whistle. He shared in the meal but declined to participate in the post-feast card games and opium sessions.
Another colorful character Lenz encountered was a dapper lineman who briefly joined the wheelman's entourage. "He was quite a dude," Lenz recalled. The man's elaborate costume included a "black silk coat, blue silk sash and white trousers." His most impressive accoutrement was a "large, ancient sword swung across his back." Ostensibly, it served to cut through brush, but it also came in handy controlling crowds, as he demonstrated one evening at an inn. To protect the privacy of Lenz and his men as they dined in the garden, the thoughtful innkeeper had hastily erected a bamboo screen. The crowd, however, continued to encroach, fighting for a view through the slats. From time to time, the lineman coolly thrust his blade between the poles, eliciting a collective gasp on both sides of the barrier and forcing the crowd to maintain a respectful distance.
Also helping to break the routine were the occasional ceremonies Lenz stumbled upon. In one town, he watched a peculiar procession featuring "ragged men and small boys carrying brass gongs, banners, and silver paper images of some gods." Coolies followed, carrying a dressed pig spread out on two poles. Underneath that carcass walked a sacrificial goat, followed by several men seated in carrying chairs. Lenz learned that the villagers were staging the elaborate rite as a tribute to ancestral spirits.
At Wanshien, Lenz found another walled town, this one with 6,000 residents, including hundreds of women who spun cotton all day long on looms. For the first time since leaving Ichang, 325 miles back, Lenz met a missionary: the Reverend W Hope-Gill of the China Inland Mission. The cleric had heard nothing about Lenz's journey and was astonished to come across a wheelman in those parts. As Lenz prepared for his departure, the missionary warned him that the two-hundred-mile road to Chungking, though billed as paved, was impassable by bicycle since it rose and fell by means of steep stone steps.
In fact, it took Lenz a week to trudge to Chungking, a bustling city of 300,000. Among its thirty resident foreigners was the English-born W Nelson Lovatt. To Lenz, the businessman's cozy home "seemed like an earthly Eden after my long walk over the mountains." Lenz stayed there for three days, spending much of his time in the city's vibrant center filled with "well dressed and intelligent natives" and shops selling "silks, satins, and embroideries." To his mind, the colorful scene evoked the "flourishing times of Marco Polo's visit, six hundred years ago."
It was now mid-April, and Lenz had covered 539 miles since Ichang—all but 34 on foot. At least he was having little trouble with the locals. Often they "strung themselves along the road" to watch him pass, yelling out their approval. Once, Lenz amazed everyone, himself included, when he and his wheel gracefully sailed over a pig slumbering on the road. The occasional indignities he shrugged off. At one point, several "mischievous rascals" crept behind the moving bicycle and pushed it into a pond. "I went in up to my knees and the wheel disappeared entirely," Lenz recalled. "There was nothing to do but to take it good naturedly and go on."
At Sweifu, Lenz again took refuge among the missionaries and demonstrated his wheel at the local yamen. The grateful ruler "served an excellent dinner and tea." He advised Lenz to cover his wheel thereafter, lest the sight of the strange vehicle overex-cite the citizenry. Lenz, however, feared that they might react even worse to "a large, mysterious bundle," which could conceivably contain a body or perhaps "a choice bunch of kidnapped youngsters." He thus preferred to expose the wheel and take his chances. At least the bicycle served to deflect attention away from himself.
At the end of April, Lenz at last peeled away from the river and passed into Yunnan, the southwestern-most province in China and the last one before Burma. "This is the heart of the famine district," he explained to his friends back home, "and the suffering of the people is beyond description." He was particularly struck by the lowly status of the native woman. "She is of little value," he concluded, "save as a worker. Young girls are seldom educated, and those of the lower classes are not infrequently sold as slaves. As in Japan, go-betweens arrange marriages. Even the wife in high class circles leads a life of seclusion, never going anywhere and doing her husband's every bidding without question."
On the morning of May 14, a year minus a day after Lenz had left Pittsburgh, he was in for a rare treat: a smooth, eighty-mile road to the city of Yunnanfu. He gleefully sprinted off and left his coolies behind. That evening, stopping at a teahouse to await them, he sipped his tea and reflected on his first year of travel. "The continual change of people, scenery and excitement aided the flight of time," he mused, "and I could hardly realize that twelve months had already slipped away."
A few days later, Lenz reached Yunnanfu. With a population of 150,000, it was the last large city before Burma, now just 400 miles away. He again stayed with the missionaries of the China Inland Mission, three men and three women. "The work here is beset by many difficulties," the secretary had conceded in the last annual report, adding that "many additional workers are needed." Despite frequent preaching tours and heavy distribution of religious literature, the missionaries at this remote station had registered only two baptisms in each of the past two years. The natives seemed more interested in remedies for opium poisoning than a Christian education.
Before leaving Yunnanfu, Lenz hired two coolies to accompany him on the 272-mile trek to Talifu along the great highway connecting Bhamo and Peking. He left with a certain trepidation: he knew that he would soon face the toughest mountains yet. Worse, the inhabitants along the way reportedly despised foreigners and frequently robbed caravans. Lenz was nevertheless determined "to fight my way to Bhamo at any cost."
Indeed, the stretch proved trying in the extreme, starting with the grisly sight of three executed criminals, their "naked trunks and severed heads" cast by the roadside. A coolie stumbled and fell, taking down his c
olleague and the bicycle. Lenz, however, was thankful that the accident did not produce "two dead coolies and one smashed up bicycle."
At last, the party reached Talifu, a picturesque city nestled in the mountains that was famous for its marble quarries. Lenz stayed at the home of the Reverend John Smith, another missionary who was astounded to come across a wheelman. Once again, Lenz demonstrated his wheel at the local yamen. "I circled about for the old man," Lenz reported, though "he never changed the expression of his face. But I knew he was pleased when he presented me with pressed tea and sweets."
Lenz gamely pushed on, crossing a long chain bridge spanning the Mekong River. On the anniversary of his departure from New York, he found himself once again "drearily tramping over the seemingly endless mountain ranges of western China, lost to the world." Finally, in the middle of June, the wheelman reached Tengyau.
Here Lenz found refuge in a telegraph station, the last one before the Burmese border. Chatting with the friendly Chinese staff, Lenz learned that Danish engineers had overseen the recent extension of the line, which had required three long years to complete. The delay was due partly to the rugged state of the terrain and partly to the resistance of the locals, who feared that the wires would "disturb the graves of the Fingshin, the spirit of wind and water."
When Lenz fell seriously ill for the first time during his trip, afflicted by severe stomachaches, he was forced to prolong his interminable sojourn in China. "My strong constitution broke down," he explained in a letter home. "For two weeks I lay ill in bed in the telegraph office, and only by the aid of quinine and camphor pills which I carried in my medicine pouch, was I able to keep off a severe fever." To pass the time, he taught English to the staff. They, in turn, "were very good Samaritans to me."
Finally, at the close of June, Lenz, a guide, and several soldiers set off for the Burmese border, 128 miles away. They made slow progress, slogging through rice fields and crossing swollen streams. One day out, Lenza called on a sympathetic Chinese official he had met during his recent convalescence. Assigning him a "splendid room," the man persuaded Lenz to resume his rest for a few days. Writing home to his mother, Lenz accentuated the positive, noting that he had already been as far as he would get from home and was thus on his way back.
When Lenz was ready to resume his journey, his host furnished six soldiers to escort him to the Burmese frontier. Finally, in early July, Lenz reached the banks of the Nampangho River, which divided China from Burma. In the six long months since he had left Shanghai, he had logged a staggering 2,884 miles, a good majority of them on foot. Leaving China, he felt nothing but relief. "God help the unfortunate cycler or traveler who crosses China," he wrote home. "I could never do it again."
Still, the Celestial Empire had left Lenz with a deep impression. He admired its elaborate network of rivers and canals, stunning natural beauty, storied past, and vast cultural treasures. And despite his many run-ins with the locals, he shared Hykes's conviction that the Chinese, for all their flaws, were hard workers with vast possibilities. At the same time, however, he was appalled by the widespread poverty and blamed the Chinese government for oppressing its people, deliberately shielding them from Western culture and values.
Lenz credited above all his missionary hosts for his salvation. They, in turn, were amazed by his remarkable pluck. Five months later, George Ernest Morrison, an Australian medical student, would set off from Ichang to retrace Lenz's route to Burma. "I often heard of Lenz," the explorer revealed. "All the missionaries praised his courage, endurance, and admirable good humour." Morrison pronounced Lenz's feat "the most remarkable journey of all," adding that Lenz had surmounted "hardships and dangers that few men would venture to face."
Along the way, Morrison heard but one complaint about Lenz. An exacting missionary lamented that the wheelman "did not possess a close acquaintance with the Bible." Explained Morrison: "During family prayers, poor Lenz was discovered feverishly seeking the Epistle to the Galatians in the Old Testament. When his host gently pointed out his mistake, he was not discouraged, far from it. To the missionary's great dismay, the wheelman declared that, in the United States, this Epistle is always reckoned a part of the Pentateuch."
Across the river in Burma lay a British army encampment. Spotting Lenz and his party, the soldiers, all Sikh Sepoys from India, cheerfully blared their trumpets. The clatter brought out their commander, Lieutenant J. H. Whitehead. "The English officer hailed me with delight," Lenz recounted, "and asked me to come over at once. The stream was shoulder deep, and rushing down the canyon at a tremendous rate. But with the assistance of three native savages, all holding a pole, I forded the strong current successfully. Grasping the officer's friendly hand, I at last stood on Burma's soil."
For nearly seventy years, the British had maintained a strong military presence in this predominantly Buddhist country. Forty years earlier, following its victory over King Mindon in the first Anglo-Burmese War, Britain had annexed all of Lower Burma. Mindon's son and successor, King Thibaw, in his aspiration to reunite the country, forged an alliance with the French. Fearful of his chances, the British had invaded Upper Burma seven years earlier and exiled Thibaw to India. All of Burma had thus become a British colony.
"After a bath and a change of clothes," Lenz reported, "I felt the happiest man on earth." He was now the third white man in the camp, along with Whitehead and the telegraph operator. The native soldiers nevertheless dressed in the typical British manner, save for their thick black turbans. Lenz spent the next few days recuperating at Whitehead's residence and recounting his adventures in China. The official, in turn, briefed Lenz on what to expect in Burma.
The cyclist quickly realized his predicament. Although the monsoons generally started in mid-August, the rains had been unusually heavy, and the rivers were already overflowing. In addition, the temperature hovered around 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Not only would Lenz have little opportunity to ride, he also stood a good chance of contracting malaria. He vowed nonetheless to push on with the help of two hired coolies. Whitehead kindly provided four Sikhs to escort the party as far as Bhamo.
The men trudged deep into a forest filled with tigers, leopards, and elephants. They slowly made their way to the top of a mountain, taking in a panoramic view of the flooded Taiping and Irrawaddy Valleys. In the opposite direction, looking east, Lenz observed the last peaks he had climbed in China, "towering at a tremendous height." He could hardly believe that he had managed to get this far under his own speed.
In Miyothit, the first Burmese village along the Taiping River, Lenz observed the typical bamboo houses with roofs of woven palm leaves, standing on stilts several feet above the ground to protect against "high water and malarial fevers." The locals were "deep brown in color." The men wore little more than loincloths and were "well built and athletic." Many sported tattoos on their thighs, though the British regime frowned on the practice. Concluded Lenz: "The men take life very easily. The women are far more industrious, but neither sex are likely to kill themselves with hard work."
Beyond the village, the roads were flooded. Lenz sent his coolies and two of his soldiers ahead by boat, while he and the other two soldiers plodded through the jungle on foot, toting his bicycle. To his delight, Lenz found several stretches that were smooth and dry enough for cycling. Most of the time, however, he, like his party, had to trudge over flooded roads and ford deep streams.
Seven miles from Bhamo, at the banks of a stream, the entire group reunited, plus a newcomer the coolies had hired to lighten their load. After they had all crossed the stream, Lenz hopped on his bicycle and sped off. Four miles later, however, he had to halt before another stream. "I stepped into the water to test its depth," Lenz recalled, "and was immediately over head deep. Fortunately, I am a good swimmer, and was soon fast to a tree about one hundred yards away."
When the coolies arrived, fearing for their safety, Lenz ordered them to retreat with his bicycle to the last major town and to proceed to Bhamo by boat. Th
e Chinese newcomer, however, insisted on testing the water for himself, despite Lenz's warnings. "He soon found out his mistake," Lenz reported, "and began struggling back. But he became exhausted. I heard a choking gulp, turned and saw he was drowning. His companions stood on the bank but twenty feet away and yelled advice. They finally pushed a log to him, which he failed to grasp. By the time I reached the spot he had gone down for the last time."
"It was a fearful death," Lenz wrote, "and all of us who had started out so cheerful were now gloomy at the terrible and quick fate of the poor fellow." The coolies implored Lenz to retrieve their companion's body. "With the aid of the log I floated nearly a half-hour," Lenz related, "and at last touched it with my feet. I raised it to the surface and brought it to the shore. We tried to roll him on a log, but life was extinct." Lenz flagged a passing boat manned by two Burmese oarsmen, who rowed his party, including the corpse, to the opposite bank. Lenz paid the men two rupees to bury the body.
A badly shaken Lenz managed to cycle into Bhamo, a city of some eight thousand. The wheelman soon found himself lodged at the comfortable residence of a British official. Lenz immediately took a bath, donned dry clothes, and devoured a fine meal while engaging in animated conversation, trying to forget the morning's tragedy. During his five-day stay, Lenz got a taste of colonial leisure life as he watched British officers hunt, fish, and play polo. He also encountered his first elephant, albeit a captive one.
Lenz continued southwest toward Mandalay, the king's fallen city some three hundred miles distant in the center of Upper Burma. From there, he planned to turn westward and cross the rugged interior to the Indian border, five hundred miles farther. Should those roads prove impassable, he was prepared to head due south to Rangoon, where he could catch a steamer to Calcutta. Of course, he was still hoping to reach India by the overland route, if at all possible.