The Fastest Bicycle Rider In the World

Front matter

The Fastest Bicycle Rider In the World

THE STORY OF A COLORED BOY'S INDOMITABLE COURAGE AND SUCCESS AGAINST GREAT ODDS

Marshall W. "Major" Taylor

Foreword

FOREWORD

These reminiscences, covering the most colorful chapter in all the history of bicycle racing, among other remarkable facts, brings out very clearly many of the outstanding qualities characteristic of my race, such as perseverance, courage, and that marvelous spirit of forgiveness.

It also proves to the world literally, that there are positively no mental, physical, moral or other attainments too lofty for a Negro to accomplish if granted a fair and equal opportunity. The records and success that I achieved in my chosen line of athletic sports, certainly the greatest of all if played fair, and the brilliant performances of other colored athletes in various branches of the sports where permitted to compete will verify this somewhat emphatic assertion.

The primary object of this narrative, however, is not for any personal glory, or self praise but rather to perpetuate my achievements on the bicycle tracks of the world, for the benefit of all youths aspiring to an athletic career, and especially boys of my own group as they strive for fame and glory in the athletic world.

A perusal of the following autobiography and chronologically arranged news clippings will reveal many of the secrets of my great success, notwithstanding the tremendous odds and almost tragic hardships that I was forced to do extra battle against owing to color prejudice and jealousy of the bitterest form. With the aid of the press, however, the strict application to the rules of training, and the help of God, I was able to overcome that bitter intensity of feeling to some extent, or sufficiently at least to accomplish my life's greatest objective, namely, "The Fastest Bicycle Rider in the World."

Judging by the manner in which colored athletes have repeatedly demonstrated their skill and prowess in the athletic world, it is quite obvious what might well be accomplished on a whole as a race in other pursuits of life if granted a square deal and a fair field. We ask no special favor or advantage over other groups in the great game of life; we only ask for an even break.

I am writing my memoirs, however, in the spirit calculated to solicit simple justice, equal rights, and a square deal for the posterity of my down-trodden but brave people, not only in athletic games and sports, but in every honorable game of human endeavor.

Introduction

INTRODUCTION

As I look back over my eventful career of seventeen years bicycle racing, replete with unique experiences, thrills and hardships, and the interesting part I played in the history of the great game, after having gained all the triumphs, gold, and glory possible to obtain in that line of the sport, I find that my name is now and then mentioned among that steadily increasing list of notables, placed in the immortal cycle hall of fame, commonly known as "Old Timers." I was finally beaten fairly and squarely once at least by one who is destined eventually to trim even the best of us. I refer to the mightiest champion of them all, and one who needs no introduction—"Father Time."

During my turn as champion cyclist I out-gamed and out-sprinted him over and over again, and occasionally after handing him a very bad beating I was even conceited enough to give him the laugh, but somehow he didn't seem to mind it at all. I fancy I can see him even now just plugging along steadily, with that grim expression on his face, trying to overtake me. But alas, however, the scene is changed, the table is turned, not only has he overtaken me, but has actually passed me by, and is still gaining upon me at every revolution of the pedals, for "Time Eventually Wins."

One thing, however, he was at least decent about it, and just like the good old sport that he is, he didn't give me the laugh as he speeded past me, or stop to remind me of how I used to poke fun at him. No, "Father Time" was more considerate, he let me down easy.

I tried to take my licking gracefully however, because after all is said, done, and written, I rather consider it an honor to be defeated by him and by no means a disgrace; as a matter of choice I would much prefer defeat at his hands than by "Kid Nicotine," or flattened by that other frightful bogy—old "John Barleycorn," who has the reputation of having floored more great athletes, world-beaters, and in fact people in all walks of life than perhaps any other adversary in the world.

However, I can boast of having had at least the most "colorful" if not the most unique career of any person that ever won a World's Championship title, and now I have a wonderful message for any youth aspiring to an athletic career if he will only accept it, which is a message growing out of my many years of racing and trying experiences.

Chapter I

A fair field and no favor, now as we begin A square deal for all, and may the best man win; A fair field and no favor is our appeal, A square deal will conquer in every field.

CHAPTER I HOW I STARTED RIDING

A freak of fate started me on what was destined to be my racing career which was climaxed by my becoming champion of the world when I was only twenty-two years of age. Born in Indianapolis, November 26, 1878, I was one of eight children, five girls and three boys. When I was eight years old my father was employed by a wealthy family in that city named Southard, as a coachman. Occasionally my father would take me to work with him when the horses needed exercising, and in time I became acquainted with the rich young son Daniel, who was just my age.

We soon became the best of friends, so much so in fact, that I was eventually employed as his playmate and companion. My clothing was furnished and we were kept dressed just alike all the time. "Dan" had a wonderful play room stacked with every kind of toy imaginable, but his work shop was to me the one best room in the whole house, and when there I was the happiest boy in the world.

The rest of "Dan's" playmates were of wealthy families too, and I was not in the neighborhood long before I learned to ride a bicycle just as they did. All the boys owned bicycles excepting myself, but "Dan" saw to it that I had one too. I soon became a big favorite among them, perhaps because of my ability to hold up my end in all the different games we played, such as baseball, tennis, football, roller-skating, running and cycling, trick riding, and all the rest.

There was only one thing, though, that I could not beat them at, and that was when we went down to the Young Men's Christian Association gymnasium. It was there that I was the first introduced to that dreadful monster prejudice, which became my bitterest foe from that very same day, and one which I have never as yet been able to defeat. Owing to my color, I was not allowed to join the Y. M. C. A., and in consequence was not permitted to go on the gymnasium floor with my companions. The boys protested to their parents about it, but they, even with their powerful influence, were unable to do anything about it, consequently I could only watch the other boys from the gallery go through their callisthenics, and how my poor little heart would ache to think that I was denied an opportunity to exercise and develop my muscles in the same manner as they, and for really no reason that I was responsible for. However, I made the best of matters knowing that I could beat them on the campus.

Some time later the Southard family moved to Chicago, and because my mother could not bear the idea of parting with me, I dropped from the happy life of a "millionaire kid" to that of a common errand boy, all within a few weeks.

Not satisfied with having this bicycle all to myself I decided to become a trick rider. It will be well to remember at this point that in those days bicycles held the same relative position that the automobile occupied a generation ago. That meant that in reality I was a pioneer in this trick-riding field, and had to teach myself. However, the same perseverance that later played such a prominent part in my successful career on the bicycle track evidenced itself while I was a barefoot boy. After long hours practicing I became a pretty fair trick rider and to my skill along this line I attribute my initial appearance in a bicycle race when I was thirteen years old.

It came about in this way. I went to the bicycle store owned by Hay & Willits in Indianapolis, to get a minor repair made on my machine. After the repair had been made I made a fancy mount on my bicycle in the middle of the store and immediately drew the attention of Mr. Hay. He asked me who taught me that trick, and when I replied myself he smiled doubtfully. I told Mr. Hay that that was one of my easiest tricks and that I had a number of others that I would like to show him if he was interested. He was, and he ordered the store cleared to a certain extent and I did a number of my homemade tricks for him and his guests of the occasion that made them fairly gasp. In fact the exhibition was so good that Mr. Hay, his mind ever alert for good advertising for his store, invited me to repeat them in the street in front of his place of business. In a short time there was so much congestion on the spot that the police were called to open it up for traffic.

Going into the store later on Mr. Hay's invitation he asked me how I would like to go to work for the firm. I told him I was peddling a paper route and earning $5.00 a week at it, and that, of course, I would expect a little more for my services if my mother would allow me to work for him. My eyes nearly popped out of my head when he said, "I will give you that $35.00 bicycle and $6.00 a week if you will come to work for me. I told him I would consult my mother and let him know shortly. I went to work for him in the course of a few days.

My first duty in the store every morning was to sweep and dust, but every afternoon at four I was booked to give an exhibition of trick and fancy riding in my nice new uniform out in the street in front of the store. At the time there was a gold medal on exhibition in one of our show windows, the first prize for the annual ten-mile road race which was promoted by my employers, and which was one of the outstanding sporting events of Indianapolis. I spent more time daily fondling that medal than I did wielding the duster. It seemed to me like that would probably be the only chance that I would have to be near such a valuable prize. I recall clearly being so bold one day as to pin the medal on the lapel of my coat and strut with it for five minutes in front of the mirror.

However, it was in the books that within a comparatively short time that medal was to be all my own—the reward of my first victory in a bicycle race. My entry into this event was an accident pure and simple. I had gone out to witness the event, which attracted the cream of the amateur riders of Indiana, and had taken a vantage point near the start when Mr. Hay spotted me. Thinking to inject a laugh into the race for the benefit of the thousands that lined the course, Mr. Hay insisted that I take my place on the starting line. I rebelled, but he fairly dragged me and my bicycle across the road saying, "Come on here, young man, you have got to start in this race." I was badly scared at the thought as one may well imagine since I had never seen a bicycle race before.

Although the band was playing a lively tune and the crowd was cheering wildly I was crying. When Mr. Hay saw that he started to lift me from my wheel, but stopped and whispered in my ear, "I know you can't go the full distance, but just ride up the road a little way, it will please the crowd, and you can come back as soon as you get tired."

Crack! went the pistol, and with tears in my eyes I was off with a fifteen minute handicap on the scratch man. There were hundreds of cyclists stretched along the route, and it seemed to be a friendly sort of cheer and one that encouraged me and inspired me to keep on going even after I had begun to feel very tired. Those words telling me that I could turn back after going a short distance inspired me on when it seemed like fatigue was about to overtake me. They made me all the more determined to show my employer that I could go the distance. As I pedalled along the seemingly endless route I felt sure my knees had been torn out of their sockets by my pedals, but I was determined to cover the entire distance no matter how long it took.

After I had ridden some distance I noticed a group of riders coming to meet me. As they drew closer I recognized My. Hay among them. He had the gold medal that was hung up for first prize and dangled it in front of my eyes as we rode along. As he did so he informed me that I was a mile ahead of the field and had half of the distance left to go. The thought flashed through my mind that I had a chance to own that medal which I had so many times pinned on myself in the store. The sight of it seemed to give me a fresh start, and I felt as though I had only just begun the race. The thought of that gold medal becoming my property spurred me on to my greatest efforts. The act on Mr. Hay's part was the psychological turning point of the race for me. From then on I rode like mad and wobbled across the tape more dead than alive in first place about six seconds ahead of the scratch man, Walter Marmon. Incidentally this same Walter Marmon is president of the Marmon Automobile Co. today.

Once across the finishing line I collapsed and fell in a heap in the roadway. Kind hands revived me shortly and I recall clearly that the first thing I saw on regaining consciousness was that big gold medal pinned on my chest. I had been through a nerve-racking, heart-breaking race, my legs pained me terribly, but I felt amply repaid for my efforts as I scanned that medal. My first thought was to take it home and show it to my mother. Fast as I had ridden that race I rode with greater speed to my home. My mother laughed and cried in turn as I related the incident of my first race. And one may well imagine my enthusiasm as I told her about the race, as I was but thirteen years old at the time.

Chapter II

CHAPTER II WHEN FEAR PACED ME TO VICTORY

My next race was in Peoria, Illinois, in the summer of 1892, an event for boys under sixteen. I was fourteen at the time. Although I did not win the race, I was third, but the kindly manner of the public toward me created a lasting impression in my mind. Little did I imagine then that the next time I appeared on this track that I would be greeted as the Champion of America and it is a safe bet that nobody else imagined so. Thanks to the encouragement given me on that occasion I continued striving towards championship honors, and was elated several years later to be able to return to Peoria as champion sprinter of America.

Peoria was the Mecca of bicycle racing in those days. On its historical track all of the fastest riders in the world struggled for fame and glory. Among the most noted of them were: Zimmerman, Windle, Van Sicklen, Lumsden, Munger, Spooner, Githens, Stone, Temple, Davis, Thorne, Dernberger, Barrett, Kinsley and Hollinsworth, in fact that galaxy of stars participated in the feature event of the program which included the race for boys under sixteen in which I rode.

I clearly recall seeing one of the racers in that meet, William Laurie, participating on his racing machine which was equipped with the first pneumatic tires ever ridden in a bicycle race in this country. Hitherto all racers had their wheels equipped with solid rubber tires as pneumatics had not been perfected up to that time. Hoots and jeers greeted Laurie throughout the afternoon as he blazed the trail for the use of pneumatic tires, which revolutionized bicycle racing, and the manufacture of bicycles simultaneously. Shortly came the cushion tires and soon thereafter the self same pneumatic tires that Laurie demonstrated so well that day came into common use on the bicycle tracks in the country.

The following spring I went to work for H.T. Hearsey, a bicycle dealer in Indianapolis. My principle occupation was giving bicycle lessons, although I also did general work about the store.

While in the employ of Mr. Hearsey I won a number of races, the most important one being a 75-mile road race from Indianapolis to Matthews, Indiana. It was promoted by Mr. George Catterson, a very wealthy sportsman who made his home in Indianapolis. Because of a growing feeling against me on the part of the crack bicycle riders of the day, due wholly to the fact that I was colored, the greatest secrecy surrounded the arrangements for this big event.

It may be well at this time for me to outline just how this race prejudice feeling against me came to a head. A few months before the 75-mile road race was held, Walter Sanger, one of the greatest bicycle riders of the day, made an attempt to establish a new track record for 1-mile on the Capital City race track in Indianapolis. Before an immense throng he established a mark of 2.18 and was paid a handsome bonus for his stunt.

A number of my friends secretly arranged to have me make an attempt on Sanger's record shortly after he left the track. Because of the color prejudice that my previous success had earned for me I had to be taken into a dressing room secretly. Hardly had the cheers of the immense throng which greeted the announcement of Sanger's time died away before I made my appearance on the track ready to endeavor to lower Sanger's record. Quickly the news flashed through the crowd that I was to make an attack on his recently established mark, and the crowd held their seats as I took a few preliminary trips around the track, which measured one-fifth of a mile to a lap.

One could hear a pin fall as I made my way up the track for a flying start against Sanger's record. I was paced by a number of my friends who were mounted on tandems. The first one paced me on the first three laps, and a second tandem took me over the balance of the distance going as fast as the track would permit. Those pacemakers were spurred on in their efforts by the thought that they were fighting for a principle as well as for my personal success. They were all white men, and had stacked their all in the belief that I was capable of breaking Sanger's newly established record. Because of the feeling that was stirred up against me among the bicycle riders in general simply because of my color, my pacemakers stood a chance of being scoffed at had I failed to break his record.

I made my last great effort and pulled up alongside the tandem in the last fifty yards, beating them about two lengths across the tape, and finishing the mile in 2:11, seven seconds under the highly paid Sanger.

Just to show what I could do, I came out on the track later in the evening and did a fifth of a mile unpaced. I rode around the track twice to get going properly, and then took the word. The crowd grew enthusiastic, for it was seen that the way I was riding I would come close to the fifth of a mile record on a five-lap track: The time-keepers compared watches, and I was surprised to learn that I had made a record of:23 3/5, beating the record made in Europe that spring by Macdonald, on the famous Paris track 2/5 of a second.

When the time for my ride was announced I received one of my most flattering ovations. The white riders attracted by the cheering of the spectators, crowded on to the track to see what was going on. As I passed through them to my dressing room I heard several threatening remarks aimed at me. They were not only angry at me for having broken the records, but also at the track manager as well for having allowed me to race on the track, even though I had no white men opposing me. Incidentally my track records stood as long as the track remained.

My friends had put over a clever little trick in smuggling me on the track for my record-breaking ride, but in so doing they incurred the enmity of a group of narrow-minded people. I received no pay for my record-breaking mile, other than the satisfaction that it gave me, that feeling being enjoyed also by my good friends who were pleased that they had a part in my demonstration to the public of my riding ability provided I got a square deal. Down in my heart I felt that if I could get an even break I could make good as a sprinter on the bicycle tracks of the country. That was ample pay for me.

Thereafter I was barred from ever competing again on any track in Indianapolis. However, my being debarred from those tracks fortunately paved the way for one of the greatest races I ever participated in.

Several weeks after I had established the record for the Capital City track in Indianapolis, the See-Saw Circle Club which was composed of more than 100 colored riders, held a ten-mile road race. It was announced in advance of the event that the rider who won from scratch would represent the club in a big ten-mile road race in Chicago, all expenses being paid for by the club, including a trainer. This event was open only to Negro riders, and they came from all parts of the country.

Henry Stewart, who was known the country over as the "St. Louis Flyer," was easily the outstanding star of the event. Just before the race started one of the club officials accompanied Stewart into my tent and introduced him to me. Stewart and I were the scratch men of the occasion. He was a man of powerful physique, having well-developed legs and muscular arms and shoulders. He smiled at me cynically, being evidently bent on unnerving me. For a time it had the desired effect on me as I grew weak and nervous. It was the first time in my life that I had experienced such a reaction. As I lay trembling on my cot I heard Stewart talking, evidently for my benefit just outside. He ridiculed me and requested the secretary of the race to give me the limit handicap, as he said he felt I looked as though I needed it. His sarcastic remarks proved to be his undoing, however, as they stirred me as I never had been stirred before. Instantly all my fighting spirit rushed back to me, and I jumped into my racing togs determined to beat Stewart at any cost.

As he strutted to the starting line in his bright bath robe, I became more determined than ever to defeat him. He got a wonderful re- ception from the immense gathering, but I don't recall whether there was any applause for me or not—that's how worked up I was.

When the starter sent us away Stewart promptly jumped into the front and started to sprint right from the very outset, riding as if he was in a quarter of a mile race instead of a ten-mile grind. He set a heartbreaking pace in an effort to shake me off in the first half-mile, but finding me right up even with him he decided that he had better settle down and let me do a share of the pacemaking. However, I had an advantage over him as his big frame served as a fine wind-shield for me while I was so small that he did not get a similar advantage while riding at my rear wheel.

After alternating in the pacemaking positions for several miles, and with half the distance gone Stewart's rear tire blew out. Another rider turned his wheel over to Stewart and the latter promptly took up the race again. As soon as I saw Stewart in trouble I slowed down. Soon we were at our task again, and I noticed after we had reeled off several very hot miles that the grind was beginning to have its effect on Stewart. My first thought was that it was a ruse on Stewart's part to save himself for the final dash to the tape, as I knew him to be a very tricky rider. Shortly, however, with less than a mile to go, I could plainly see that Stewart was in distress. I held my sprint for the last quarter of a mile, and then bolted for the tape. Stewart fought gamely as I passed him, but I led him over the line by ten lengths.

I was carried about on the shoulders of a number of Indianapolis men and received a flattering ovation from the packed stands.

Stewart claimed that he lost the race to me through having to use a strange bicycle. He challenged me to a match race for five miles, and I promptly accepted. We raced at Rushville, Indiana, and again I made Stewart trail me over the line. Thereafter I won three other races on the same program.

Upon my return to Indianapolis I was accorded a splendid reception, but I honestly believe that the greatest benefit that came out of my victory over Stewart was the fact that it gave me confidence and assurance. After I had disposed of Stewart in those two races I felt very certain that no rider, regardless of his size or physique could ever shake me off his rear wheel, and no man ever did.

I wound up that very colorful racing season by winning three races, quarter, half and mile, that were held at the Lexington, Kentucky Fair in that city, under the auspices of the colored citizens. Those were the only bicycle races on the program, but they attracted the fastest riders from Louisville, St. Louis, Chicago and Cincinnati.

As word spread about my being barred from the tracks in Indianapolis, because of color, Mr. George Catterson gave me a chance to again demonstrate my ability as a bicycle rider. He decided that from Indianapolis to the town of Matthews would be the course. Keeping the fact that I was to be a competitor secret Mr. Catterson offered prizes that were sufficiently attractive to interest the best bicycle riders in the state. Had they known I was to start, none of them would have entered. However, they did not share Mr. Catterson's secret, and all of them were on hand when the starter took up his position.

Shortly after his pistol shot sent the bunch away on the 75-mile grind, I jumped from my hiding place and started in hot pursuit of the fifty-odd riders who were pedalling for all they were worth down the roadway. I trailed along in the rear for several miles and was resting up in good shape before they were aware that I was in the race. They made things disagreeable for me by calling me vile names, and trying to put me down, and they even threatened to do me bodily harm if I did not turn back. I decided that if my time had come I might just as well die trying to keep ahead of the bunch of riders, so I jumped through the first opening and went out front, never to be overtaken in the feverish dash for the finish line.

When I took the lead we had covered about half the distance and were on a weird stretch of road that was thinly inhabited, with weeping willows on one side and a cemetery opposite. The thought ran through my mind that this would make an ideal spot for my competitors to carry out their dire threats. Spurred on by such thoughts I opened up the distance between my wheel and the balance of the field to make doubly sure that none of them caught up to me and got a chance to do me bodily injury.