May 3, 2012
Grueling Travel through Beautiful Places: the Madness of Extreme Races
These cyclists are enjoying another day on the trail in the Crocodile Trophy, in northeastern Australia, considered one of the most punishing bicycle races in the world. Photo by Regina Stanger/Crocodile Trophy.
As the famed grand tours of summer begin rolling through Europe on carbon frames and ultra-light wheels, a number of lesser known but perhaps much more rigorous races are also gearing to go. They include cycling and foot races that take athletes through some of the world’s most spectacular and rugged country, as well as to the boundaries of what humans can endure, physically and psychologically. The more demanding of them allow no rest or sleep—unlike the more publicized stage races—and amount to nonstop endurance tests lasting as long as a week or more. Some of them also allow almost anyone to enter, in case you’re interested in trying your muscles in what might be the most unenjoyable tour you’ll ever take of the Sierra Nevada, the Rocky Mountains, the American desert or the Australian outback. Here are a few options for your next vacation:
Race Across America. Called RAAM and widely considered the hardest road cycling race in the world, the event starts in mid-June in Oceanside, California and leads several hundred dogged competitors more than 3,000 miles across the entire country to Annapolis, Maryland—without stopping. Last year, Christoph Strasser, now 29, pedaled the distance in eight days, eight hours and six minutes. RAAM soloists (racers in the team divisions take turns riding) may take cat naps totaling an hour of shuteye per day, but the general idea is, you snooze, you lose. The race is so demanding that many cyclists don’t finish at all. Some have died trying. Others begin losing their wits. Some solo riders may even lose their teeth as they eat sugary foods nonstop to replace the 10,000 calories that they burn a day, and for those that don’t brush at each pit stop, teeth may decay rapidly. To get a good taste of what this race offers before you consider attempting it, read Hell on Two Wheels, in which author Amy Snyder elaborates on the many forms of misery that one can expect while pedaling without rest across the continent.
Badwater Ultramarathon. For many foot racers, running one marathon isn’t enough. Nor are two, or three, or even four, and the Badwater Ultramarathon amounts to five—135 miles of trotting through some of the hottest, grittiest country in the world. It begins as low as one can go in the western hemisphere while still keeping your feet dry—at 282 feet below sea level in Death Valley. From there, it only goes up, with runners eventually finishing—or trying to, anyway—at Whitney Portal, 8,360 feet above sea level. As though such mileage and elevation gain weren’t strenuous enough, the race takes place in July, when temperatures may easily exceed 110 degrees. No one has ever died in the Badwater Ultramarathon, but between two and four out of every 10 runners fail to finish each year. The record time of completion is 22 hours, 51 minutes.
Western States Endurance Run. What began in 1955 in the Sierra Nevada as a 100-mile horseback competition shifted to a super-marathon foot race in the mid 1970s as men and women began to wonder if they, too, could trot for some 20 hours and 100 miles nonstop. Today, the “Western States 100” takes place every Saturday of the last full weekend in June as hundreds of the hardest-core runners in the world start on the notorious 2,500-foot climb over the first four miles and proceed on old mining trails that ascend a total of just over 18,000 vertical feet. The route goes from Squaw Valley to Auburn, over country so rough that only horses, hikers and helicopters can come to help, in case runners should fall ill or injured. The race begins at 5 a.m. sharp, and runners must cross the finish line by 11 a.m. The next day.
For many of us, a 30-minute jog will do. But this runner, just finished with the Western States 100, has been trail trotting for over 27 hours. Photo courtesy of Flickr user runnr_az.
Paris-Brest-Paris. Considered the great granddad of ultracycling endurance events, the hallowed Paris-Brest-Paris was first held in 1891, an 800-mile sprint from Paris, out to the coast at Brest and back again. Like the Race Across America, the PBP is a catnapping affair, with cyclists going nonstop and striving to complete the ride in less than the 90-hour time limit. But unlike RAAM, PBP is a ride, not a race—though it once was. The contest took place once a decade, until 1951. Now, the PBP occurs once every four or five years as a recreational ride, or randonnée. The most recent PBP took place in 2011. While the stakes in the PBP are far less than in pro racing events, cyclists must still abide by some rules. Notably, there is generally no vehicle support allowed, and riders are expected to make their own repairs, fix their own flats and, if they need an emergency recharge, stop for croissants and espresso on their own dime, and clock.
Crocodile Trophy. At more than 500 miles and self-touted as “the hardest, longest and most adventurous mountain bike race in the world,” this one just sounds awful. But the Crocodile Trophy, set in the low-latitude tropics in northeast Australia, is a stage race, offering food, rest and plenty of sleep every single day. RAAM cyclists may seem to have it rougher, but if Croc Trophy contenders had to do it all at once, the effort just might kill them. The late-October race is off-road, meaning gravel, rocks, ruts, puddles (potentially containing crocodiles lying in ambush), dust and lots of crashing. If this sounds like a pleasant way to see Australia, then sign up; the race welcomes men and women over 18 years of age and registration for the 2012 event is open until August 20.
And for a race that’s already underway, World Cycle Racing Grand Tour. Jason Woodhouse is burning about 11,000 calories a day—but unlike most pro racers, Woodhouse does not have a van shadowing him with food, gear and mechanical support. The 24-year-old from England is currently racing around the world in an unsupported journey that will cross every line of longitude on Earth, include 18,000 miles of pedaling and finish right where it began, in London. The fastest recorded time for the same ride is currently 164 days, and Woodhouse—who is carrying camping gear and racing against nine others—is planning to demolish that record with a completion time of 130 days. As he goes, Woodhouse is raising funds for Sea Shepherd Conservation Society. He also aims to demonstrate that the bicycle can be adequately used in virtually any trip shorter than five miles. On an itinerary that includes about 130 miles of cycling most days—plus a few airplane trips—his point is well made.
Want to train for an extreme race? Consider the Extreme World Races Adventure Academy, which offers five-day courses in long-distance adventuring in cold, icy, miserable landscapes. The academy is in Norway, and the session includes a three-day mini expedition on the ice and tundra. Bundle up, and enjoy the scenery if you can.
March 1, 2012
New Zealand: What’s Hot and What’s Not
This scene from Lake Wanaka captures much that is great about New Zealand, like the Southern Alps and the country's many gleaming lakes. Photo by Alastair Bland
With seven weeks in New Zealand’s South Island now under my belt, it’s time to take a look back at what was great about this country, and was not. I’ll start with the disappointments:
1. The lack of through roads. On the map, we see the spine of the mountains running the length of the South Island, and from north to south there are clusters of lakes and river headwaters that we would love to visit – like Lake Coleridge, Lake Sumner, Clearwater Lake, Lake Heron and others. Problem is, the roads in usually have no exit – one-way deals, whereas in other places there would usually be a dirt road that climbs over a pass and down the other side. Not here. For cyclists, there is little else more frustrating than having to ride over 20 miles of gravel and shingle all the while knowing that they’ll be seeing every foot of the way a second time. I became so frustrated by having to backtrack out of mountains that I gave up on the high country altogether several weeks ago.
2. The stock trucks. These huge vehicles, usually two-trailer arrangements, careen endlessly down the highways delivering sheep and cows to the slaughterhouses – day after day after day. Why, I wonder, can’t the meat companies utilize trains – a more fuel efficient transport method that also reduces the risk that a trucker will squash a cyclist, like me? These trucks were no more terrifying than other trucks; it’s the bloody business they were up to that makes them seem more fearsome. I would see them pass on their way north, filled with moaning animals and reeking of manure. Meanwhile, a stream of stock trucks came the other way – all empty. (I don’t eat red meat, so I can complain all I want.)
This line of eateries on a street near Ashburton showcases some of the bland cuisine of New Zealand. Granted: The author didn't try all these restaurants. Would you?
3. The food. As virtually anywhere, what sprouts from the ground in this fertile nation and swims in the sea is excellent colorful stuff. But it’s what comes out of New Zealand kitchens that lacks in luster. Consider the placards placed outside many restaurants that read “FOOD.” Food, eh? If I’d been a starving man I’d have jumped through the door, but I like some passion and artistry in what I eat. Even in the larger towns and cities, the main drags were lined with dodgy diners offering fish and chips, BBQ and game pies, a local specialty often made with farmed venison, some even with possum – and one thing that disappointed me: In seven weeks of traveling every day, I encountered not one farmers market. They occur here, but there seems to be a shortage. Meanwhile, there is, at least, growing interest in good wine and beer throughout New Zealand.
4. Too much hype about adventure-adrenaline tourism. Give me a farmers market. Give me a quiet dirt road that crosses the Southern Alps at 2,000 meters. Give me a bottle of barleywine ale that I can afford. But enough with your adventure travel packages. Skydiving, jet boats on rivers, water-skiing, bungee jumping, heli-biking and heli-skiing and, I dunno – is there heli-fly fishing? The thing is, these all have nothing to do with your beautiful country and make a lot of noise and commotion.
5. Sheep. In particular, there are way too many. They overgraze and, along with a multitude of cows, trample river banks into mud and manure. They are mammals – and nonnative – and they number, what, 40 million? Sort of like possums. Sort of like pests.
6. Finally, an underlying but potent element of racism. I encountered this several times without digging for it – Caucasian Kiwis confiding in me that increasing cultural diversity (call it immigration, if you want) is becoming a problem. “It’s really dark on the North Island,” is something I heard said at least twice. And some people told me about “the Asian problem,” though I never understood what the problem quite was. My latest incident occurred just outside Christchurch, where I stopped in at an honesty box and met the two owners. “How is Auckland?” I asked as we chatted about the North Island. The man and woman – folks in their 60s – rolled their eyes. “It’s all Asians and Islanders.” Sounds interesting to me – but they carried on. “And in Christchurch it’s becoming a problem now, too. You like Asians? Plenty there.” I do, in fact – and I asked if there was, by any chance, a neighborhood or community of Asians – with Asian grocery stores, too. They both sighed and nodded, distraught at what was becoming of their island. “Yep. Blenheim Road,” the man said, and I made a note of it. The next afternoon, I rode up Blenheim Road, visited Kosko Asian Supermarket, and there found the joy I’d been without for seven weeks: durian, the crowned king of the fruit world. I ate a full pound of the flesh that night, thinking that this must be one of the greatest pleasures of a multicultural world.
Now, the positives:
1. The Molesworth Station wilderness. A banner highlight, this was a rare back country experience that required no backtracking to get out. For there are two roads leading all the way across this almost half-million-acre farm at the north end of the South Island. I took the Rainbow-Hanmer Springs route. The region is drained by several rivers, including the Wairau and the Clarence, and off the road, out of sight, are many hidden ponds teeming with big trout. Molesworth Station also demonstrates what a fine arrangement can be made between private landowners and the government’s Department of Conservation, which encourages public access into remote areas. There is a cash entry fee required – $25 for automobiles, $15 for motorcycles, and just $2 for bicycles (thanks).
2. Honesty boxes and other roadside produce sales. I wrote about exorbitant prices early in my trip – but that was before I discovered honesty boxes, where buyers pull over to the side of the road, drop a few coins in a piggy bank-style box and grab a carton of eggs or a bag of vegetables.
3. The Southeast Coast and Catlins. While the West Coast draws millions of tourists with its glaciers, Milford and Doubtful sounds and its steaming rainforests and fern groves, the opposite side of the island has its simpler wonders – and lesser crowds. Here, quiet rolling hills of grass meet clear kelpy waters and tide pools, and small roads almost void of traffic welcome cyclists to explore.
4. No fishing license needed for ocean angling or foraging. This is a nice gesture from the government. While most travelers aren’t going to spend their days here renting wetsuits of watching the tide charts with dinner plans for lobster or mussels, by allowing passersby to spontaneously visit the beach and take home a portion of edible critters (there are legal bag limits, so do your homework before hunting), the New Zealand federal government is encouraging engagement with the country’s marvelous marine environment.
Just the sight of the Kaikoura Range, which skyrockets from sea level to almost 9,000 feet, is a thrill. These mountains are, however, almost inaccessible.
5. Outstanding scenery. They filmed the Lord of the Rings films here for a reason – simply, the landscape is often jaw-dropping, whether on screen or in real life. The Southern Alps, whose peaks are buried in snow even in high summer, may be the crowning jewel, but almost everywhere else, dramatic geography and a general absence of people make a recipe for beauty and wonders. There is greenery almost everywhere, beautiful wild rivers in the mountains, the Seaward Kaikoura Range that tops out at almost 9,000 feet just miles from the ocean, the endless fjords and waterways of Marlborough Sounds, the deep bays, hills and remote shores of the Banks Peninsula, the underwater sights to be enjoyed by snorkelers and divers and much more. From Stewart Island in the far south to the Surville Cliffs in the far north, New Zealand is a country almost as geographically diverse as the United States, crammed into a thriving, gorgeous landscape only a slivering fraction of the size.
6. Finally, Luggage Solutions. This is a lifesaver shop at the Christchurch International Airport which carries a variety of bags and packing materials, including cardboard bicycle boxes. For cyclists, this is a tremendous convenience, allowing us to truly finish a journey by riding all the way to the airport. Note: Luggage Solutions charges $25 for a used, folded, crumpled box. They’ll help you assemble and secure it adequately, but the price is a bit steep.
January 12, 2012
New Zealand and Other Travel Locales That Will Break the Bank
Note the shocking price of this basket of fruit at a roadside stand in New Zealand. Photo by Alastair Bland.
It’s rare that a place is entirely worth visiting simply because it’s cheap. Consider the Republic of Georgia, where one could live on five bucks a day but where the mud streets, drab Soviet food and often bland villages may fall short of inspiring the traveler (though the tremendous hospitality and mountainous scenery can easily win hearts). Likewise, it may not be a winning scheme to entirely dodge a nation because prices there are through the roof. Consider New Zealand, where the superb landscape is like the backdrop of a fantasy filmmaker‘s dreams but where a quick stop at a grocery store can easily pull 50 bucks from your pocket. Yes: New Zealand is worth visiting. But I’ll be frank: I’m not sure how long I can keep traveling here and continue claiming to be “on the cheap.”
All of which has got me thinking: What are the world’s most expensive places? And which are the cheapest? Where should the frugal traveler go? And at what point is beauty simply not worth its price? And so I’ve spent a few hours between trout streams researching the matter, considering first-hand accounts, travel blogs, my own experience and a few critical criteria, like the retail cost of a cup of coffee, the cost of a pint of beer and the price of a hostel as indicators. And here they are, in no particular order, a few of the world’s most expensive travel destinations—plus a smattering of low-priced alternatives (all dollar prices are in $USD):
Japan. According to an August 2011 article in BootsnAll, “$60-$75 /day is about the bare minimum you’ll need to travel around Japan.” And that doesn’t include eating, sightseeing and living with some degree of comfort, which can all jack the cost up to an easy $100 per day. And this site tells us that traveling Japan can cost more than $200 per day.
Switzerland. Trim, tidy and exorbitant, Switzerland is home to rustic mountain hamlets as well as some of Europe’s slickest cities. Among them, Geneva and Zurich are said to be the most expensive in the world. BootsnAll reports that one “can spend $100-$125/day with relative ease in Switzerland.”
Iceland. Like many remote island nations largely incapable of growing much of their own food but intent on keeping pace with the modern world, Iceland is a real pocket picker. Travelers here can say goodbye to $100 to 120 per day if they choose to sleep indoors and eat well. What I think? Fishing for salmon and camping out among the ice, tundra and lava might help cut costs.
Norway. Another modern place in a sub-Arctic world, Norway is a land where people pay for their comforts, as do their visitors. One hundred dollars, according to BootsnAll, is said to be an average daily price of life. Just one latte, for instance, may cost $6.80.
Greenland. Far north, isolated and thirsty for the simple comforts we know, Greenlanders must pay more than seven pounds for a beer. That’s almost 11 bucks. Don’t forget to tip.
Moscow. This report may be dated, but in 2008, a cup of coffee here reportedly ran, on average, $10.19. At the same time, Parisian coffees were going $6.77 and Athenian coffees $6.62. (In Buenos Aires, coffee was going $2.03 per cup.)
The author can't decide: Was this handful of apples and dried figs worth 17 New Zealand dollars? Photo by Andrew Bland.
New Zealand. I report this from my own experience. While this nation is not the most expensive on the list (my brother Andrew got by here last year on $60 per day), it is far from cheap. Today, for instance, our eyes bugged out at a roadside fruit stand where we found fresh apricots going for the equivalent of $14 per pound. And yesterday, I spent $15 on nine apples and a scraping of dried figs from the bulk section in a supermarket in Te Anau. What other groceries here will almost kill you? Garlic, which can run the equivalent of $10 or $12 per pound. And that oldest, most vulgar staple of the peasant, the onion, can run about $2 apiece. Yet avocados go as cheap as two for a buck, thanks to an industry on the North Island.
How to save money on the road? BootsnAll suggests using hostel kitchens to cook your own meals, taking advantage of free breakfasts and camping—but read between the lines! Some of these well-meant suggestions will work against you. The “free breakfast” offering? That requires a hotel room, the surest means of parting with your money. And hostels aren’t always particularly cheap, often running $30 or more. Camping? More my style, except that BootsnAll suggests sleeping in proper campgrounds, which as often as not resemble RV parks in places like Europe and New Zealand and which, in places like Croatia, can cost even a lone cyclist $25 for a patch of dust on which to lay a sleeping bag.
My own advice for nomads on the cheap: Ride a bicycle. Forage roadside fruit, which can be delicious and healthy while cushioning your wallet until suppertime. Sleep for free—though this specific activity was made illegal last year by the New Zealand government. Finally, avoid cars if possible. These grumbling thieves demand gas, insurance, parking and repairs. They cannot be stashed out of sight behind the raspberry bushes, and the easiest place to keep them, one finds, is often in a hotel parking lot. Ka-ching.
Want to skip the extreme frugality measures and still live cheaply? Then go see Cambodia, Peru, Nicaragua, India, Portugal, Bulgaria, Romania or Bolivia.
January 5, 2012
Into New Zealand’s Strange Waters and Prehistoric Forests
Andrew Bland, brother of the author, shivers and shakes after a frigid abalone, or paua, dive in Akaroa Harbour.
At least 48 earthquakes rattled Christchurch on January 2. People here are losing track as the ground keeps shaking and fears of more big temblors have them walking on their tiptoes. In the city center, the devastation from last February’s 6.3 quake remains plain, as condemned buildings stare bleakly over the nervous city. And with the memories of that deadly day still vivid, two more large earthquakes struck Christchurch on December 23, and on the second day of this year the shaking hardly stopped at all.
“We haven’t slept much in the past 24 hours,” said a weary-eyed cashier at the airport currency exchange office as she handed me a few bills and tried to produce a smile.
But for my brother, my parents and me, January 2, 2012 was a day of no consequence. In fact, it never happened. Somewhere between leaving San Francisco on the first, flying west and crossing the International Dateline, January 2 vanished; we arrived on the third.
We rented a car and left the city immediately—not that we were following the advice of blogger Bridget Gleeson, who recently listed Christchurch as one of 11 places in the world not to visit. No, Andrew and I simply wanted to get checked in to our hostel, put on our wetsuits and get in the water with time to catch dinner’s main course. So we drove east in our Subaru wagon, hugging the left side of the road as we wound outward onto the Banks Peninsula, toward a small seaside town called Akaroa. From here the road turned sharply uphill for the final miles and ended at the Onuku Farm Hostel, a green and grubby little cluster of shacks, huts, outhouses and hammocks, all clinging to a 30-percent slope about 700 feet above sea level.
Andrew and two of the Onuku Farm Hostel's permanent residents.
Andrew and I grabbed our wetsuits, spears and snorkeling gear and scrambled down the mountainside. The woods were thick with ferns, eucalyptus and strange native trees that doubled over periodically when enormous green New Zealand pigeons settled upon their branches. Sheep grazed abundantly, making for scenery like Scotland’s—yet the green hills gave me a bizarre feeling that, at any moment, a pterodactyl or tyrannosaur might suddenly appear through the treetops. For there is a prehistoric strangeness in the wilds of New Zealand, and I think I have pinned it down: It’s the absence of native mammals, except bats and pinnipeds, which gives the impression that one is walking in the age of dinosaurs.
At the water’s edge, we suited up and jumped in. It took a moment to adjust to the shock of the cold before we could begin diving—and we had to hunt for our paua fast, as we wouldn’t last long in this frigid sea. The water was murky, and at the bottom we sifted through the kelp and vegetation, looking for the small abalone clamped to the rocks. The larger ones we pried off using butter knives, and we filled our bags. We looked for fish, too; Andrew saw a large trevally dash past him in the glacial green shadows, and large wrasse slipped through the cloudy water, in and around kelp fronds like phantoms haunting a forest. But we speared none and, after 30 minutes, crawled from the water a few degrees from hypothermic. We shivered ourselves warm again in the summer sun before hiking back up the mountainside to the hostel. Paua require some diligent preparation, and we spent an hour in the open-air kitchen clubbing the snails’ feet with beer bottles to tenderize them for the frying pan. We began cooking at 8:00, when the sun was still high, and it only got fully dark by 10:00. By then we’d packed away a feast of paua, local wine and brown rice. The next night we ate nine paua, and by the time dinner was done we had all decided we could go weeks without any more slippery piles of sautéed sea snail.
The perilous ridge and summit of Mount Cook. Photo courtey of Flickr user Carlos Lopez Molina.
Today, we drove for hours south and west on the coastal Highway 1, a bleak route through suburbs, sprawl, malls and endless offerings of gas and fast food. We saw the ocean just once on our left side, though we were reminded that, not far away, New Zealand’s famed natural beauty glimmered and shined. On the western horizon ran a range of jagged mountain peaks that sawed at the ceiling of clouds like shark teeth—the Southern Alps. We had a few glimpses of Mount Cook, the 12,000-foot peak that bears snow all year and has taken the lives of scores of climbers. We drove through Ashburton, Timaru and Waimate, turned upstream along the Waitaki River, and finally stopped in the river town of Kurow, where a trailer park was all we could find. The wind was howling almost too hard to cast flies, and it began to rain. I gave the river a few casts, then turned my back, but Andrew walked and waded for four hours. He returned an hour before dark and said he saw several large brown trout and received a strike from one, which broke his line. He plans to skip coffee and be on the water again before sunrise. Such is the power of the brown trout, New Zealand’s favorite invasive species.
Next week: A New Zealand fishing report that includes fish.
December 1, 2011
Books on Bike Perfection and Women’s Bike-Won Freedom
Sue Macy's Wheels of Change
Sue Macy‘s elaborately illustrated 2011 book, Wheels of Change: How Women Rode the Bicycle to Freedom (With a Few Flat Tires Along the Way), describes the surprising role that the bicycle played in freeing women—both physically and spiritually—from the oppressive and conservative constraints of 19th century America. Bicycles at the time were clumsy, heavy things made of iron and wood and sometimes called “boneshakers” until rubber tires softened the ride. But men were getting a kick out of them, and women wanted in on the fun. Their clothing was a problem, as Macy points out:
Imagine a population imprisoned by their very clothing; the stiff corsets, heavy skirts, and voluminous petticoats that made it difficult to take a deep breath, let alone exercise…How suffocated women must have felt. And how liberated they must have been as they pedaled their wheels toward new horizons.
To efficiently ride a bike there was only one thing to do: Take it off. Skin-tight lycra and tube tops were still some years down the road, but women were, at last, freed from the ridiculous layers that had physically anchored them to house, porch and trimmed Victorian lawn for ages. They swung their legs over the frames of their bikes and pedaled off on adventures, often with male companions. Macy tells of one bitter curmudgeon named Charlotte Smith who said in 1896 that “the alarming increase of immorality among young women in the United States” was a product of the bicycle. Smith also said that the bicycle was “the devil’s advance agent morally and physically.”
Other people, Macy tells us, saw the virtues of the bicycle.
“A girl who rides a wheel is lifted out of herself and her surroundings,” declared one Ellen B. Parkhurst. “She is made to breathe purer air, see fresher and more beautiful scenes, and get an amount of exercise she would not get otherwise.”
(Sounds like Parkhurst had the spirit of a bike tourist.)
The bicycle impacted the world in measurable ways in the 1890s. Cigar sales took a nosedive, Macy reports, as the collective preoccupation with cycling replaced smoking in stodgy reading rooms. Use of morphine, popular at the time as a sleep inducer, declined as people discovered how a little vigorous exercise could induce relaxation and sleep. Pastors and priests even observed that church attendance began dropping as more people opted to spend their Sundays jerseyed up, sipping off their CamelBaks and shredding sweet singletrack.
Well, riding bikes, anyway.
Cycling, unarguably, was fun, and voices of the conservative naysayers were drowned out as the American bicycle industry exploded. For instance, 17 manufacturers and a 40,000-bike output in 1890 increased to 126 manufacturers and the production of nearly a half million bicycles in 1895. Already, in fact, bike builders were customizing designs to accommodate women.
It was official: Ladies were on board. Critical mass had been reached, and there seemed to be no stopping the craze.
Some women engaged in competitions that lasted days as they pedaled hundreds of miles around oval tracks. For other women, just cycling somewhere, anywhere, was enough—and they began touring. In 1894, Annie Londonderry rode 1,300 miles between New Hampshire and Chicago. Later she would travel by boat and bicycle around the world, finishing with a ride from San Francisco to Chicago. Macy doesn’t tell us if lionhearted Londonderry camped out, how much weight she lost, what was the highest pass that she tackled, if she ever ran out of food or if she saw grizzly bears out West, but adventurous spirits, plainly, were taking flight.
Macy’s book ends abruptly and with a sad shocker: The bicycle craze curled up and died, for the automobile had been born. “By the turn of the century,” Macy writes, “the bicycle’s heyday was over and a new mechanical wonder promised to transport men and women faster and farther than ever before.” Great. Cars, traffic and suburbia were coming. But on bicycles, women had gained a huge spurt of momentum in gaining basic rights, and so they stepped off their bikes, straightened their dresses and went off to pursue other liberties.
Free at Last: This Sicilian, touring in Greece, may owe her liberty to the women's independence movement of the 1890s, described in Sue Macy's Wheels of Change.
In another book published this year, It’s All About the Bike: The Pursuit of Happiness on Two Wheels, the history of the bicycle goes on into the 20th century. The book is author Robert Penn’s account of his personal quest to find the perfect bicycle. Along the way he describes some of the same history of which Sue Macy writes. For example, Penn adds to our growing accumulation of bike trivia that Annie Londonderry carried a revolver in her saddlebag. What a lady! But mostly, Penn tells the history of the machine and the development of its many components—complex products of engineering that today allow us to scale mountains, freewheel back down, stop on a dime, keep at it for hours without getting a sore rear end, and so on. He talks frames, wheels, saddles, gears, hubs, derailleurs and chains. He looks at fixed-gear bikes, road bikes, mountain bikes and hand-built bikes so dashing that it seems foolish even to ride them. He chitchats with bike builders who are constantly pushing the improvement of every nook, cranny and corner of the bicycle.
Penn recalls for us, too, a great Ernest Hemingway quote that every cycle tourist should know: “It is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them…you have no such accurate remembrance of country you have driven through.” And I’d always taken Hemingway for the sort who just writes short sentences in Parisian cafes. Seems he would have made a fine touring partner.
In one humorous encounter in a Welsh village, where Penn had just moved in, he describes the locals’ inability to comprehend why a man would choose to ride a bike unless he had to. In a pub one evening, a fellow asks Penn if he had lost his driver’s license. Penn tells the man that he simply loves riding and does so by choice. A year later in the same pub, the same man takes Penn aside once more.
“‘I see yor on the bike still, boy,’ he said. ‘A long time to be banned now, see. You can tell me…did you daw something tehr-ribble in a car? Did you kill a child?’”
We’re reminded that many people still regard the bicycle as a toy and by no means a valid form of transportation. But, as Penn writes, “The cultural status of the bicycle is rising again…In fact, there is a whisper that we might today be at the dawn of a new golden age of the bicycle.”
