Spin

by Peter Zheutlin

  The next morning, the Sterling and I boarded the train for Lyon, where I took a room at the Hotel de l’Univers. That evening, a local reporter called on me, an occasion that was by now commonplace wherever I landed for the night. To this credulous fellow I related a version of a story that I continued to tell with some frequency and which grew with each telling a little more dramatic, for what’s the fun in repeating the same story over and over and over again? I was, I told the reporter, attacked by a tramp in upstate New York. “Miss Londonderry, with unusual energy and a vigorous push, rid herself of the miscreant. She just had enough time to get up and throw herself and her bicycle aside as a train went by at full steam,” read the report in the next day’s paper.

  * * *

  France was in the midst of one of its most severe winters in years, and I lingered for a couple of days in Lyon hoping for a break in the weather that never came. Unable to idle any longer, on the morning of January 6 two Lyon wheelmen met me at the hotel to continue the journey south.

  The ground was icy, and as I exited the hotel I slipped and scraped my ankle. A little blood started oozing from the wound. It was minor, really, but much fuss was made and the hotel doctor was summoned. In a small private room off the lobby he took some bandages from his little black satchel, lifted the cuff of my pants, and began wrapping the minor wound as those outside anxiously awaited word as to the severity of the injury. Never one to settle for a molehill when a mountain could be had, I told the doctor to liberally wrap the wound and to extend the bandage from my ankle to my knee.

  “But, Mlle. Londonderry,” he said in heavily accented English, “it is not badly cut.”

  “I know,” I answered, “but it will look so much more impressive if I mount my wheel appearing to have suffered a serious wound. It will be proof of my extraordinary willpower and determination. Of what interest is a scrape when a nearly severed artery has far greater dramatic possibilities?”

  The doctor looked at me with weary resignation.

  “As you please,” he said, and proceeded to apply a heavy bandage from ankle to knee.

  “We must wait here a few minutes,” I said to the doctor when he had finished. “It would be impossible to treat so serious an injury in so little time.”

  The doctor sighed, resigned to sitting with me in silence until I deemed the time elapsed sufficient. When we emerged from the hotel, the crowd outside had grown to nearly a hundred. I rolled my pant leg up over my knee so all could see the heavy bandage.

  “The good doctor has informed me that the wound is quite deep and serious,” I announced, having enlisted the hotel proprietor as my translator. (I did not want the doctor doing the translating, for unlike the proprietor, he knew what I was about to say was at variance with the truth.) “I nearly severed an artery. The doctor has advised me not to continue until the wound is completely healed lest I reopen it. It required more than twenty stitches to close.”

  The doctor, standing with his head bowed ever so slightly, rolled his eyes, but he dared not contradict me.

  “He wanted to use anesthesia to save me the pain of the suturing, but as I am resolved to continue on without delay, I suffered the needle without it,” I went on. “Never, the doctor told me, has he treated a patient with such tolerance for pain. I assured him that in my journey so far I have endured far worse.”

  Not a soul seemed to doubt my story, and there was, when I finished, a hearty round of applause and a chorus of good wishes.

  “Thank you all for coming this morning to see me off toward the south and thence to the exotic lands of Africa and Asia,” I said. “I will remember your kindness.”

  And with that, I slung my bad leg over the bicycle frame, being sure to wince as I did so, and my little party of three rolled out of town as a dry, light snow fell in the freezing air. A mile or so out of town we stopped, and I removed all but the smallest bit of bandage and stowed the material in my saddle bag, for it would, I was sure, come in handy later. My companions were puzzled at first, but as they saw that my leg had suffered only a minor scrape, it dawned on them that they, too, had been gulled; their smiles, now that they were in the know, were smiles of approval for my cunning and showmanship.

  A midday luncheon, courtesy of the local bicycle club in Vienne, was a pleasant break from the cold, and from there we continued on to Saint-Rambert where I spent the night.

  By the next morning my ankle wound, superficial as it was, was cranky; I had also bruised the ankle bone apparently, but it was little more than a nuisance. A group of Saint-Rambert cyclists escorted me to Valence, a short ride, where we arrived late in the morning. Knowing that my companions had arranged for us to be welcomed by a group of Valence cyclists, I decided to milk my injury for all it was worth. With my wounded leg propped on the handlebar, I rounded the roadway into town pedaling with one foot to the delight of the assembly.

  I spoke briefly upon our arrival with a local reporter, who wrote in the next day’s paper, “Her endurance is remarkable. She took only four days to go from Paris to Lyon never sleeping more than two hours a night.”

  Every good illusionist works through misdirection, Mary dear, and while it was true that it had taken four days to travel from Paris to Lyon, I was mum about the many miles I had covered by rail. People see what they want to see, and France wanted to see a brave American heroine of the wheel. Why should I disabuse them of the illusion they so eagerly craved?

  While resting at the Hôtel Tête d’Or in Valence that afternoon, my leg began to ache more seriously, no doubt because I had allowed it no time to rest. A hotel doctor was again summoned, and he surmised that my Achilles tendon was inflamed. Though not nearly as serious as I had pretended the day before, the injury was more serious than I had first assumed. Rather than risk aggravating it further and make riding impossible, I resolved to remain a few days in Valence and do what I could to further my celebrity there.

  * * *

  The escorts who were accompanying me in relay fashion across France were all male riders, eager to be in the company of a celebrity. Newspapers across the country were reporting daily on my progress, and wherever we went people seemed well aware of who I was and my purpose. Being the center of such attention was exhilarating, and I saw each day as another performance of my one-woman show.

  For the most part my escorts were respectful and friendly, even if most spoke, at most, only a bit of English. There was little conversation as we rode, both because the exertion made conversing difficult, for we were often breathing heavily, but also because of the language barrier. That barrier did not, however, deter one or two from hinting at amorous intentions, which I laughed off.

  In Valence, during my brief idyll there, I had many callers who simply wanted to shake my hand, secure my autograph, and share a few words of admiration, and I tried to oblige them all. I gave interviews to local reporters where I opined on everything from my impressions of French men (favorable) and French women (not so much—they smoked too much, at which I feigned shock). For a woman dressing in man’s riding clothes and generally intent on making a spectacle of myself, the notion that I found the idea of a woman smoking was ironic. With all the descriptions of me as masculine, boyish, muscular, and even of a neutered “third sex,” I was, I suppose, trying to reclaim my femininity by allowing that I favored French men over French women.

  The layover in Valence did little to reduce the discomfort from my ankle injury, but I could idle no longer. A group of eight cyclists from the Valence wheel club met me on the morning of the tenth of January to help me continue south. Because of the tenderness of my injury, one of them, a Mssr. Paul Seigneuret, had secured a tandem bicycle for us to ride together and a volunteer to mount my Sterling.

  I greatly enjoyed this gentleman, for he had a lively manner and a good sense of humor. The plan was for this group to travel with me to the village of Montélimar, some thirty miles south. But such was the good cheer of the group, despite the frigid weather, that we continued past
Montélimar toward Orange, another thirty-five miles distant. To cover so many miles in a single day in the conditions we encountered was quite a feat, but such was the camaraderie that our spirits remained high all day. It is best described in a dispatch Mssr. Seigneuret arranged to publish in the Messager de Valence, a copy of which reached me by post when I arrived in Marseille and which I had translated there.

  She possesses an unheard-of energy, laughs continuously, and does not stop singing. On the hills, she pushed her pedal leg with her hand and breaks out in laughter once she has ascended the slope. She is always gay and we arrive at Montélimar without even noticing the route. To explain to you how, having departed to accompany Miss Annie to Montélimar, I went to Orange, will be difficult because I am not aware myself. As we climbed a steep slope at Bel Air, we were forced to dismount and walk to the top before beginning a fast descent into the village of Donzère. On the way down, one of the riders lost control and was pitched into a snowbank. We saw a snow-covered head poking out of a hole in such an amusing way that we didn’t even notice his legs, which were desperately kicking in the air! Miss Annie and I avoided a near collision ourselves, but we avoided the accident, and with a burst of laughter from Miss Londonderry, we got back on our route.

  (Messager de Valence, January 12, 1895)

  Dare I say that one of my talents was holding eager and enthusiastic young men under my spell? I was nothing if not beguiling.

  Exhausted, cold, but invigorated, our party arrived in Orange, where we gathered for dinner. I playfully implored my companions to accompany me to America via Bombay, Calcutta, and Yokohama.

  “It is a temptation, Miss Annie,” replied Mssr. Seigneuret, “but perhaps too ambitious for men with jobs and families to support. Why don’t you return to Valence next year and we shall have a reunion?” I promised to do so, but it was just one of countless promises I made in my life that I would never fulfill.

  Late that evening my companions departed to catch the last train back to Valence, leaving me and my Sterling to spend the night alone in Orange.

  Avignon was just a short way down the road, and two escorts from the cycle club there rode to Orange early the next morning to accompany me south. I learned from my companions that the local newspapers there had been trumpeting my impending arrival for several days; they had brought with them a handful of the clippings.

  “Miss Londonderry will pass through Avignon on her bicycle tour of the world!” said one. “Hip! Hip! For the courageous bicyclist,” proclaimed another. It was a measure of my success in making a celebrity of myself that few would have needed an explanation of who Miss Londonderry was at this point.

  The reception I received in Avignon did not disappoint. People were lined up along the streets for well over a mile to my destination in the city, the home of a Madame Boyer, a woman of about thirty and a cycling enthusiast. There the entire group from the local wheel club crowded in and jockeyed for position in the parlor of Madame Boyer’s charming house, where tea and cake were served to all. I told a few stories of my travels, and Madame Boyer, who spoke nearly fluent English, translated.

  “What will you do when you return home to Boston, Mlle. Londonderry?” I was asked.

  “I have nearly completed my medical studies at Harvard,” I replied, “and I suppose I should finish and become a doctor.”

  “What about marriage, Mlle. Londonderry?” asked another. “Surely a woman of your accomplishment would have no trouble attracting many suitors.”

  “Who do you have in mind?” I shot back with a grin. “Perhaps you have come prepared with a ring?”

  This brought forth gales of laughter and reddened the face of my interlocutor.

  “What will be your route upon leaving France?” asked yet another. This question was asked of me a lot, and it always elicited an improvised response, for the point was to impress, not inform.

  “From Marseille I expect to travel by ship a short distance to the Italian coast,” I answered, “for the terms of the wager I have been selected to settle permit me an allowance of a thousand miles by ship and train.” That I was traveling on a wager was widely reported in the French press, so that part required no further explanation. But there was no allowance for ship and train travel specifically, only the requirement that I cover ten thousand miles by wheel. “From there I shall go overland to Budapest, Constantinople, Teheran, and Calcutta. I expect crossing China to be the most formidable challenge.”

  Heads nodded and approving glances were exchanged.

  “But I have no fear. I fully expect to be back home in Boston come the autumn.”

  Around midafternoon, Mssr. Geo, one of the Avignon cyclists who met me in Orange, and I bid the assembly adieu, and all gathered outside to give us three hearty cheers as we pushed off for Salon-de-Provence. As we were now well south, the temperatures were more moderate, and the riding more agreeable. By early evening we had reached our destination for the evening. Mssr. Geo was an amiable companion and a true gentleman. After ensuring that I was comfortably checked in to my hotel for the night, we shared a light dinner before he wished me a smooth and safe journey and headed for the rail station.

  “If I were not a married man, mademoiselle, I think I would be inclined to propose to you myself,” he said in his thick French accent, with a wry smile that let me know he was flattering me, not flirting with me. “It has been a great honor to pedal all these kilometers with you today. You will make a success of this venture, I am sure.” And with that, he extended his hand, which I took firmly in mine.

  “The pleasure has been mine, dear sir. Until we meet again.”

  * * *

  I was now just a short thirty-mile ride from Marseille, where the land mass of France meets the Mediterranean Sea. The cycle clubs had been so abuzz about my travels through that country, and the interest of the press so keen, that I knew Marseille would be preparing a large welcome. That evening I sent telegrams to the Marseille clubs and to several of the newspapers saying that I expected to arrive in the city on the morning of the thirteenth of January, two days hence. I could have made the ride in a single day, but for the sake of spectacle I knew that a daylight arrival in the morning hours would be preferable to arriving in the darkness of evening. My plan was to spend the night on the city’s outskirts and to pedal into the city early the following day.

  I almost didn’t make it. The next day, a few miles from Salon-de-Provence, near Lacone, I was ambushed by three masked highwaymen. They sprang at me from behind a clump of trees, and one of them grabbed my bicycle, throwing me heavily. I had my revolver in my pocket within easy reach, and when I stood up, I had that revolver against the head of the man nearest me. He backed off, but another seized me from behind and disarmed me. They rifled through my pockets and found just three francs. They were magnanimous enough to return that money to me, but my shoulder had been badly wrenched by my fall, and my ankle sprained, but I was able to continue my journey.

  Well, that was the story as I imagined it that night in my hotel room in Salon-de-Provence. I wanted to make a dramatic entrance there and knew exactly how to do it.

  A short distance out of Salon-de-Provence I retrieved the bandages I had set aside in Valence, the ones I insisted the doctor apply from my ankle to my knee after the small mishap there, and again wrapped my leg from ankle to knee. When a small group of Lacone cyclists met me for the ride into Marseille I told them in breathless terms of the assault I had suffered the day before, how I had feared for my life but managed to fend off my attackers. Fortunately, I told them, I had bandages with me for just such an eventuality and was able to bandage my leg, which had been injured in the assault. I was very convincing.

  As we approached Marseille I begged my companions to stop for a few moments so I could add another flourish. Until now the American flag given me in Paris and the short pole to which it was affixed had been wrapped around the top tube of my bicycle and secured with heavy twine. I removed it from its usual place and inserted th
e pole into the receptacle Victor had rigged up on my handlebars in Paris for just this purpose. I would ride into Marseille with the Stars and Stripes waving in the wind and my bandaged leg propped up on the handlebar, pedaling with one foot! What a sight I was! A spectacle to be sure, and sure to be remembered by all who saw it.

  A delegation of about a dozen local wheelmen joined our party for the procession through the city. There must have a thousand people or more lining the main route into the city center, and how they did cheer at the sight of the famous lady cyclist from America, with Old Glory flying in the breeze, and undaunted by injury! Confetti in copious amounts was thrown as we passed all along the route to the hotel where I had arranged to stay in the city.

  Marseille was a bustling port city, the harbor seemingly filled with more ships than it could possibly accommodate, steamers and sailboats, the masts of which, with their sails dropped, were reminiscent of a forest in winter. Goods of all kinds in boxes, barrels, and wooden containers jammed the docks, the task of sorting them all a major logistical challenge day in and day out. One could hardly walk along the docks without being jostled by the stevedores hauling freight this way and that. And because it was a major port city, as at home in Boston’s West End, you could hear dozens of languages spoken during a day’s walk by the North Africans, the Asiatics, the Spanish, and the Europeans either on brief shore leave or who worked the docks or in the offices of the various shipping lines that crowded the waterfront.

  Thanks to my own efforts and those of the wheel clubs all along way from Paris, I was now a true celebrity, at least in France. The night of my arrival a large reception was arranged at the city’s famed Crystal Palace, packed with people in a celebratory mood. I made my entrance astride the Sterling, my leg still bandaged, and rode through the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea as I slowly passed through the hall. I was begged for a speech and happily obliged, though few in the throng would have understood my English. But I made sure every few moments to again shout, “Viva la France!” and each time the audience thrilled to it!