Adrian laughed. “I know that place. I’ve ridden there a few times, but that place draws more show-offs than serious riders.” He pointed toward a narrow extension built along the long side of the oval. “Just up ahead is where we store our bicycles. We change right next to it, so it’s all very practical. There’s also a shower and towel room, so you can make yourself presentable before accepting your trophy after a race. My father insisted on the shower room. He’s one of the club’s founding members. And I must say, it was an excellent idea.” Adrian laughed. “The open grandstand over there holds five hundred and fifty spectators. But during the big races in the summer, there’ll be twice that many up there—it’s a big draw!” He spoke with genuine pride.
“And what are those small covered areas beside the grandstand?” Isabelle asked.
“On the left is the judge’s rostrum, and on the right is the music pavilion—something else my father argued for. He couldn’t imagine a cycle race without a proper marching band to set the rhythm.” Adrian’s tone was ironic.
Isabelle furrowed her brow. Gottlieb Neumann had funded a shower room, a music pavilion, and very probably many other modern amenities—wasn’t it all a bit . . . much? She began to understand how the businessman had gotten himself into financial hot water.
“Let’s go in. You can warm up with a cup of coffee in the clubroom while I ride a few laps,” said Adrian, holding his arm out gallantly. “Irene may come by later. She likes to watch us cycle.”
Isabelle mentally rolled her eyes. She would have been quite content without the company of Adrian’s sister.
Inside, Adrian was met with a chorus of greetings from his club mates. Everyone seemed overjoyed to see him back in Berlin. No one took any notice of Isabelle; they were all too busy bringing Adrian up to date on all the latest news. The men were so absorbed that it was a good five minutes before the first one turned to Isabelle and said, as if she had magically just appeared, “Who do we have here?”
“Allow me to introduce Isabelle Herrenhus, my future fiancée!” Adrian said, giving her a small wink.
One after the other, they reached out to shake hands with Isabelle, but they were soon back to swapping stories about their favorite topic: cycling.
“Fiancée” doesn’t seem to carry much weight in this particular circle, thought Isabelle, as she headed to the counter to order a cup of coffee from a young woman in an apron who was polishing glasses. She then took a seat on one of the leather-upholstered chairs set out around the lustrous wooden tables. It’s like an upscale tavern, she thought. The main thing that distinguished it as a clubhouse was the piles of newspapers, books, and journals strewn about on the tables, all dedicated to one topic: the sport of cycling, in all its manifestations. The walls, too, were decorated with posters, illustrations, and photographs of men—always men—on bicycles. Beside those hung several advertising posters, all framed behind glass. The Rais Bicycle Factory in Mannheim prided itself on its annual production of nine thousand upscale men’s and women’s bicycles. The German Rubbergoods Factory advertised its touring and racing tires. A firm from Magdeburg called their bicycle a Panther, describing it as light, first-class, and built with flawless workmanship. Every poster was elaborately designed with curlicues and more reminiscent of a work of art than an advertisement. Did these companies also help finance the cycling club? If so, Isabelle conjectured that was probably how the cyclers could afford such plush surroundings.
“I’m just going out for a few laps,” said Adrian, who had changed and now stood before her in a close-fitting tricot and pants that revealed almost every muscle in his powerful legs. He wore soft leather shoes that came up only to his ankles. The ideal getup for cycling, Isabelle thought with admiration. And no one gives two hoots about how tight the clothes are! She thought about how she and Josephine secretly donned men’s clothes just to escape the heavy—and, in the case of cycling, dangerous—skirts . . . The world was truly an unjust place.
“You’ll have the best view of me from here,” said Adrian, pointing to a table in front of the large window that separated the clubrooms from the track.
“Or me,” said another man, also dressed in cycling attire.
“Perhaps the young lady wants to watch a real professional at work?” said a third. “Then she should keep her eye on me!” The men laughed and thumped each other good-naturedly as they strolled off together.
As Isabelle watched them walk away, she suddenly felt overwhelmingly lost and alone. The last time she had felt such camaraderie had been a year and a half earlier, when she had spent the summer riding bicycles in her yard with Josephine, Clara, and Lilo. They had laughed loud and long, teased each other, egged each other on, and consoled each other when a certain technique didn’t work as they imagined it should have. Those had been wonderful hours. The idyll had only started to crack when Clara broke her leg.
After stretching their arms and legs, the men climbed onto their bicycles. Isabelle watched as they completed lap after lap. She waved to Adrian a few times, but he took no notice of her at all. Bored, she picked up one of the magazines on the table: Cycling Today and Tomorrow. She opened it to a random page and was immediately confronted by the title of an article that went on for several pages. Beneath the title was a large photograph of a handsome man who looked to be around twenty years old. He was holding a bicycle in the air in his two hands, and he wore such a cheeky expression that Isabelle smiled to herself. Her curiosity piqued, she began to read the article.
Leonard Feininger: Hero of Road and Mountain
If we were ever to single out one man as the world’s greatest wheelman of the open road, it would have to be Leonard Feininger. The scion of a winemaking family in beautiful Rhineland-Palatinate, Leon—as he is known to his friends and family—is one of bicycling’s pioneers, a man who continually draws the attention of the public to our burgeoning sport with his many spectacular feats. One cannot imagine any better advertisement for bicycling than Feininger’s heroic deeds!
Isabelle raised her eyebrows. The journalist certainly didn’t lack for enthusiasm when it came to his subject.
In addition to cycling over the mountains from Austria to Italy, Leon Feininger had completed a long-distance tour from Vienna to Berlin—just the previous summer, in fact. Hadn’t Lilo mentioned that trip? At the time, the endeavor had still only been in the planning stages, but now she saw that the three-hundred-and-sixty-mile trip had actually taken place. Did her father know that? Did he even care anymore? As Isabelle read on, she discovered that Feininger had suffered a strained tendon in his left leg, but he had not let it stop him from cycling. Because of this complication, he had fallen short of setting a new time record, wrote the journalist, who was evidently a little let down. Feininger had taken just over thirty hours to cover the distance.
From Vienna to Berlin in thirty hours, on a bicycle! Isabelle was impressed. But if the real-life Leon Feininger was as courageous, resolute, and confident as he looked in the picture, she would not have put it past him. Her thirst for adventure roared inside her, like a lion locked in a cage far too small to contain it. She’d give almost anything to be able to experience such adventures for herself. At least once . . .
A moment later, her attention was drawn back to the track. An old man stationed at the edge of the track was shouting something at one or another of the cyclers as they rode past. Isabelle could not understand what he was saying through the window, but she assumed he must be some kind of trainer giving his charges helpful tips.
A wave of discontent, as sudden and unexpected as a summer cloudburst, washed over her. These elegant cycling clubrooms, a trainer, the sporty gear the wheelmen wore, daring journeys from Vienna to Berlin—did men have any idea how good they had it? Isabelle suddenly realized just how much she missed cycling. Why hadn’t she kept it up? Why hadn’t she stood up to her father and persuaded him to allow her to ride her own bicycle again? But she had simply bowed to his will. So much for her thirst for advent
ure . . .
“It’s all terribly unfair, isn’t it?” a familiar voice said beside her.
Isabelle turned around. “Ah. Irene.” And now this, her, Isabelle thought.
“I really don’t know why I keep coming here,” Irene said, sitting down opposite her. “I always go home more frustrated than when I arrive.” She nodded toward the racetrack.
“Humph. We women ought to have such opportunities for ourselves,” Isabelle agreed. “When I think of all the hard work Josephine and I put into teaching ourselves to ride a bicycle . . . how we worked to figure out the best technique for climbing a hill. And how to get down again in one piece. The safest way to take a curve. All of it.”
Irene narrowed her eyes. “Josephine. Wasn’t she the one who pinched your father’s bicycle and had an accident with it? I read about it in the newspaper.”
Isabelle nodded. “None of it would have happened if we hadn’t been damned to this miserable secrecy. If Josephine and I had been able to ride bicycles openly, like any man, Jo would never have gotten into such a bind. My father is to blame for all of it. It makes me sick just to think about it.”
“My father tolerates my cycling, but only when we are at our country house in Potsdam. At least no one can see me out in the country, he says,” Irene said. “I’m curious to find out what he’ll say when he discovers his future daughter-in-law is also one of these vixens on wheels.” The sarcasm in Irene’s tone was unmistakable.
Isabelle turned away. Although Adrian had sworn that he hadn’t told a single soul about their agreement, she had the feeling that Irene could see right through her. And she didn’t like the feeling.
“Riding bicycles is only one of many things that Adrian and I have in common,” she said in her most sugary voice.
Irene raised her eyebrows knowingly, but she said nothing. Perhaps her father had forbidden her from talking about it?
They sat and watched the men in silence for a while. If Josephine ever sees how extravagant this place is, her eyes will pop out of her head, thought Isabelle. She knew opening a bicycle club just for women had been Jo’s dream. One of many that had gone down the drain.
After a few minutes, Isabelle abruptly turned to Adrian’s sister and said, “You know what I’d love to do?”
Chapter Sixteen
Adrian would be her way in. He would be the one to convince the other members of the First Berlin Cycling Club that its premises should welcome a women’s cycling club. With this common goal, Isabelle and Irene put their mutual resentment temporarily on ice. They prepared a robust list of arguments in its favor. Isabelle was even prepared—if it came to it and Adrian refused to help—to sacrifice the secret agreement she and Adrian shared. Now that the idea had taken shape in her mind, she had no intention of backing down from her cycling club plan.
Irene felt that the most compelling argument was that establishing a women’s club would not cost the men—including her own father—a single penny, in stark contrast to the men’s club. Because the women would do all of it themselves, and could happily live without leather club chairs and shower rooms with gilded faucets.
When the two of them finally met with Adrian one evening at the cycling club to convince him of the merits of their plan, they were ready for anything. Anything except being welcomed with open arms.
“A small cycling club for women? That’s a great idea. I should have come up with it myself. I’ve been of the opinion for some time now that bicycles should be made accessible to a much wider range of social strata. A women’s club is a good start. But we should take the factory workers into consideration, too. Imagine what a blessing bicycles would be for workers who spend practically all their waking hours in some airless factory. Or think about the servant girls who spend their days scrubbing floors on their knees. They could all enjoy some outdoor activity after work. Or cycling out into the country. Bicycles could change society!” Adrian said with evident excitement.
Isabelle and Irene had trouble suppressing their laughter. Factory workers on bicycles? Servants cycling out to Wannsee lake after work? Adrian’s ideas were even crazier than their own.
Adrian met with them again a week later. “It wasn’t easy convincing our board and the club’s founding members that Berlin’s first women’s cycling club should be formed here. Most of them simply don’t believe that the fairer sex is suited to the sport. However”—he grinned mischievously—“using all my persuasive power and charm, I managed to win their assent. Father was a great help, I must say. He is extremely supportive of me at the moment.” He looked intently at Isabelle as he said this.
Isabelle nodded grimly. She had no trouble believing that. Her father—highly satisfied with the progress of her relationship with Adrian—had already transferred an initial sum to Gottlieb Neumann to help him out of the worst of his difficulties. Adrian’s old man was certainly indebted to his son.
“We’re actually going to get our own room?”
Adrian nodded. “Not only that. You’re allowed to use our track, but only when none of the men are on it. It’s the best outcome you could have hoped for—now it’s up to you to make something of it to silence all the naysayers.”
The room they had been granted was small indeed—it had previously served as a storeroom for bicycle parts and tools—but Isabelle and Irene thought there could be no lovelier room on earth.
The following day Isabelle marched into Oskar Reutter’s emporium and emerged laden with cleaning supplies, paint, sandpaper, and a roll of strong fabric for curtains. She had bought so much that Reutter instructed one of his apprentices to help her carry her purchases home. “Not home,” said Isabelle. “It all has to go to Berlin’s first cycling club for women!”
The young women spent the following weeks setting up. Neither Isabelle nor Irene had ever held a paintbrush, let alone a washcloth. But thanks to Irene’s old friend Jule—the one with whom Irene had caused such a stir riding through the Tiergarten—the work pushed ahead. Jule’s parents ran a large furniture-making outfit, and Jule and her brothers had grown up in the workshops and picked up a few useful skills.
Every afternoon, when school let out, Isabelle and Irene went straight to their new clubroom to paint, hammer, measure curtains, and cut cushion covers. Isabelle still considered Irene to be snobby and arrogant, but she had to admit that she had extraordinary stamina and strength and did not shy away from hard work. And Irene, who had been quite happy to call the Herrenhus family social climbers in the past, discovered that Isabelle was not at all afraid to get her hands dirty.
Jule, who worked in her parents’ company, usually only arrived in the evening. Then she praised, chided, tinkered, and improved upon what had been done. She could only manage a tired smile when she saw the pleasure Isabelle and Irene took in their work—she herself had known for a long time how satisfying it was to work with one’s own hands.
The male club members watched the women’s activities with amusement and a touch of condescension. “So how’s the dollhouse coming along?” they heard more than once. “Where are you going to put the sewing machines?” one young man asked, earning a chorus of laughter from the others. One afternoon the young women discovered that some of the men had hung up an advertising poster from Singer, the American sewing-machine maker. No one believed that the women would maintain a long-term interest in cycling or show any talent for the sport.
Meanwhile, Isabelle and Irene kept a lookout for future members. Nothing would be worse than a club with no members! Jule was the first to sign on. She brought two other young women with her; both owned their own bicycles, but because of the hostile attitudes to women cyclers, they did not dare ride on Berlin’s streets. Then one of Isabelle’s and Irene’s fellow students inquired about joining. She was the daughter of a French diplomat and had recently gone cycling in Paris, where women could ride with significantly more freedom.
Sweating and tired from the unaccustomed physical labor, Isabelle and Irene sat on their newly upholste
red chairs at their freshly planed table and mulled over the statutes of their new club: Who should they admit? Who should they reject? What were the club’s objectives, and what rights would membership bestow? What obligations would it involve? Everything had to be administered at least as professionally as the men’s club. They both agreed that they should give priority to members from the upper classes. Ownership of a bicycle was a second basic requirement. And they both felt that it would be crucial to find a fitting name for the club. After long discussion, they agreed on Isabelle’s suggestion, which was both straightforward and fitting: First Berlin Cycling Club for Women.
Finally, on a radiantly beautiful Sunday in the summer of 1892, they were ready. The First Berlin Cycling Club for Women opened its doors with a grand opening celebration.
Clara cast a final glance in the mirror and felt very satisfied with what she saw. The violet skirt and lighter blouse formed a flattering ensemble and went nicely with her small rosewood-colored hat. The fresh outfit lent a bit of color to her normally pale complexion, and her lips looked rosier than they normally did. It was Gerhard who had encouraged her to switch from the forlorn pale gray and dark blue that her mother always chose for her to more colorful clothes.
Clara took a step back and studied herself from a greater distance. Could the fact that her face shone like a thousand suns have something to do with the color? Wasn’t Gerhard’s proposal of marriage the night before the reason for her permanent smile and flushed cheeks?
Clara sighed deeply. Her whole life long, she would never forget that moment . . .
Gerhard had kneeled on the ground before her, taken her by the hand, and looked deep into her eyes. She had felt like one of the heroines in the French novels she and her mother read so avidly.
While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) Page 17
