Since the early 1880s, religious leaders had been using their pulpits to broadcast their concerns. There one heard cautionary tales against infidelity, drinking, murder, and . . . bicycling!? Because the bicycle boom had been eating away at their parishioner base, some pastors went to great lengths to get them back. One Connecticut chaplain terrified his parishioners by painting a frightening picture of a string of cyclists, all without brakes, of course, rolling helplessly down a steep hill to a “place where there is no mud on the streets because of the high temperatures.” Religious leaders in Covington, Kentucky, who had tried banning bicycles altogether, voted overwhelmingly to remove “all members who had their teeth filled with gold or who rode bicycles”—a perplexing juxtaposition of sins. Their feelings against wheelmen were so strong, even Taylor had to apply twice before Reverend Conway, who kept a “watchful eye” on him for over a year, finally admitted him to “full brotherhood.”
Unable to compete against the bicycle, most eventually shifted. Deacon Jenkins Lloyd Jones from the All Souls Unitarian Church in Chicago preached that the bicycle was a good thing spiritually and morally, even allowing his congregation to park their bicycles in his church basement. While recognizing that the bicycle was reducing attendance, he still credited it for its ability to bring its jockey into “a closer communion with God.” In his desperate mission to bring wheelmen back, one deacon perhaps swayed too far into his former adversary’s camp. “I would canonize the inventor [of the bicycle],” he shouted to a hushed parish, “if only I knew his name.”
Theologians struggled with the best way to handle the influx of Sunday morning cyclists and the resulting decrease in churchgoers. But for Taylor there was no confusion. While he may not have opposed leisure riding for some folks after church, he adamantly opposed Sunday racing and insisted that his trainers, masseurs, and valets take the day off as well. “I have the satisfaction of believing, and the extreme pleasure in feeling that I am right,” he would say of his stance against Sunday racing, “and I know that many Christian people have been pleased with my testimony . . . I have done it because I believed it to be pleasing in the sight of God . . .”
This insistence against Sunday racing would put him at loggerheads with other riders and race promoters, eventually igniting whole nations into impassioned debates over the issue. Along the way, Taylor became conversant with theology and seems to have read the works of many Christian thinkers. He openly discussed his faith when asked, but never pushed it on others. “I am glad to say that I am a Christian,” he would tell a reporter, “and it doesn’t make any difference who knows it. I don’t make a secret of it, though I don’t go ’round sounding a trumpet.” Yet he was often mocked by other riders for his beliefs, which only further galvanized him to his faith.
As the years rolled on, the most important quality he gained from his religious teachings appeared to be his modesty. Elite bike racers at the time were lionized like today’s auto racers, yet Taylor remained humble. He always had a soft spot for those less fortunate. The messages in the Scriptures would be his guiding light in a world brimming with darkness.
Trainer Troy had a sinister feeling. He had been procrastinating about going South, but the Manhattan winter winds eventually pressed him into action. He knew it was critical for Taylor to train hard that winter because most of his rivals had already headed down there. But Troy, who was in charge of finding safe, comfortable lodging and knew the South from his days as Zimmerman’s trainer, couldn’t get over his edginess about taking Taylor to a section of the country he knew was openly hostile toward blacks.
Troy telegraphed a number of acquaintances in a few Florida cities before leaving. But as he feared, he was told to look elsewhere; the white riders, he was warned, would have no part of any “uppity Nigger” on their tracks. He kept searching. With the aid of another friend, Troy eventually secured a boardinghouse near a track in Savannah, Georgia. But as a Southern training ground for blacks, Georgia was no consolation prize. Next to Mississippi, Georgia had the highest number of lynchings in the country, more than one a day. These highly publicized affairs drew as many as ten thousand spectators and often involved extreme torture, burnings, and dismemberment.
Beneath a gray winter sky and not wanting to cause a stir, Troy shipped out before Taylor. He rented rooms at a boardinghouse in his own name and told other boarders that his black “valet” was on his way. His diversionary tactic worked for exactly one day after Taylor had arrived. Someone noticed bicycle cases sitting outside with the name Major Taylor emblazoned on them. This person put two and two together and began talking to his neighbors. When the other boarders learned that a black man was staying in the same complex, they complained bitterly to the management. Then they threatened to leave if the “darkey” remained. Eventually, the owner buckled under the pressure and kicked Taylor out.
Disheartened, Troy and Taylor scoured Savannah for alternative housing. At some point Taylor was forced to sleep in a squalid horse stable, all musty and bug infested. Finally, they secured lodging with a sympathetic black family on Lincoln Street. After settling in, they set off to the Wheelmen Park Track for much needed training. But when they arrived, Taylor and his pacemakers were immediately booted off the track by an angry mob of track owners and cyclists. Taylor had to consign himself to sitting idly by while his competitors rolled past.
With precious time wasted and the track off limits, Taylor decided to train on the road instead. Here, too, he ran into difficulty. Local wheelmen began complaining bitterly about a “Nigger” having the “gall” to pass them. Not content with just removing him from their tracks, the white riders began devising ways to get him off “their” roads as well.
One afternoon, Taylor was all alone on a drab side street heading northwest out of town. Rolling briskly along, he spotted a trio of riders flying up ahead on a triplet—or bicycle built for three. Like any competitive cyclist who spots riders in front of him, Taylor gunned forward to challenge them. When he caught up to them, he recognized their faces; it was Savannah’s top triplet team. They were startled to see him still in their town. When Taylor slipped in behind them, the rearmost rider craned his neck back and began cawing at him. “We have no intention of pacing a Nigger,” he frothed. “Take a hike.” Taylor ignored him and continued charging down Waters Road. As miles ticked off, the barbs exchanged soon degenerated into outright threats of violence toward Taylor. Taylor offered to settle the dispute with the bicycle instead of with violence. But the Southerners had other ideas. “Alright then,” Taylor retorted, “if you won’t pace me, I’ll pace you.” Taylor stood on his bike and powered forward with everything he had.
What began as a light afternoon training session turned into a heated, heads-down skirmish with Taylor leading three enraged white men through the vertiginous backstreets of Savannah. Taylor must have felt as though he was racing for his life. Eventually, and only because of his brute strength on a bicycle, Taylor was able to distance himself from the angry trio and roll back to his quarters unscathed. At least for that moment.
Taylor may have been a fairly well-read man. But he was not yet completely aware of, or simply chose to ignore, the intensity of the hostility toward blacks in the South. He was about to learn.
The following morning, he rose, ate a hearty breakfast, and limbered up for another day of road training. On his way out, he saw an envelope lying at the base of the door. He opened it. As he read the letter inside, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. It said: “Mister Taylor, if you do not leave here before forty-eight hours, you will be sorry. We mean business. Clear out if you value your life.” The letter was signed “White Riders.” And just in case the threatening words weren’t enough, next to them was a drawing of a skull and crossbones.
Troy received a similar letter, warning him that his alliance with a black man was unacceptable in that part of the country. They gave him the same amount of time to pack his bags and speed north. Letters like these needed to be taken as
a shuddering statement of intent. A white man had received a similar letter for giving piano lessons to a black student from a group who called themselves “White Cappers” shortly before Taylor and Troy received theirs. This letter told the recipient to get out of town or face “tar and feathering.” The man discounted the warning and even threatened to prosecute the authors of the letter. Days later, his body was found in his cabin riddled with so many bullet holes, it was difficult to identify him.
Taylor, probably thinking the training incident was nothing more than a hard-fought competitive duel, was aghast at the letter’s tone. With less than a week of broken training behind him, he sent word of the incident north to Brady. Meanwhile, a writer drubbed Taylor in the Savannah Press newspaper. “Major Taylor de coon rider from de north is dead sore on the south,” he wrote, dipping his pen in vitriol. “He does not like the way he was treated in Savannah . . . but the Negro has no cause to kick. It is lucky that he was not severely handled. He forced himself on the white riders and made himself generally obnoxious. Hereafter Major Taylor will give Savannah a wide berth.” A civil war-of-words broke out between Southern and Northern writers. “Cowardly Writer,” responded a Massachusetts reporter, “Writes Like A Midnight Assassin. As soon as evidence is found,” he continued, “they will be prosecuted in the U.S. Court.” Another newspaper printed a drawing of Taylor on his bicycle desperately speeding away from a sign saying “Georgia.” On the same road sign was an arrow pointing toward the words “New York.”
Back at the homestead, Brady—rarely one to shy away from a fight—received word of the threats and boiled over. He probably pondered shipping south with heavyweight champion James Corbett and a few local toughs to pay the riders a visit. But being all too familiar with the lay of the land in the South and wanting to protect his investment, he bit his tongue, then instructed Taylor and Troy to head north.
Immediately, they packed their bags, rounded up their pacemen and all their bicycles, and got the hell out of Georgia. “It is useless for a colored person to attempt to get along in the South,” Taylor told a reporter. “The feeling is so strong only a race war will settle it.”
On his way north, Taylor felt the warm Georgia sun give way to the cold New York snow. If this incident was indicative of the rest of the season, it would be another turbulent year. It made him search for answers and peace of mind. He thumbed through the Scriptures, pausing on messages like those of Luke, whereby iniquities are countered with kindness and understanding:
I say to you that hear,
love your enemies,
do good to those that hate you,
bless those who curse you,
pray for those who abuse you.
He drifted into a deep sleep, the Bible’s pages fluttering to the ground. He woke to the sight of Manhattan’s Iron Pier, charming Victorian brownstones, spires from the eight-hundred-foot Manhattan Beach Hotel, and the Iron Tower whisking tourists three hundred feet up for a high view of Coney Island. Though the year’s racial tensions were just beginning, a sense of calm washed over him.
But Manhattan was enduring one of the coldest winters in years. Before the racing season’s first pistol had been shot, Taylor was already put at a distinct disadvantage to his rivals, many of whom continued training under the swaying palms for months.
When the winter weather finally lifted, Taylor began training on the Manhattan Beach Track. From his headquarters in Manhattan, Brady could do little about the Georgia riders. But he wasted no time warning the rest of the peloton. “He gave the circuit chasers to understand,” stated the New York Journal, “that trouble would follow any underhand work or threats against the Major.” Some riders took note. “The big men of the circuit appreciate the power in the racing game that Brady represented and Taylor was allowed to use the training quarters in peace.”
The early season racial difficulties continued. In April, two men named Tom Eck and Senator Morgan, managers of Philadelphia’s Woodside Park Track and owners of a rival racing syndicate, formally announced their plans to bar Taylor from their track. Taylor, they said, “must suffer with the others. Our entry blanks will be plainly marked ‘for whites only.’” Coming from a supposedly tolerant Northern state, their harsh stance surprised many observers. What made it more puzzling was that Eck had been Birdie Munger’s manager for several years. It’s hard to believe Eck was unaware of the special relationship between Munger and Taylor before attempting the ban.
But as they were about to learn, they weren’t dealing with Munger. They were dealing with an altogether different man. Though it had always been Taylor’s and Munger’s style to remain silent in such instances, hoping it would pass in time, this was not William Brady’s style. “To step on Brady’s toes intentionally was to get hit,” the New York Times would write, “and not always figuratively either.” Brady immediately got on his high horse, clopped down to the New York papers, stormed into the offices of his sports writing friends, and, with all 130 pounds of him, began crucifying Eck and company about their “unjust discrimination.” After a long, largely unprintable verbal incendiary in which the tone of his Irish tongue matched the flame of his fire-engine red hair, he finished with a succinct warning to the duo. “I beg to assure the gentlemen,” he hollered, his voice rising, “that any time the Major enters a race, the American Cycle Racing Association will see to it that he receives fair treatment.”
Over in Philly, Eck caught wind of Brady’s public harangue and began hedging. New York and Boston were okay, he said, but “about Philadelphia, I am not so sure.” But when Brady continued his frontal assault, bringing in every friendly newsman he could find, Eck buckled under the weight of his words. Claiming to have been misquoted by the press, Eck said that he would see if matters could be “adjusted.” Eck then retreated into a complete about-face. “The promoter who could debar a good drawing card like Major Taylor does not understand his business,” he said. “Although a colored man he may ride against my men when and wherever he chooses.”
Senator Morgan, who seemed completely taken aback by Brady’s strong reaction—not to mention the negative press he was receiving in nearly all Eastern newspapers—also backpedaled. “I am not in favor of barring Taylor from any races,” he said, “on any of the tracks of this association . . . this is unfortunate as I think Taylor a gentlemanly little rider, however, Brady has seen fit to take the matter up. Eck spoke before he thought, that is all, and the matter will be righted.”
Taylor sat back and soaked it all in. Never before had such a prominent man, white or black, stood up for him in such a potent public fashion. He took comfort in the strength of Brady’s words.
The train carrying William Brady and Major Taylor whistled into Philadelphia’s Tioga Track on the morning of July 16. Because of his shortened preseason training routine, Taylor found himself floundering in a distant fourth place when the heat of midsummer arrived. But with each passing week, Brady couldn’t help but notice that Taylor was showing signs of catching up to his main rivals. The race handicappers apparently agreed. Whereas they used to position him as limitman thirty-five or more yards ahead of scratchman Bald in one-mile handicap races, they began moving him back to within fifteen or twenty yards. But the stronger he became, the more trouble seemed to follow in his wake.
While most of the hostility directed at Taylor had come from low-level riders, it wasn’t limited to them. As he slowly inched up in the standings, more elite riders became concerned about his rising popularity. Even Eddie Bald, the top circuit rider, began developing a disdain toward Taylor, reportedly threatening to “thrash” him if the opportunity arose. Taylor lived under the constant threat of riders teaming up to pocket, elbow, sandwich, or flat-out dump him to the hard velodrome surface. At times, it was a cruel existence. He began sheltering himself in the protective cocoon of the rear of the peloton where he could eye and stalk his competitors until an opening formed. When he made his jump through the thicket of riders, he was often forced into pitching
his head and body deep into his handlebars to avoid the inevitable jab or elbow. He rides so low, commented rider Howard Freeman, “his nose touches his handlebar.” While effective, his new tactics were by no means foolproof.
While Taylor warmed up, Brady watched seven thousand fans trample into Philadelphia’s small Tioga Track for a series of championship-level races. He had Taylor signed up to compete in the one-mile open and the one-mile handicap races. Before the races, a heated argument took place between the riders and track management. Apparently nobody wanted to wear unlucky jersey number thirteen. With a hidden grin, Taylor ended the argument, proudly slipping the forbidden jersey over his shoulders. “They cannot outride me anyway,” Brady overheard him say. Taylor wasted no time making an impression with the ardent Philadelphia crowd, which had become endeared to him at the national convention in 1897. In the one-mile open race, he defeated all his main rivals, becoming “the idol of the meet.”
As the field lined up for the final of the one-mile handicap, the crowd rose and chanted his name. With most of the crowd cheering for him, animosity filled the ranks of the riders. His eyes trained on the track, Brady must have noticed riders sneering at Taylor as they broke from the line. An angry Bald quickly caught up to Taylor, then shot out to the lead, with several riders in tow. Taylor tucked into the slipstream, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Just as the bell rang announcing the start of the final lap, Taylor saw what looked like an opening and uncoiled.
A wall of riders immediately formed in front of him. He rolled near the human barrier, body arching over his bike, eyes set, head down. Suddenly, like a flock of angry birds, the cabal of riders—out of the steward’s view—swerved outward in unison, deliberately bashing him off-kilter. Up in the grandstand, the Taylor-friendly crowd gasped. Pinching a cigar in his fingers, Brady felt his fury intensify.
Major Taylor Page 16
