The two men winged down the final lap at a tremendous pace, one of the fastest in bike-racing history. Taylor glanced to his side and saw Michaels’s tiny legs rotating at an astounding cadence. Mere inches in front of him he saw twenty powerful legs and ten straining pacemen on quintuplets leading them toward the tape. Taylor’s eyes were riveted on the finish line ahead. Waiting there, “bounding about like a rubber ball,” stood Brady, sweat dripping from his brow, stopwatch clenched in one hand, a pinched Cuban cigar in the other.
With a half-lap remaining, Brady noticed Michaels becoming unwound. His hips and shoulders began rocking side to side, legs revving like pistons in a four-cylinder engine. Up in the grandstand Arthur Zimmerman rose to his feet screaming, his temple puckered in sweat.
Taylor’s merciless pace never wavered. His form, in contrast to Michaels’s, remained smooth, graceful, sparrow-like, an eight-cylinder thundering toward the line. Brady then witnessed something he had rarely heard over the years: Taylor cried out to his pacemen for more speed! “Move along!” he hollered. “Move along!” But the pace was too much, and all five pacemen were completely spent. Taylor passed his pacers. Seeing this through his sunken eyes, “face pale as a corpse,” Michaels sat up on his bike and capitulated. He too was spent. Taylor tucked his head down into his handlebars and rushed forward, crossing the line twenty yards in front.
The king of pace racing had been dethroned! At once, Manhattan Beach Track became a noisy, rumbling place, men and women leaping in the aisles. For the first time in his career, Michaels was hissed by the crowd. Taylor circled the track triumphantly as flowers and women’s hats fell near his feet, his stealthy form melting into the crowd, jersey number thirteen flapping in the wind. Brady was feeling emboldened. He ran over to the announcer’s booth and ripped the megaphone away from announcer Fred Burnett. His stentorian voice cut out over the grandstand. “I am announcing a sweeping challenge for another match race between these two men for a purse of $5,000 to $10,000 for any distance up to 100 miles,” he bellowed. “Do you want to see these men race again?” The wildly popular challenge was received with tumultuous applause.
Michaels slinked into his locker room.
Following the race, the crowds piled into streetcars and horse-taxis, stopping long enough to empty Delmonico’s and Sherry’s restaurants of food and drink. Brady tracked down Taylor, congratulated him, and handed him an extra $1,000. “Just a little present from one good sport to another,” he said.
Taylor was ecstatic with his win and Brady’s gesture. Without any obligation to do so, he graciously shared some of his purse with his pacemen, all of them white. He was so thrilled, he even began thanking reporters. “I want to thank your paper,” he told the New York Sun, “for the way you have treated me. No one knows how much I appreciate your good will.”
Agitated, Michaels had made several unusual threats that became revealed in newspapers worldwide in headlines such as MICHAELS MAY QUIT CYCLE RACING FOR GOOD, WILL THEN BECOME JOCKEY–OWNER. Anticipating the potential publicity value, horseman Phil Dwyer grinned. Mindful of the significant investment he had in Michaels, Brady cringed. But after giving him the rough side of his tongue, not to mention the threat of a lawsuit, Brady eventually wrung enough of the obstreperousness out of Michaels to keep him racing a steel steed for most of the next half decade.
If Taylor’s victory over Eddie Bald in his first professional race at Madison Square Garden brought him a degree of notoriety, his conquest over Michaels, known the world over, stopped the presses. The victory, said the New York Sun, “was like an electric shock to many who did not believe a colored man could win.”
Taylor’s stock was soaring. Back at the homestead, phones rang off the hook, letters clogged the mail, and overseas cables congested Brady’s office the likes of which he hadn’t seen since Corbett defeated Sullivan. The offers came from all over America and from the cycling meccas of Italy, Germany, Holland, France, and Australia. Promoters, manufacturers, and cigarette makers now wanted a piece of Taylor. Under his handling, Brady told a reporter, “Major Taylor will develop into a world-beater.”
Taylor seemed to thrive under Brady’s tutelage. With men like Michaels and Zimmerman raking in, by some estimates, healthy five-figure annual incomes—an enormous sum of money in the 1890s—Taylor suddenly had the potential to be among the world’s highest paid athletes. Major Taylor’s victory, proclaimed the New York Sun, “coming as it did just after the unsuccessful efforts of certain race meet managers to debar him from their tracks on account of his color, and for no other reason, has established fortune for him.”
In the minds of many observers, it now seemed unlikely any track owners or race promoters would bar Taylor from their tracks or races. This belief seemed to be borne out the same day Taylor defeated Michaels. Brady received a dispatch from T. Laing, manager of St. Louis Circuit City Track, formally inviting Taylor to an important national meet being held there in October. Laing was the manager who had barred Taylor from his track in 1897, all but crippling his chances of winning the championships.
Putting all distractions out of his mind, Taylor stayed focused on the one goal that had eluded him, his dream since early childhood: to become the sprint champion of America. And that meant winning as many points as possible in the national circuit races.
It was the early afternoon of September 27, 1898, and the owners of New Jersey’s Trenton House Hotel had become curious. Outside, amid a pouring rain, special trains unloaded carloads of riders, valets, and reporters from all over the country for a national meet. But when the doors of the railcars slid open and packs of suited attorneys stepped out with them, it became obvious something bigger than just another bike race was going on.
There was.
Professional bike racing had been experiencing the same challenges professional baseball and horse racing had faced a few years before. Rumors trickled through the peloton that a few “rebels” were contemplating breaking away from racing’s governing body, the League of American Wheelmen. As the season ground forward, the list of possible defectors had grown to a point where a full-scale meeting became necessary.
The movement surprised many racing fans. Sportswriters had raved about how well the LAW was run; some even suggested that bike racing was the best organized of the major sports. Knowing the sheer scope of the league’s racing responsibilities—overseeing a multitude of clubs, riders, track owners, and big money promoters, all with their own unique interest—others weren’t so surprised. The league, some believed, should give up control of bike racing and focus on the monumental task of expanding the nation’s roads.
This September revolution wasn’t the first time the league’s authority had been challenged. But all previous rebellions had been quickly quashed by influential League leaders, often with strong political ties, and the press, who frequently condemned the instigators as naïve and underfunded. But this attempt had more weight behind it. Apparently some riders, promoters, and disgruntled former League employees believed they could do better, and the Trenton House was their staging ground to try to prove it.
Taylor listened intently to both sides, jotting down copious notes. Immediately, several top-level riders appeared poised to jump ship. Taylor decided to hold off until he was convinced the new organization would have the same quality of management and financial backing as the LAW. He had other reasons for pause; rumors that several riders wanted to use a “secret ballot” to anonymously vote him out of the new league began circulating. In the interim, the dark New Jersey skies unleashed buckets of rain on the track, washing out the scheduled races. The meetings carried on into the wee hours of the night. A knot of reporters and racing fans noised about the hotel. It was, one of them wrote, “the most historic day in cycling history.” Because the hotel operator was “anxious” to bar him from its rooms, someone else booked a room for Taylor using his own name. Taylor, who had been kicked out of two hotels in Westbury, Connecticut, a few days before, snuck into the ro
om and laid his head down on a pillow, enjoying one of his last restful nights of the season.
The following day, heavy rain still pounding the track, everyone sped to the Bingham House in Philadelphia for more meetings and a series of races, leaving the Trenton House Hotel gutted. By the morning of the second day of meetings, many riders had signed on to the new organization, which they named the American Racing Cycling Union, or ARCU. From this the National Cycling Association, or NCA, was formed. Taylor was still understandably undecided; the top positions in the new league were going to his chief rivals like Eddie Bald, Arthur Gardiner, Tom Cooper, Floyd MacFarland—many of whom wanted to expel him from the sport. To some observers, it seemed as if the foxes were positioning themselves to watch over the lone hen. Taylor kept vacillating. If most of the top riders defected, he wondered, how exciting would it be racing against a softer field in low-rent races every day? But his treatment from the league had improved since the choking incident, undoubtedly because of Brady’s presence. And he had other considerations. After defeating Michaels, he had been bombarded with offers from manufacturers. The National Board of the Trade of Cycling Manufacturers, siding with the league, announced they would only award contracts to league-sanctioned riders. In addition, Taylor had been working on a European racing junket and the European promoters, having enjoyed a long-standing relationship with the LAW, were not ready to recognize a rebel organization.
Then he had to consider Brady, with whom he was under contract for the entire year. Wanting more control over the sport, Brady’s organization seemed to be siding with the rebel movement and had probably put pressure on Taylor to defect. After agonizing over his choices and seeing several top riders sign on, Taylor, in a move that surprised many, finally decided to join the rebel group. But he did have one condition before signing on: absolutely no Sunday racing. “It’s against my religious scruples,” he told his rivals with conviction. They assured him there would be none. With that, he was admitted to the new organization, despite the fierce objections of several riders, including Floyd MacFarland, Orlando Stevens, Arthur Gardiner, and William Becker, the man who had notoriously strangled him.
The new group set the dates for the final and deciding races. The champion of the 1898 season would be determined at a few key races in Missouri in mid-October. Even though Taylor had beaten Bald ten out of twelve times and had competed in five fewer races, he was just two points behind Bald in the point’s column and led everyone in win percentage (.517). It was coming down to the wire.
As September gave way to October, the wires were clogged with gossip about the real intent of the rebels. This gossip turned into vociferous public finger-pointing. “There are a few followers of the colored boy’s riding,” railed a track writer for the Brooklyn Eagle, “who profess to think that Bald and Gardiner have taken the sensational course just made public to break up the championship table, which it was an even break for first place that Taylor would win, as neither Bald nor Gardiner are in any form to stop him at present.”
Oblivious to the politics of it all, Taylor’s train pressed on. A reporter for the Boston Daily Globe sat nearby. “It is now a case of black and white,” he said.
The gossip chased Taylor west toward the mighty Mississippi. The backstretch at St. Louis’s Monument Track was replete with anecdotes, primarily suggesting that when Taylor signed on with the NCA, he had indeed been hoodwinked. Arriving the day before the races, Taylor headed straight to the hotel where the rest of the wheelmen were holed up. He stood fidgeting in a long line behind his competitors and a slew of visiting racegoers. When he finally made his way to the front desk, the attendant drew the color line, rudely telling him that he would have to find quarters elsewhere.
Agitated and humiliated, Taylor scoured the town for alternative lodging. But in one place after another, he met with the same fate. Given that hundreds of citizens had gone through the trouble of signing a paper demanding that the promoter accept his entry long before he arrived, Taylor was taken aback by this treatment.
Evening neared. Exhausted and hungry, Taylor slid under a swaying elm tree and drowsed, a heavy mass of charcoal clouds drifting overhead. Reduced to temporary homelessness, Taylor’s search for a roof over his head resumed. After a protracted pursuit, he was eventually welcomed into the home of a sympathetic black family outside of town, a long monotonous journey from the track. As accommodating as his black hosts were, Taylor, who was on a strict bike-racer’s diet, didn’t feel it was proper to ask complete strangers to cook special meals just for him. So he trekked all the way to the restaurant at Union Station three times a day to satisfy his nutritional needs. But his stopovers caused a stir with management. On one occasion, he was forced to eat his meal alone in a hot and sweaty corner of the kitchen. By his third visit, they had seen enough of him. Shortly after Taylor sat down, the manager told him, rather curtly, that he was no longer welcome; his restaurant was for whites only. There was a long pause while Taylor internalized what was happening. Anger began building. The manager then ordered the headwaiter, also a black man, to refuse his order. But by this time one of the nation’s most admired athletes, Taylor had become an inspirational force to other blacks. The near-daily stream of articles chronicling his successes as well as his clean, God-fearing lifestyle had an effect on his unfortunate brethren. Some African Americans began questioning their traditional societal position, their usual subservience. The black waiter, at a time when jobs were scarce, took the bold step of standing up to his white manager and refused to obey his order. Voices were raised and harsh words exchanged. The waiter was summarily fired, but his action spread a message far and wide. “I must say,” snarled the Syracuse Standard, “that I think if Major Taylor is good enough to ride with, he is certainly good enough to eat with.”
Despite the harsh treatment, or perhaps from pent-up anger because of it, Taylor found his way to the track and blew the doors off his competitors in the opening heat of the five-mile race. But moments before the peloton lined up for the final heat, with first place up for grabs, a torrential rain doused the track. The crowd scurried for cover. The pouring rain continued throughout the afternoon and into the early evening. As darkness fell, the race announcer’s voice crackled over the track, postponing the final heat. The remaining crowd headed for the exits. Taylor waited patiently while racing officials conferred with some of the riders, the leaders of the new organization, to decide on the reschedule date.
The forthcoming decision would be the beginning of the end of Taylor’s hopes for the national title. The finals, among the most important of his life up to that date, was set for the following day, a Sunday. Taylor was irate. He confronted the group and reminded them of their agreement to avoid racing on Sundays. They pointed to a never-used clause in the bylaws of the new organization: “Where local opinion permits, there shall be racing on any day of the week.” Taylor, whose every waking moment was consumed with either racing or training, had apparently never looked over the fine print in the agreement. He had relied on the word of Bald, Gardiner, and others. “But we entered into a gentlemen’s agreement,” he argued repeatedly.
His argument fell upon deaf ears. The finals were on for Sunday, with or without him.
Neither what he viewed as deceitful competitors nor the splendor of winning the American Sprint Championship was going to break Taylor’s deep-seeded stance against Sunday racing. He had, after all, promised his loving mother he would never race on the Sabbath. Feeling betrayed, he packed his bags for Worcester. Meanwhile, after contesting the final heat in St. Louis on Sunday, the rest of the peloton pushed one hundred miles south to Cape Girardeau for the final major race of the season.
At the eleventh hour, it appeared as if Taylor’s hopes would be revived. While he was preparing to leave town, Henry Dunlop, the race promoter for the upcoming event at Cape Girardeau, corralled him. He said he sympathized with Taylor over the rough treatment he had received at the hands of hotels and restaurant owners in St. Louis
. He went on to say that he owned the hotel in Cape Girardeau where all the riders would be staying, and promised Taylor he would receive the same treatment as everyone else had. For Taylor, it was as if a lead weight had just been lifted off his shoulders; his dashed hopes came alive again. With these assurances and the knowledge that a victory could still clinch the title, Taylor sped south to the cape to catch up with the rest of the wheelmen. Long after the other riders had checked in, Taylor stepped up to the counter to register. There stood Henry Dunlop, his pronounced jowls jangling up and down, explaining to Taylor that he had arranged for him to stay with a black family outside town, ignoring his promise entirely. Taylor’s shoulders slumped, and his heart sagged. He reminded him of their arrangement, but was shocked when Dunlop refused to change his mind. Testy words were exchanged. Taylor appealed to some of his fellow riders, but they merely laughed at him.
A horse-taxi transported Taylor on the long trek to the black family’s house, every turn of its wheels intensifying his rage. Once he had settled in, his mind rolled back over the week’s events. He had been lied to by his rivals and by a race promoter. He had repeatedly been denied access to conveniently located hotels, unlike the rest of his competitors. And his all-important diet, one of the keys to his success, had been disrupted after being denied meals. The crisis was escalating. He agonized over his choices. There was a lot more at stake than just the honorable title of Sprint Champion of America. Among the wheel, tire, gear, and bike manufacturers, the Washington Post estimated that Taylor would earn $10,000 in endorsements if he were to win the title.
But after careful reflection, he decided he’d had enough. While the rest of the well-fed peloton rolled out of their fine hotel en route to the track at six o’clock the next morning, Taylor stormed off to the Union Rail Station, stomped up to the ticket counter, and bought a seat on the first train for home. While his train stood waiting, Dunlop, evidently tipped off by someone at the train station, arrived to rub salt into his wounds. If Taylor refused to compete in his race, he warned, he’d be barred from the track forever. Taylor was overcome with feelings of degradation and humiliation. All the backstabbing and inequities had sunk deep into his psyche. Taylor let Dunlop know in no uncertain terms exactly what he thought of his “word” and his “hospitality,” and then stomped onto a train pointing east.
Major Taylor Page 18
