_May 4th. In a big barn._
We are off!
Sunday dawned bright and clear and Dan and I were up with the first
light. The neighbourhood assembled to receive our few poor sticks of
furniture and household goods, for we deemed it best to give the things
to our poverty-stricken neighbours rather than sell them for a few
pennies to some secondhand dealer.
Our friends think us insane, as well they may, but crazy or no, we will
see this thing through.
We surely made a picture at the start. Dan’s blue eyes were alight with
eagerness, his fair hair tousled, while his sturdy body showed to good
advantage in sweater, corduroys and cap. I wore a dark shirtwaist, short
plaid skirt, blue sweater and straw sailor hat. At the last moment we
fastened a small parcel of groceries atop the bedding roll—a bit of
bacon, a loaf of bread, a pat of butter and one or two other odds and
ends. Altogether, the machine was well loaded.
Then, followed by the cheers of the crowd who were busy carrying away
the contents of our room, and accompanied by a horde of shoving,
shouting urchins, we made our way up the street. At the corner of
Division Street we paused to weigh ourselves and wheel, and found the
combination tipped the scales at just five hundred pounds.
Pushing on to a clear bit of pavement, we mounted and were off toward
the west side. Both Dan and I had ridden bicycles at earlier periods in
our career, and had spent a little time in Lincoln Park practising on
the tandem, but we were far from being expert riders. The double
steering gear which should enable the man to help the woman steady the
front wheel was broken, so, loaded as we were, I found the task of
steering a difficult one.
As we wobbled our serpentine way through the streets, fortunately nearly
empty at that early hour, it seemed to me that this was the strangest
nightmare that ever vexed the soul of woman. There was a weird beauty in
the morning light, the breath of freedom in the gentle breeze. The
spirit of adventure rode with us. I had a feeling of detachment from
earthly things while realising to the full the perils and difficulties
of the venture.
An ash can in the street caught my eye. With incredible accuracy I
headed for it.
“Hi!” cried Dan, “look where you’re going.”
“Good gracious,” I answered desperately, “that’s just what I’m trying
not to do.”
Bang! Quite a spill, but no harm done luckily.
When we reached Humboldt Park, we decided to take a short rest. Propping
our machine against the curb, we sat on a bench beneath a tree. While
aimlessly poking the litter at its base with my toe, I saw something
glitter.
“Look, Dan!” I exulted. “See what I’ve found. Talk of manna in the
wilderness.” I held up a silver dollar, a half and two dimes. “I feel
sure it is an omen.”
“Yes, an omen of fresh eggs for breakfast to-morrow morning,” replied
Dan prosaically.
Once again we were off. The day wore on. Streets gave way to dusty roads
full of ruts, into which the wheel appeared possessed to stagger. Dust
rose; sweat poured; our throats ached with unquenchable thirst. My arms
seemed wrenched from their sockets. Human endurance reached its limit as
the sun set.
Wearily we searched for a camping place. Finally, in a grassy hollow,
screened from the road by trees, we unpacked our equipment. While Dan
took the potato kettle to a near-by house for water, I set up our wire
rack and kindled a tiny fire beneath.
After a meal which we were almost too tired to eat, we spread our scanty
bedding on the ground and composed ourselves for slumber. An owl settled
on a branch near our heads and surveyed us with amazement. Back and
forth he flew, studying the strange intruders from every angle. Then
with a “hoot” of protest and derision, he winged away to attend to the
business of the evening.
“Ugh, this ground is hard,” grunted Dan.
“And none too warm,” thought I, but neither cold nor discomfort could
prevail for long against our utter exhaustion.
I sat up with a start. A grey day was breaking; the trees rustled in a
wind that moaned and muttered with chilly breath. Big drops of rain beat
on my face.
“Quick, Dan, get up!” I cried to the snoring partner of my dreams. “It’s
going to pour down rain in a few minutes.”
We scurried around, collecting and packing our scattered belongings,
then decided to make a dash for a big barn which stood not far down the
road at the foot of a hill, for the rain was beginning to fall heavily.
Reaching the highway, we sprang to saddle and sped down the hill. With a
sickening lurch the front wheel struck a slippery patch of mud at the
bottom, the hind wheel skidding sideways. The heel of my right shoe
caught in the pedal shaft and in a trice was torn from my foot and sent
spinning ten feet away. Dan went sprawling on the wet earth, while I
hopped awkwardly along, bruising my shins, but clinging desperately to
the handle bars with both hands.
Dan picked himself up and came to my assistance.
“Pick up my heel, please,” said I, standing like a stork on one foot.
Dan stared at me dazedly. “Pick up my heel,” I cried impatiently. He
reached for my foot. “Do you think I’m a horse waiting to be shod? Don’t
you see the heel of my shoe lying over there in the mud?”
With that he retrieved the loosened heel and we hurried through the
steady downpour to the barn. The owner came out and, having listened to
our tale of woe, gave us some shingle nails to repair the torn shoe and
bade us build a fire beneath a shed to prepare breakfast. Dan fulfilled
the augury of the previous day by the purchase of some fresh eggs, and
soon we were feasting on bacon and eggs and pints of steaming coffee.
Good? Why nectar and ambrosia were stale beside it.
After the meal, we repaired to the barn loft and, easing our weary bones
into the prickly depths of hay, awaited the end of the storm.