THE DIXIE HIGHWAY
In the morning everything was wet with dew. The mist was disappearing
quickly, and I arose refreshed in body and mind. Specialists would have
prognosticated acute rheumatism. Doctors would have foretold death
within forty-eight hours. But I was never so free from rheumatism as
I am now; moreover, I live to tell the tale, with the probability
of continued existence for several years to come. Lizzie looked
disconsolate and rusty in every nut and bolt, but with a few kicks she
rattled into life once more. The driver of a passing Ford informed me
that I was twenty miles from the right road, which meant returning into
Moundsville and crossing over the broad, muddy Ohio River, spanned
by a lofty suspension bridge made almost entirely of wood. The Ohio
River, once seen, is never to be forgotten. It is verily a flowing mass
of dirty, yellow-brown mud. The natives of Ohio refer to it as the
"Golden" River, I believe, but when I first made its acquaintance, I
was in no mood to appreciate such poetic nomenclature. Instead I was
bent on reaching Wheeling and breakfast.
Wheeling was reached in a couple of hours' riding along the banks of
the river. It need hardly be said that I did justice to a substantial
breakfast, which put an entirely new aspect on affairs in general. I
struck the main "pike" through to Cincinnati, and continued hopefully
on three cylinders with the best of intentions of reaching it that
evening, although it meant a ride of over 300 miles.
I did 150 in fairly good time and reckoned on having my
lunch-tea-dinner-supper meal at Columbus, the State capital, about
five in the afternoon. But about twenty miles from that city a most
distressing sound arose from the engine. I had previously slackened
down to a steady thirty miles an hour so as to give Lizzie the best
chance of holding out over the journey. But now a series of violent
thumps and bangs disturbed once and for all my hopeful frame of mind.
Undoubtedly there was a big breakage somewhere and it was evidently
quite impossible to continue another mile. With a final thud the engine
stopped and the machine came to a standstill near a little bridge where
a tiny streamlet trickled under the roadway. Near the bridge was, as
might be expected, the inevitable hoarding: "SELL IT AND BUY A
FORD." Strange that Fate should at times be so ironical!
I made myself comfortable on a grassy slope and proceeded to take the
engine down. This I soon discovered was no mean task. It took nearly
three hours to remove the cylinders. Woe be unto the man hereafter who
puts nuts where they cannot be loosened or places cylinders where they
cannot be removed save by an Indian sword-swallower! The result of my
investigations was that I found the front piston in fragments, mainly
in the bottom of the crank-case. The gudgeon pin was broken in half and
the connecting rod was waggling about merrily in the cylinder. All the
bearings were loose, and although there was plenty of oil in the sump,
one was devoid of metal altogether. This was discovered at the bottom
in the form of powder. An encouraging outlook indeed!
Although my motto where a refractory motor is concerned--"to get it
home somehow"--could have been ignored, I was not even in walking
distance of anywhere. There was no town or village for miles around,
and only a solitary farmhouse here and there. Further, an empty stomach
does not improve one's outlook on life under such circumstances, and
mine was very empty. I took stock of the whole situation. What should
it be? Walk to Columbus and take the train, or stick by Lizzie and get
along somehow? I counted out my money. It amounted to three dollars and
thirty-five cents, not even enough for the railway fare. "No, I've set
out to cross these infernal States on a motor-cycle, and I'll do it," I
resolved, and sat down again to patch Lizzie's engine together.
The rumble of cart wheels on the brick road attracted my attention. The
cart was drawn by a weary horse in the charge of a more weary driver.
"Hi, brother, got anything edible on board?" I shouted.
"I gotta lot o' old boots here," he replied, evidently in ignorance of
the meaning of the word "edible."
"No, thanks, I gotta good pair of my own to start on before I come to
that. Aincher got any oranges?"
"Yep, I got one box left, four fer a quarter."
Bang went seventy-five cents for a dozen, leaving me with two dollars
sixty. Now, thought I, I have enough provisions to last a couple of
days. Let Old Harry do his worst.
The vendor of boots, furniture, and oranges went on his weary way.
From a bough of a willow tree I shaped a neat gudgeon pin that fitted
dead into the loose end of the connecting rod to guide it up and down
in the cylinder. I fished out all the big lumps of the broken piston
that remained in the crank-case and tightened up the bearings as well
as I could. By the time it was dark I had everything replaced ready to
start on the road once more.
Before daybreak, I was up and on the road; my plan was to keep on all
day at a steady twenty miles an hour and reach Cincinnati about five
in the afternoon. The machine ran well considering its wooden gudgeon
pin, although it was not easy to avoid being reminded continually of
Lizzie's indisposition, and as time went on the rattles became worse,
the clanks became gradually louder, and I began to wonder where my next
stop would be.
I passed through Columbus about breakfast-time, but did not stop for
breakfast. There was no money for breakfasts. Now, although I did not
stop at Columbus, I cannot with but a few words dismiss it entirely
from consideration. Although not by any means the largest town in Ohio,
it is the State capital. That feature, as I have pointed out before,
is not at all unique in the States. In fact, I do not think I could
name a single State capital that is the largest town of the State,
without referring to the authority of one Baedeker. Not only are there
over 125,000 people in Columbus, but it appeared to me to be a very
fine city. The streets are wider and are better paved than those of
most American cities, and in places are illuminated by large electric
arches. Although there are seven towns throughout America boasting this
title (each one in a different State), I think Columbus, Ohio, must be
the _élite_ of all the Columbuses.
Outside Columbus I stopped, had lunch--three oranges--and continued.
There was really no necessity to stop, but I liked to feel that lunch
was just as important an occasion as when it wasn't oranges.
The engine was by now getting rather noisy. People who passed in
cars, many of whom I had passed two days before, slowed down as they
approached and looked at me wonderingly, as if to ask if I knew
anything about it. They probably came to the conclusion that I was a
deaf-mute.
Then we got to Springfield, and a noticeable feature at the side of
the road, on a special track of its own, was an electric train service
connecting up all the large towns in the district, even though the
distances amounted to thirty and forty miles, in some cases even
fifty, as is the case between Columbus and Springfield. Perhaps I am
complimenting them by referring to them as trains, as they are more
in the nature of single or double-coach trams, but I was surprised
not only by the speed at which they travelled, but also by the number
of passengers who availed themselves of the service. In a way, the
presence of that track was comforting, particularly when some new noise
or rattle emanated from my thrice-weary steed. On the other hand it is
distinctly humiliating to be astride a 10 h.p. motor-cycle de luxe,
jogging along side-saddle (to ease the growing soreness!) at fifteen or
twenty miles per hour on three crotchety cylinders, when a tram-load
of disinterested Americans flies past with a shriek at forty or fifty.
Generally the driver realized the position and sounded a piercing
whistle with a supercilious air, as if to say: "Make way for the fast
traffic, please!"
At Springfield the speedometer flicked off the 1,000th mile, and
I branched away from the "Pike's Peak" Ocean-to-Ocean Highway
(for such it appeared to be), and turned south-westward towards
Dayton, a flourishing manufacturing and business centre. "Detours"
and sub-detours were the order of the day and were conspicuous by
their presence, as also by the general looseness and rottenness of
their surface. In theory I was travelling upon the "Dixie Highway,"
reputed (by advertisements thereon appearing) to be "the finest and
most luxurious highway in the States." As far as my experience was
concerned, I found it paved with good intentions and bad cobblestones.
Sometimes, when the paving blocks had been pulled up preparatory to new
ones being laid down, the surface was tolerably good, but then would
appear a "detour" heralded by an insolently-improvised notice-board
which led the unfortunate traveller miles and miles from his appointed
path and over the most disgusting road-surface imaginable.
I was pleased with Dayton. As I left it behind me, I wished it
prosperity. It seemed to have the right kind of air about it. A
friendly policeman held up a bunch of traffic for two minutes for me
while he put me "wise" to the road to take. He noticed my New York
number-plate and finished his chat with "Well, good day, brother, and
the best of luck to you." I wouldn't even have killed a mosquito in
Dayton!
It was now well after midday. Cincinnati was still about sixty miles
away. Would it be safe to have a meal in the next town? I had filled up
with "gas" and oil in Dayton and had about fifty cents (2_s._) left.
With a three days' diet of oranges, I had cultivated an appetite of
great latent possibilities. I determined to be rash. Next stop, I told
myself, I would look around for a "bakeshop."
An hour later I arrived at a little town called "Lebanon." It was
very small, very picturesque, and very unpretentious. But it boasted
an excellent "bakeshop." I leant Lizzie against the kerb outside and
pressed my nose against the window-pane. The sight of all those nice
cakes was almost as good as a feed--but not quite! I espied one, plain
and large but tasty-looking. I valued it at twenty-five cents. "Well,
it'll last a long time," I thought, and entered meekly to inquire the
price. "Five cents," replied the lady of the counter. "Done! It's mine,
_all of it_!"
Long live Lebanon!
A few miles out, I halted near a bridge under which ran a little stream
of crystal water. It was a treat to be out of the glare of the baking
sun, so I sat down on the bank underneath the bridge and settled down
in earnest to a sumptuous dinner. The bill of fare was as follows:--
_Hors d'oeuvres_ Gâteau de Lebanon (varié).
_Consommé_ Eau Naturelle.
_Entrée_ Gâteau de Lebanon.
_Plat du jour_ Ditto.
_Légumes_ Ditto.
_Dessert_ Ditto.
_Wines_ Vin blanc d'Adam (direct
from the distillery).
And oh, what a meal was there, my countrymen! There was enough and to
spare. The cooking was excellent, the service irreproachable, and there
were no gratuities.
After a leisurely half-hour I stuffed what little cake I couldn't
contain into the tool-box, took one last, lingering draught from the
cool crystal stream, and again kicked Lizzie into a rattle.
Once more towards Cincinnati! Two hours only, now, I reminded myself,
and all the trees and birds in hearing. Gradually those two hours
became shorter as mile after weary mile rattled past. Sure enough, in
about the time I had reckoned the pot-holes in the road grew larger and
the ruts deeper, a sure sign of approaching civilization. Then a huge
signboard appeared, "CINCINNATI, THE QUEEN CITY OF THE WEST.
Make your home in Cincinnati."
The Cincinnati Speedway was passed on the right, and after a couple of
miles or more I struck tram-lines. The reader can well imagine how glad
and relieved I felt when I spotted trams and tram-lines, those things
which in normal life I rightly detest and abhor. Whereas once upon
a time I considered them to be the motorist's greatest enemy, I now
smiled upon them with friendly gaze.
By the time I was actually on the outskirts of the town, I was "baked
to a frizzle." And such a thirst! For three days I had been amassing a
good thirst. Ohio mud is not really a good beverage. It might perhaps
"put one over" the "near" beer that I have tasted in various American
towns, but that's not to be wondered at. The man who first called it
"near" beer wasn't much of a judge of distance! Never could I remember
having been so hot, so thirsty, and so fed up, all in one. I pulled up
at the first drug store and literally squandered twenty-five cents in
an orgy of ice-cream sodas. I took the precaution to retain ten cents,
however, "in case anything turned up."
At about half-past four WE ARRIVED. A wealth of meaning rests
in those two words. My friend Steve heard the noise as he sat reading
on the verandah of 3,450 Clifton Avenue. "That can't be Shep. That's
somebody wheeling a lawn-mower," he said to himself without looking-up,
and went on with his book. But when the lawn-mower had overrun itself
and turned round and came back and continued indefinitely to lawn-mow
outside the same 3,450, he looked up and saw that it was indeed a
motor-cycle or, at any rate, the unmistakable remnants of one. When he
saw the rider, he thought: "No, that can't be Shep after all; that's
the dustman."
But fact will always triumph over fiction. In the same way soap,
thank Heaven, will always triumph over dirt. But what a relief to be
once again in a comfortable house, that could almost be considered
"home," and once more to know the joys of a good hot bath and feel the
luxurious embrace of clean clothes again!