CYCLING IN A HAIL-STORM--A MEETING WITH A ONE-LEGGED
WHEELMAN--"TOMMY ATKINS" JOINS THE PARTY--MT. ROSA'S BLIZZARD.
Grand Island, Neb., is a small city, but it contains more wheelmen,
in proportion to its size, than any city we encountered. There are
two bicyclists' clubs, the "Tourists" and "Orientals," the former an
organization composed exclusively of ladies. Splendid delegations
from both bodies were awaiting us outside of Grand Island the
morning we neared the city. En route, Mrs. McIlrath experienced
an accident which made me fear for her safety of limb, as well as
fearing that we should be delayed for several days. About ten miles
east of Grand Island, while riding the railroad tracks, we ran into a
hail-storm. Mrs. McIlrath, with her head between her shoulders, was
driving blindly in the face of the fusillade of ice bullets. Unable
to see where she was going, she ran straight into a cattle guard,
throwing her some twenty feet down an embankment, and bending her
handle-bars till they met above. Our stay at Grand Island was limited,
and we proceeded the same afternoon to Kearney, at which city we
arrived late the following morning. Our party, which was much like a
snowball, in that it gathered constantly, was augmented at Kearney by
Mr. W. B. Walker. The trip was an eventful one for him, and probably
changed his views upon the matter of wheelmen's costume. Walker was a
howling swell when he started away with us. His Scotch clothes were
models of the tailor's art, his cap was of the latest fashion, and
his stockings were positively delirious in their pattern. At Shelby
we struck an electrical storm, the lightning fairly gliding along the
rails and ofttimes playing about our plated handle-bars. Walker grew
frightened, and leaping from his wheel landed squarely in a pool of
water, which had been stagnant until stirred by the heavy rain shortly
before. He was anything but the dapper looking individual of Kearney
when he dragged himself from the pool. He got as far as Cozad, and
in tones of disgust he bade us good-bye to return home to his wardrobe.
We passed the night at Cozad, leaving there at noon Tuesday. At
Gothenburg we were met by Will Edwards, S. P. Anderson and George
Roberts. This man Roberts is a marvel. Some years ago he had the
misfortune to lose his right leg, but put him on a wheel and he
is a wonder in spite of his affliction. Through the sandy soil
and mud, this man could even outwind Mrs. McIlrath and myself,
and a picturesque figure he was, too, as he glided over the plains,
with his one leg turning the pedal like a steam piston, and a crutch
lashed over his back like a musket. The boys rode with us to North
Platt, where we put up for the night. North Platt is one of the best
known cities in Nebraska, made so, no doubt, by its being the home
of Col. W. F. Cody, famed all over the world as "Buffalo Bill." Cody
has a magnificent ranch, which is virtually a present from the United
States Government, as Uncle Sam donated the land in recognition of
the Colonel's valuable services as scout during the Indian wars. The
ranch is called "Scout's Rest," and is managed by Mr. J. A. Goodman,
Col. Cody's brother-in-law. Our party spent a delightful day at the
"Rest" and in the evening we were driven to the city residence of
Col. and Mrs. Cody.
We landed upon Colorado soil on Friday, May 3, being accompanied
from Big Springs, our last stop in Nebraska, by Messrs. Weber and
Hoagland. I may mention, by the way, that Big Springs first achieved
notoriety as the headquarters for the James gang. There are men still
in Big Springs who delight to sit by the hour and relate their personal
experiences with the daring Jesse and Frank, and their fearless
followers. As we landed at Julesburg, our first stop in Colorado, on
May 3, we made the 1,000-mile mark, the actual traveling time being
fourteen days, which I did not consider bad in view of our traveling
impedimenta and unfamiliarity with the roads. The roughest traveling
we had yet suffered came between Red Line and Iliff. Along the line
we found the natives to be the same kind-hearted, simple folk that
cheered us on our way through Iowa and Nebraska. As an instance of the
good-natured but gruff treatment we received, I cannot refrain from
relating an experience at a section-house near Stoneham. Mrs. McIlrath
was thirsty. For nearly six hours we had ridden in the blazing sun
without catching so much as a sight of water. Our joy at beholding
some evidence of human habitation proved almost too much for her. As we
neared the section-house the little woman was all but in tears, and so
impatient that she could hardly make the distance. We called at every
window and door of the house, but not a soul replied. I peered into one
of the little windows, and saw a bucket and dipper on a table. Thinking
it no harm to enter without the owner's permission, I tried the front
door, and to my bitter disappointment I discovered it locked with a
big red padlock, bigger and redder than those the sheriff uses when
he closes up a man's business house. Mrs. McIlrath was seated on the
ground with tears rolling down her cheeks. The sight of her distress
was more than I could bear. I was on the point of attempting to break
the windows when I saw the tiny prints made by the wheels of a baby
buggy rolling around the house. I knew at once that the family could
not be far away, so leaving my wife with a promise to return shortly,
I followed the tracks of the baby buggy and came upon the entire family
in a pasture about a quarter of a mile from the dwelling. The section
foreman greeted me in friendly tones, and asked what he could do. I
told him it was water I wanted, and then as a guarantee of my honest
intentions, I jokingly told him of my temptation to break his window.
"Young man," he replied sternly, "you are a fool. If my wife had been
thirsty, and I could have found an ax, I shouldn't have walked this
far to ask for a drink of water."
To appreciate thirst, or rather the cause for it, in this part of
the country, it must be understood that all water is brought to
the section-houses in barrels by the railroad company. Not a drop
is wasted, the casks are watched and guarded as rigidly as the fresh
water casks on a steamer at sea. Only once on our trip were we refused
a bite to eat; food was always given us willingly and lavishly, but
in many places it was like pulling teeth to get a cup of cold water
from some of the inhabitants. On May 6 we covered 128 miles, riding
over cactus, prairie and sandy desert. In the afternoon we arrived in
Denver, marking our 1,200 miles out of Chicago, 500 of which had been
done over railroad ties. Our comfort and entertainment in Denver were
looked after by the "Ramblers." They were so kind to us that I feared
we would be handicapped. I mean this literally, for each member seemed
to think that he, solely, was paying Mrs. McIlrath the compliment of a
souvenir spoon. It seemed impossible for us to get away from souvenir
spoons. We had many pounds of souvenir spoons after a reception on
the evening of May 8, at the Rambler's Club House. Poor Mrs. McIlrath
wilted when we reached the hotel, and with a look of pleading that
was comical to behold, she sank upon the bed and exclaimed:
"Oh, Darwin, how on earth are we ever to get around the world if
we keep on adding weight to our clothes and traveling cases!" The
reception at the "Ramblers" was a delightful event, and one which
Mrs. McIlrath and I often talked of during our travels. We said
good-bye to Denver at 3 o'clock on the afternoon of May 10. An
escort of "Ramblers" followed us as far as Colorado Springs, upon the
outskirts of which city we found awaiting us Messrs. C. W. Dawson,
local consul for the L. A. W., A. C. Van Cott and L. J. Wahl. It was
at Colorado Springs also that we met "Tommy Atkins," who was destined
to be our steady companion. "Tommy Atkins" is the name which we gave
to Merton Duxbury, an Englishman, who had left Providence, R. I.,
two weeks before we left Chicago. He was bound for 'Frisco, and by
hard riding had arrived in Colorado Springs but an hour or two ahead
of the Inter Ocean tourists. I do not know what we should have done
without Duxbury. He was original in all things, a born comedian,
in fact, though he himself did not know how delightfully amusing he
was. If Mrs. McIlrath was tired, or hungry, or thirsty, and I wished
to make her forget it, I had only to call "Tommy Atkins," and his
pranks did the rest. More amusing things happened to "Tommy" than
one could find by attending the theater nightly for years. Another
"joy" in human form joined us at Manitou, in the person of "Jim"
P. Anderson of Denver, a 200-pound cyclist who was trying to make
himself thin by means of the wheel. He asked permission, which was
readily given, to become one of us for a short time. With all regard
for Anderson's staying qualities, I am inclined to believe it was just
as well he did not ask to remain a longer time. But for the largest
bottle in our medicine kit, he would have collapsed on our first hard
ride up Cheyenne Mountain to Cripple Creek. A storm of blended rain,
snow and sand had befallen us on our eight-mile climb to the peak of
Mount Rosa, and at its thickest the gigantic Anderson dismounted from
his wheel, and upon his knees in a snow-drift he offered a prayer to
"dear, good, kind Mr. McIlrath" not to try to go farther, but to set
back for the tavern at the base of the mountain. Upon this point I
was immovable. The snow blinded the way ahead of us, but I insisted
that we push on. After a few hundred yards my eyes were delighted
with a sign reading, "Halfway House, Mount Rosa," and a wooden hand
pointing up the mountain.
Pushing our snow-clogged wheels over an unbroken track we came to
a log hut just back of the welcome sign, and there we discovered
not a haven of rest and warmth, but a deserted house with its every
door and window nailed. Poor Jim, with a hoarse cry, threw himself
on the snow, and moaned like a child. Had we been lost in a desert,
thousands of miles from aid, the situation could not have been more
dramatic. Electricity now added its terrors to our discomforts, and
with a sharp crackling sound everything assumed a pinkish hue. Contact
with each other produced distinct shocks, and if our fingers touched
the wire fence, against which we had leaned our wheels, tiny sparks
darted from their tips to the attractive metal. It was only the
grandeur of the scene, I firmly believe, that kept Mrs. McIlrath upon
her feet. With Anderson it was no joke. The poor fellow was worn out,
and the altitude had an effect upon his lungs that threatened him
with severe hemorrhage. But "Tommy Atkins" stood the test nobly,
and while he reassured Mrs. McIlrath, I did my best to brace up the
inconsolable Anderson. Duxbury and I were agreed that as long as the
sign directing us to the Halfway House remained standing there must be
a Halfway House somewhere not far up the road. Anderson pulled himself
together, and the four of us, pushing our wheels in single file, found
the Halfway House one mile away. No palace was ever more attractive
to the eye than was this house of plank, with its uncarpeted floors
and unvarnished doors. The best meal we ever had was had in this
hut. We passed the night here, and as we sat about the dining-room
before going to bed, we made the acquaintance of Mr. George Bentley,
an attorney of Colorado Springs, who was en route to Cripple Creek in
a buggy. The meeting with Bentley was most fortunate for Anderson. The
big wheelman lost no time in getting chummy with the lawyer, and as
we started to retire Anderson surprised us all by exclaiming in the
most matter-of-fact way: "Well, I thank you Mr. Bentley, and since
you have suggested it, I shall be glad to ride to Cripple Creek in
your buggy with you to-morrow." The cunning fellow had got ahead of
us, and he thought it a great joke. With his wheel tied behind the
buggy, he and Bentley left for Cripple Creek at 8:30 o'clock the
next morning, and an hour afterward Mrs. McIlrath, "Tommy Atkins"
and I followed in their wake.
We had been on the road an hour when, from a man we met on the crest of
one of the hills just east of Love Camp, we learned that the buggy was
not fifteen minutes ahead. With renewed vigor we set out to make up the
time down that and every succeeding hill. The first hill was descended
in safety and without effort we rolled up the short incline and plunged
down the next. As I whizzed along, my wheel bending from side to side,
I felt the road unusually rough and made strenuous efforts to slacken
my speed. Duxbury was just ahead of me and I dared not remove my feet
from the pedals for fear of running him down. Nor could I check my
wheel too much, or Mrs. McIlrath would telescope me from behind. The
situation was a trying one, and only when the last curve was reached,
and I had successfully scraped past a large boulder which obstructed
a clear passage over a corduroy bridge, did I feel safe. The place I
had just passed was a most dangerous one. The bridge was narrow and
the gorge was ten or twelve feet deep, and more than half filled with
rushing water from the thawing snow. I was just wondering what would
save one from death if a ride such as mine should terminate in striking
a boulder in the path, when down the hill rushed my wife. The front
wheel of her machine struck the rock, and with a scream the little
woman was thrown foremost on the stones below, and disappeared under
the foaming flood. Horror stricken, for a moment I stood spellbound,
and then rushed forward expecting to find her terribly mangled, if
not killed outright. When I reached the stream she was clinging to
a crag, half the time completely submerged, her wheel about her neck
like a frame. Fortunately she was unhurt beyond a few scratches and
a bruise on the left cheek. Strangling and coughing she clung to the
rock until I lifted the bicycle from about her and then Duxbury and
I by much effort raised the brave woman to the bank above. Her wheel
was uninjured, and after we had squeezed some of the water from her
clothes, we ascended the "Divide" and pushed on until we came to a hut
bearing a sign, "CRPL KRK Laundry." A Chinaman stood in the doorway,
and from him we learned that Cripple Creek was just over the hill. When
we reached the town "Tommy Atkins" escorted Mrs. McIlrath to our hotel,
while I went to the postoffice for mail.