CYCLING.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XIX, Issue XXI, 13 November 1897, Page 653

CYCLING.

‘Cyclist,’ in the ‘Madras Mail,’ tells the following ‘absolutely true story’ of a bicycle and a snake : — I was always a timid bicyclist, and I do not think that ‘coasting’ is safe. I have had no foot-rests fitted On my bicycle, and in going down hill I never take my feet off the pedals, so that I always manage to retain complete control of my machine. This cautious habit made all the difference in an adventure that befell me the other day on the road between Coimbatore and Pollachi. Every one who has been to the Annamallay Hills knows that after one passes Podanur Junction the road crosses an undulating country, and the cyclist has to toil up ridge after ridge, silthough, of course, he has the compensating pleasure of letting his machine go when he runs down the slopes. It was when I was spinning down one of these ridges that this adventure came upon me. I was looking at some gathering clouds on the horizon which foretold a thunderstorm, and I was meditating on my chances of arriving at my destination with a dry coat, when suddenly I saw in front of me, across the road, a long snake. It was impossible to swerve to either side and avoid the loathsome reptile, for the slope was too steep and I was going fast. The only thing to do was to stop. I back pedalled with my whole weight. The rising crank lifted me out of the saddle as I straightened my knee. I put on the brake with all the force that my right hand could exert. But the momentum was too great or the hill was too steep. The brake rod had not been adjusted so as to make the brake very powerful, and it only cheeked the speed of the front tyre, which still slithered round under the rubber cushion as the bicycle went on over the snake, which rose with a hiss to meet me, and extended its hood. Quick as lightning it struck at the front wheel, and as it struck I instinctively lifted both hands from the handle bar out of harm’s way, and leaned back in the saddle, the thought flashing through my mind that shoes and hose gave my feet and legs a chance, but that my hands were naked to the serpent’s fangs. The instant my hand was off the brake the bicycle shot forward, for in my fright I had forgotten to continue to baek pedal, and the road was very steep, and I weigh. I regret to say, more than 14 stone, so that the bicycle simply gave a bound down hill. But only one bound. I had not had time to replace my hands on the handles when, with unutterably sickening horror, I saw that the snake was half through the front wheel, and that the wheel was drawing it through the fork with a horrid ‘whish’ and a sensible slackening of speed. Then there was a thud as the head of the snake was drawn through the fork and hit the road on the left, and a fraction of a second later, a flap of the tail end of the snake as it was drawn through and hit the road on the right, followed by the horrid ‘whish’ again as it was once more drawn through the fork. There was no time to think. The one idea that possessed me was to accelerate this process. I leaned forward over the handle bar and pedalled with all my strength. How that bicycle did fly down the hill ! The trees by the roadside passed me like a ribbon. The dreadful ‘whish, thud, flap.’

•whish. thud, flap’ continued, but the ‘whish’ was not so loud and did not perceptibly affect the speed of the cycle as the snake softened under the treatment. The level ground at the foot of the slope I sped across at racing speed, and I rushed the opposite slope so long as I had any breath left in me. Then I ventured to alight. The snake's head was gone as far as the spectacles on the hood, pounded into a jelly by the hard high road ; on the right side of the wheel the snake tapered off into a few fleshless vertebrae. Two herd boys in the fields by the roadside came to see what had happened, and with sticks helped me to remove the carcase from my front wheel. When I reached Pollachi I had a whisky and soda. I think that no man knows how good a whisky and soda can be until he has had a cobra in the front wheel of his bicycle for a mile or more, the while he has been pedalling for dear life ! Evidently the day of the gallant gypsy is over. His weird music and comely physique have charmed many a woman, but now the bicycle has dethroned his music, and skill in pedalling is counted of higher value than skill in singing wild Romany melodies. A few months ago a gypsy wooed and won a princess ; a few days ago a bicycle instructor wooed and won a Parisian lady of high rank ami many accomplishments. Victor Broe is the name of the Adonis. A year ago he accepted a position as professor of bicycling in a sporting academy near the Champs Elysees. and his principal duty was to teach young ladies how to ride the wheel. He had numerous scholars, and among them was one to whom he soon began to show special attention. She was a pretty little girl and the idol of her parents, who are quite wealthy. The ‘Professor’ speedily began to pour his soft nothings into her all too willing ear, and the natural result was that they met one starlit evening and swore to love each other until death should them part. Victor spoke of marriage, and the little girl went home, dreaming of orange blossoms and a bridal veil. Next morning she learned, to her consternation, that her secret had been betrayed. Her parents had somehow learned of her infatuation, and they at once took effectual steps to cure her. Her father, a levelheaded man, sent for the ‘professor’ and had a business talk with him. Instead of storming and expostulating. he offered the would-be son-in-law a few thousand francs if he would resign all claim to his daughter’s hand. Broe, not being well endowed with this world's goods, accepted the offer, and so this little love episode terminated. If we are making slow progress in this country (England) with motorcycles and motor-ears, says an authority, they are even more behindhand in America. I was talking to one of the leading American cyclists, and he told me that not more than two or three firms at the most were devoting any attention to what I consider will be the cycle of the future—the motor-driven cycle. Possibly the bad roads in America may account for this backward state of things. Matters in connection with the motor business are just now in a very stagnant condition, but I feel confident that in the near future there is going to be a big motor boom. Mr S. F. Edge, the general manager of the Dunlop Tyre Company, who has been making a vast number of experiments in motor-cycling, tells me that a company is about to be formed which will control some of the finest motor appliances for cycles which have yet been invented, and they will be handled in a business-like wav. and properly placed upon the market. The Welsh bicyclist, Michael, who is credited with being the fastest rider in the world, gives, in a letter to one of the New York papers, an interesting account of his sensations while path racing. For a few miles he can hear his trainer call off his speed and give advice, which he is able to take, but at the end of ten miles ‘the course becomes a grey streak rushing beneath my feet, and all the sounds anil cheers are gradually dying away, and the rush of air sounds like a dull roar from afar. The light of day changes to the dulness of evening, and the twang of the spokes cutting the air grows fainter and fainter, and at 20 miles the only sound that comes to me is

the low purr of the rushing wheels. At 25 miles I have lost all sense of hearing, all power to think, all feeling. 1 seem to be absolutely motionless in my limbs, but 1 am literally flying through the air. Pacer after pacer comes and goes, and disturbs me not. I instinctively follow anything that seems to be leading me, and the. change is made by instinct. . . . When the race is over. I once again collect the faculties that have been dulled in the effort, and am right in a very short time.’ Michael, although only 20, calculates that he has already ridden over 100,000 miles, and candidly admits that he believes he is riding himself to death. This is said to be an excellent wash for the girl who will ride a wheel and get freckles on her nose. Dissolve 20 grains of borax and 30 grains of sugar candy in two table spoonfuls of artificial lemon juice. Sponge the freckled nose or cheeks freely and frequently with this beauty lotion, and the result will be highly satisfactory. To make the artificial lemon juice take an ounce of fresh lemon peel and grate it. Pour over it four ounces of alcohol. Let. it soak for a week, shaking it several times a day. Filter it through filter paper when the week is ended. Drop a tablespoonful in a glass of water and you have a refreshing, healthful drink, as well as face lotion. Tincture of orange peel may be made the same way. dissolving six drops of essential oil of orange peel in a half-ounce of the tincture, and adding a solution of one ounce of citric acid and dropped in a quart of water. This makes a refreshing drink. In this country hill-climbing contests have been a more or less popular feature of the sport. In America, however, they are more partial to coasting contests. One has recently been held, at which an enormous gathering of cyclists was present, and the affair seems to have been most exciting. A very large proportion of the spectators were wheelwomen who had set their hearts on the success of a tall and handsome rider, who was acknowledged to be the champion coaster. Unfortunately, just as he was within an aee of winning, after coasting the hill at a tremendous pace and in most graceful style, a sharp flint punctured his tyre and put him out of court. Recently I have more than once discussed the question of alterations in the pattern of cycles for IS9B, and I see in a Scotch paper another suggestion which I think is a good one. Cycle makers are urged to invent a method of mechanically fixing the back wheel in true alignment to the chain stays. Undoubtedly this would be a great boon to numbers of cyclists The difficulty of adjusting the baek wheel is a great one with most riders. A slanting wheel is an abomination, for it plays havoc with the chain and the running of the machine. Cycle polo is becoming very popular in Ireland. I was speaking to one of the most prominent players of this game the other day, and he was relating his experiences, which would go to prove that it is one of the most exciting games one can possibly imagine. In Ireland it is played quite differently from the cycle polo which has been in vogue at the Crystal Palace recently. Ordinary polo sticks are used, anil the teams are usually four a side. It requires a very great amount of skill to become an expert player of cycle polo, and if the game were properly taken up in this country 1 feel sure, it would be very popular, although it certainly puts a great strain on the machines ridden. The Ameer of Afghanistan has become a victim to the cycling craze, but with the Oriental's love of ease he uses a triplet machine, and leaves all the work to his two pedallers. It needed no expert in prophecy to foretell that Fashion would be soon weary of her bicycle (says Max lieerbohin, in the ‘London Mail'), nor needs it a very keen observer to see that she is weary of it already. She still bestrides it, but in comparison with her manner of last year or the year before last, how listlessly. A little while and she will suffer it to be wheeled into that niusee sentimentale wherein she keeps, duly classified, specimens of her past foibles. Already she has drop|>ed it. from her conversation; Budge, Humber. Singer she cares no longer to discriminate between machines which are, one

and all of them, the devil's own patent. Indeed, she thinks bicycling was ever the most tedious topic of <on vernation. It was also the most tedious form of exercise, save walking. known to the human race. It was but a strange, ingenious com|M>und of dulness and danger. I wish that Eashion’s neglect could doom the bicycle. Of course, it cannot. The bicycle, long before it became fashion's foible, had all the makings of a national institution, and Eashion's patronage has but speeded its triumphal progress through England. Some things were created by Eashion herself, and perished so soon as she was weary of them. Others, merely adopted by her. are more abiding, (iolf, for example, as the most perfect expression of national stupidity, has an assured, uncheckered future, and croquet, as the one out-door game at which people can cheat, will never be in prolonged abeyance, and bicycling. as a symptom of that locomotomania produced by the usages of steam. will endure 'till we go back to the old coaches.’ The bicycle is complementary to the steam engine, doing for the horseless individual what the steam engine does for the community. It was as inevitable as it is unlovely, and I must put up with it. But, though the bicycle is a serious fact. and though Demos, with humped back and all the muscles of his face beetled down to one expression of grotesque and ghastly resolve, will continue to scorch through those clouds of dust which mercifully obscure his outlines or those baths of mud which he would have me share with him. yet I may bid a glad farewell to the bicycle as Fashion's foible. To Fashion the bicycle was but a new toy. not a necessity. The dame is rich, and can afford horses, and her horses will be a proud symbol of her superiority, hereafter as in the past. Next century, she will tour equestrian in the bikish chaos, and the horses of her barouche will shy among the serried moto-cars of the middle class. Little Goldie Straight, whose father, A. \V. Straight, lives at Bosworth Avenue, Chicago, is one of the youngest cyclists on record. She is three years old, and was two years and nine months old when she learned to ride. She is 36 inches tall, and with her pretty baby face framed in golden curls, dressed in a little cycling suit, and mounted on the most diminutive of cycles, she is generally surrounded by an admiring throng whenever she rides in Chicago's parks and boulevards. Her little bike was made for her by her father. That is he made the frame, as he could not get one small enough for her. The frame is 11 inches high, and the wheels 14 inches in diameter. It is a 32 gear, ami weighs 12 pounds. It is painted white trimmed with gold, and on the front is the name ‘Little Colour Bearer,' with a picture of the American flag. Cyclists will find better treatment at the hands of the Irish railway companies than of the English. Sixpence will carry a bicycle in Ireland the same, distance as 2/ in England. For 1 you can practically take your bike by rail any distance. In France cyclists are permitted to ride on footpaths and ways assigned to pedestrians —except in cities and towns —where the road is badly paved and impassable. They must go at a moderate pace, however, and dismount if necessary, to allow a pedestrian to pass. It is one of my rides, says a lady cvelist. who is a good long distance rider, never to ‘coast.’ 1 would rather climb a hill than ride down one. 1 seldom, if ever, dismount in climbing a hill, but when I once reach the top I always get off and lead my wheel down. It depends somewhat, to be sure on the grade of the bill, but if the wheel goes at all fast 1 dismount. My friends say that they can always lose me in going down a hill, but that 1 can catch any of them in going up the next one. The fact is 1 have a horror of my wheel getting beyond my control. .Many very serious accidents are constantly occurring in this way. The secret of long distance riding, I should say, is not to ride too fast. A great many riders who start out on long runs fall out because they fail to maintain an even speed, ami wear themselves out early in the run.