In 1895 the bicycle craze came on, and we all left our horses and mounted wheels. I objected to the wheel at first, but when my son, Arthur, brought me a wheel to the factory and insisted that I should try it. I did, and made lots of sport for the hands who were watching me trying to mount, for whenever I lost my balance I would throw the wheel against the curbstone.
That evening Arthur and Walton Aborn gave me a lesson in the dark, and the next day I could ride—that was if all the gates were closed—but when I saw one open I somehow seemed to start right for it, often to the disgust of some dignified old gentleman or frowning lady, who were scrambling for their lives to get out of my way and wondering what I was trying to do.
About the third day I started before daybreak for my brother's summer cottage at Twin Lakes, Wis., about sixty-five miles northwest of Chicago. I arrived about noon, but, oh, the summersaults I did take. Honestly, when I got there, there was scarcely an inch on the wheel where the varnish was not scratched, or any very large patches on my legs where the skin was presentable, for when I took a heels over head into the wayside, the bark usually got scraped off of either the saplings or me. The next day I took a 100-mile circuitous route home, and then for a day was under the care of Dr. Chamberlain, my son-in-law, who was bound to have my picture taken, which I stubbornly declined, but now I wish I had it.
MY FIRST HUNDRED MILE RUN
My son, Arthur, then famous as one of the long distance riders of the west, got up a party of about twenty aspirants to take over the 100-mile Elgin and Aurora course at a breakneck speed. I was not fitted for such a run, but I fell in and we were all off at about five o'clock in the morning.
The wind blew almost a gale in our faces and before we reached Elgin all had dropped out but Walton Aborn, Jim Carroll, Billy Push, Arthur and myself.
Down the Fox River Arthur increased the pace to that extent that Billy threw himself into the shade of a barn and refused to budge, so we left him there.
On the home run from Aurora, Jim Carroll declared his intention not to alight, as was customary at the S. Hill, but ride his wheel down, a feat which Arthur told him no fatigued rider should attempt.