Harper's Round Table, March 24, 1896

by Various

In laying out the trip, some general idea of its course ought to be decided upon, such as a run from Boston to New York and return, from New York to Washington, New York to Buffalo and Niagara, Chicago to Buffalo, Chicago to St. Louis, and so on; or a trip to the White Mountains in New Hampshire, or the Berkshire Hills in Massachusetts, from any of the places named. The words "mountains" and "hills" have a dangerous sound to wheelmen, but the beauty of scenery, the visions of long even coasts, and pleasant variations from the continual revolving of wheels to walking up the next slope, all mean a great deal more than mere hilly roads. Once the trip is laid out, however, all idea of the different stages must be forgotten or never figured out. That planning to reach this town on Monday, and another on Tuesday, and the next on Wednesday, is ruinous to pleasure and to the nerves. The constant strain to get there, or the still greater vexation of getting there in the middle of the afternoon and feeling like going on, is bad.

At any rate, there is not much pleasure in running on railroad time. If the week or fortnight at your disposal is up before the journey is done, take a train and go home, with the wheel in a baggage-car; but on no account hurry. You have your road-map with you, and can see at a glance that Johnstown is three miles further on, and Brownstown is ten. If at Johnstown you don't want to stop, make for Brownstown. If you grow weary five miles out, stop at the first decent-looking house and tell the housewife you are on a pleasure tour, that you want to rest, or hope for a glass of milk or a dinner or a bed. She will help you out if you pay, and often if you don't; but should she refuse, try the next house after suggesting to her that she should ride a bicycle; for as sure as there is a wheel resting up against the house anywhere, you will be received and comforted. Some of the pleasantest incidents of a trip, some of the kindest friends, are found in these little unexpected stops. In any case be pleasant, be considerate; take the baby on your knee, show Johnny how the wheels go round, and scratch the cat's back. All these will open the spare bedroom and the larder, to say nothing of the hostess's heart, and they will even save money.

Suppose, for instance, the trip is to be from New York city to Boston along the Connecticut coast, and back through Massachusetts, over the Berkshire Hills, and down the Hudson—a trip that it will be difficult for any one to surpass anywhere else in the United States for variety of scenery, historic interest, and for good roads and accommodations. You leave New York city, run out through Stamford, New Haven, New London, in Connecticut, thence through Providence to Boston, taking a side trip, if there is time, to Newport, Rhode Island. From Boston the run is westward through Worcester and Springfield, and then, winding about through Lenox, Pittsfield, Stockbridge, and all the Berkshire towns, it finally crosses the border into New York State, until the Hudson is reached; thence it extends down the east bank of the river to New York city. The whole trip has a good name for roads, is full of historic interest, combines sea and mountain air, and gives you a glimpse of old New England life as well as of modern country life of the most advanced type. There are towns and repair shops in plenty, and not many hills as such tours go. You can do it in two weeks or less, or you can easily take a month to it, and at any time you can reach New York city in one night by rail.

There are other trips that in some ways would prove more interesting to different men, and any one, wherever he lives, provided it is somewhere in the northern or eastern part of the United States, or on the Pacific or Atlantic coast, can lay out such a tour from his road-books or his own head. Suppose, for the moment, this trip is to be taken, however, how shall a bicyclist fit out? The questions which require solution are how to carry sufficient clothing for exigencies, and to have it weigh as nearly nothing as possible; and how to travel at as near no cost as possible. There is a well-known system for carrying baggage on a walking tour which is eminently suited to bicyclists; this is to have two pieces of baggage. The first is a large valise or small trunk, containing clothing of all kinds needed for an ordinary two weeks' trip by rail, besides toilet articles, and so on. The materials for the other is composed of a similar set of toilet articles, and one or at most two sets of underclothing, besides an extra pair of shoes or slippers—moccasins pack easily and are very serviceable. This last is packed in a leather case set into the diamond frame of the wheel, or into a knapsack carried on the shoulders. If the diamond-shaped portmanteau is properly made it is better. Luggage seems lighter on the wheel than on your back.

The trouble with the average portmanteau is that it is too thick, making it necessary for the wheelman to straddle it instead of giving him the free use of his limbs to press up and down on the pedals perpendicularly. If you will take the trouble to have this portmanteau made to order and carefully measured, so that it will not come outside a line drawn on either side of the bicycle from the sides of the saddle to the inside of each pedal when at its lowest point in a revolution, you will find no trouble with it. This, however, necessitates its being narrower at the top than at the bottom. On arriving at a hotel for the night, it is unstrapped from the wheel and taken up to your room. Then after your bath there is the change of clothing, the slippers, the toilet articles in a little case by themselves, and your repair kit, which may be wanted in the evening for some little repairs on the wheel. The portmanteau will always be full, so take only what is absolutely necessary, otherwise you will find that some important thing has been left behind, and a useless appendage brought only to occupy valuable space, and be thrown away in disgust. Always carry soap and a towel. They are sometimes hard to find, and oftener so bad that one goes dirty rather than use them. Then, too, a good wash by a stream is only satisfactory when soap and towel are at hand. If you have been compelled to repair a puncture by the way, such a wash with soap and towel is everything. If you stop for a bath in some stream, the towel comes in again.

Another good addition is one of the tiny cameras that are sold nowadays for a small amount. For if you cannot sketch well they bring back with you little reminders of a journey which are invaluable, and they do not take the time in preparation that a sketch does. Of course it would be foolish to attempt to state that photographs are better than good sketches. Any one who can draw reasonably well has something of the greatest value with him. For the average mortal a camera must take its place.

All this time nothing has been said as to the use to be made of the large valise or small trunk. It contains several changes of clothing, extra shoes, extra suits, extra everything, and is sent from New York by express to the Narragansett House at Providence, or to Newport, or even to Boston. On the first day's ride you make Stamford, thirty miles away, or New Haven, forty-one miles further on. The next day New London is far enough. Perhaps you want to stay there an extra day, or perhaps you spend two or three days getting to Providence. At any rate, in three or four or five days you are in Providence, and there is the valise awaiting you with a fresh supply of clothing for the portmanteau. Next morning it goes to Boston, and you follow it the same day, or the next, or three or four days later, just as you wish. In Boston all the clothing can be laundered in a day, and a new start made. From this city the valise goes by express to Springfield or Lenox or Stockbridge, and you follow on at your leisure. If at any time you decide not to pass through the city or town holding your valise for the time being, send a letter and order it sent elsewhere, paying the required amount and a little more by money-order enclosed. Such transactions are safe in any good hotel; but always have the valise marked "to be called for by John Brown, expecting to arrive by bicycle about such and such a date."

It is not improbable that you may want the valise at once. In that case the best plan is to get on a train and ride to it. It will never be more than four hours away, and instead of covering the distance you ride in the train on your wheel, you can add some unexpected and therefore interesting detour to your programme.

From Lenox the valise goes to Hudson or Poughkeepsie, or even to New York city again, and the trip is finished, as it was begun, in pleasant irregular stages, with stoppages wherever desirable, and long runs whenever wanted. And this suggests another word as to the regulation of habits on the road. Don't eat and drink in every town you happen to pass through. Eat a hearty breakfast, and then read a paper for an hour. With breakfast, at eight, the start will be at nine. Then run along at any gait that suits you, only remembering that an easy start means a pleasant and a long run. Stop at twelve or thereabouts, as the town appears and the spirit moves, wash up, and eat a big noon dinner. After another hour's rest—sometimes including a nap—start out again, going slowly usually, or rest till four or five o'clock if it is midsummer and very warm.

When a hill is reached, remember that a little walk is a great rest and recreation, and a ride up a short hill is equal to a long stretch of level road. It is really wiser and pleasanter to walk up all hills that are steep. If you see a pretty brook and a shady tree near it, and the spirit again moves, dismount and read a volume out of the portmanteau, or lie quietly, enjoying one of the privileges of a bicycle trip—a little communion with honest nature, far removed from the railroad, the hotel, the guide, and the summer tourist. If it rains, ask the first man to take you in—and so on.