At the Olympic Club in San Francisco we had some hints of what was to befall us. The cycling editor of Hearst's great paper, The Examiner, interviewed us during our stay, and gave us the chart of the route followed by the great Trans-Continental Relay race, which had taken place not long before our arrival.
THE THREE WORLD CYCLISTS AND A CHINESE GIANT WHO DOES NOT CYCLE.
We struck the railway track at Newcastle in California, and on the second day the most perilous part of our experiences in this sort of riding commenced, with our entrance to the "Snow Sheds" crossing the great Sierra Nevada range. These snow-sheds, with the exception of two bridges (of which more hereafter), extend uninterruptedly for forty-three miles, with innumerable twists and turns, and we were in semi-darkness for the entire distance. We were obliged to ride between the rails. The snow had begun to melt, and pools of water extended along either side of the lines, while between the sleepers, which were free of snow, the ice lay in great uneven hummocks. We moved on at the modest pace of some seven miles an hour through the darkness, while the noise of our three machines and the rattling of the baggage we carried prevented us from hearing anything of approaching trains till they were actually upon us. Then we had to leap from our cycles and crouch against the icy walls of the snow-shed while the train thundered past. We took our lives in our hands several times a day.
Our position was worse in this respect when we were going down the other side of the Nevada range. As we ascended, the trains had come up behind us "full steam ahead," so that we could more easily detect their approach; but as we went down from the summit, those following us on the down grade came with steam shut off, and were upon us before we could hear them.
On a bridge near Cisco an incident occurred which might have been serious for me. It is about two hundred yards long, and I was beginning to cross it, when my companions who were on in front beckoned me to stop. I thought that one of my friends wished to take a snap-shot, and stopped accordingly. However, after waiting about five minutes, as nothing happened, I went on. It was a skeleton bridge, with a framework in the middle. I had just reached the framework, carrying my machine, when I heard the shriek of an engine whistle in the shed ahead. I managed to keep my head and my balance, as a false step would have meant death. I reached the end of the bridge, and stepped on to the siding just as the train rushed past.
TRAVELLING WITH EMIGRANTS IN THE WESTERN STATES.
It was only then that I fully realised the narrow shave I had had.
We joyfully left the railway track shortly before entering Omaha, and from thence to Chicago we had roads that might, in comparison with our previous experiences, be called tolerable.