Now, while we heartily and thoroughly endorse bicycling as a graceful and healthful amusement within proper limits, we do protest against young women posing as race horses for purses in the public arena.
A woman of any age as a scorcher is so manifestly out of her proper sphere that it would seem unnecessary to even refer to it, and no amount of skill or grace can excuse, in our humble opinion, any modest young woman’s making such a spectacle of herself. . . .
Let any young woman otherwise who aspires to such questionable distinction pause and consider who among her most refined gentlemen friends would encourage sister or sweetheart in making herself thus conspicuous and then decide for herself if the money thus won pays.
—Stillwater (MN) Messenger, April 1896
That women racers were making themselves “conspicuous” was beyond doubt. Bobby Smiley’s refined publicity pitch made sure of that. Turnstiles spun in big cities and small, the top performers became household names, and the bicycle manufacturers now lavished their support onto the sport. Back in the 1880s, women’s races were viewed as exhibitions only—novelties. They were no threat. Then in the early 1890s, when the LAW took on its oversight role and made bicycle races “official,” its leadership very naturally, and without controversy, excluded women from its purview. By 1897, however, women’s races were both more serious from an athletic perspective and more popular from a commercial perspective, and as such they represented an estimable threat to men’s racing.
The result was a backlash not only from the LAW but also from social pundits, doctors, and ministers. The cultural battle prompted by the safety bicycle and symbolized by the recreational rider’s bloomers became an even fiercer and more focused war when it came to women’s racing. The sport now faced increasingly strident opposition from those wishing to maintain the traditional Victorian order of things.
Helen Baldwin had seen every phase of the gender battle, which was now picking up new steam. In the 1880s few women took to the wheel for recreational purposes, partly because of the expense and impracticality of the old bicycles and partly because of rigid social codes that would become more fully challenged with the advent of the safety bicycle and the “boom” of the mid-1890s. That’s why the early women’s races were such novelties: just watching a woman on a high-wheel qualified as entertainment.
For someone like Helen in those early days, a simple practice run could be a form of social protest. After her very first race, a forty-eight-hour event, she and several other promising Pittsburgh riders traveled with promoter W. B. Troy to Omaha, Nebraska, for a fifty-six-hour race. With only four or five weeks’ cycling experience, Helen needed practice, but she knew that a woman rider would attract unwanted attention on the streets of Omaha. So, barely five feet tall and weighing less than 110 pounds, she cut her hair short, put on a cap and a heavy pair of woolen knickerbockers, and ventured out disguised as a boy. The ploy seemed to work. She was able to ride unmolested for several afternoons. Then, as she later recalled, “I was riding on a business street in Omaha, one day, dressed as a boy, and fell. An old man was standing near and was quickly at my side. I often wondered if people knew I was a girl in that rig, but after this experience I never had any doubt as to the cleverness of my disguise. The old man remarked as he picked me up: ‘After a few of you kids have broken your necks, you’ll learn to keep off these things.’”1
On a high-wheel, Helen would go on to race officially at least three times against men. In 1889 she twice came in first in fields that included men, and then in 1891 she came in second behind one man but ahead of two others. That was before the LAW took control of racing and prohibited all such “mixed” events. Now, by the spring of 1897, Helen was nearing the end of her illustrious career. Still nursing injuries suffered in Columbus, she skipped the March 8–13 Cincinnati Music Hall race. She competed later in the month and twice more in April before her final race in Cleveland in August, one month shy of her twenty-sixth birthday and nearly nine years since her first race in Pittsburgh back in 1888. Thanks in large part to her popularity as Queen of the Wheel, the bloomer girls were here to stay, and as Smiley had said in Columbus, bicycle sales were booming.
As women’s racing thrived, the cultural battleground shifted from general arguments against women on bicycles to arguments specifically against women racers. Besides the implicit and increasingly doubtful argument that women were inferior riders, two other angles of attack played out in the public debate. The first was the recycled argument that bicycling was bad for women’s health. By now the hundreds of thousands of recreational women cyclists had proven that riding around town or touring the countryside was in fact invigorating and healthful. There were holdouts, most famously the Women’s Rescue League, which in the summer of 1896 declared that “if a halt is not called soon, 75 percent of the [women] cyclists will be an army of invalids within the next ten years” and that “the imprudent use of the bicycle” would surely bring on diseases “peculiar to women.” The league resolved, among other things, that “married women should not resort to riding the wheel unless they wish to prevent motherhood.”2
According to Robert Smith in A Social History of the Bicycle, debates about the benefits and dangers of cycling had been going on for more than a decade. Earlier in 1896, Marguerite Lindley argued before a Brooklyn crowd that cycling was harmful to “feminine symmetry and poise, a disturber of internal organs and an irritant of external tissues.” Such arguments led to the creation of a litany of ailments supposedly connected to the excessive use of the bicycle—all serious enough to give male riders pause, but particularly horrific sounding when applied to women. There was “bicycle walk,” particularly common among professional racers, which involved shoulder rolling and head bobbing, as might occur during a sprint. There was “bicycle hump,” a supposedly permanent condition brought on by the frowned-upon practice of “scorching,” or leaning over the handlebars to grind at the pedals. Recreational cyclers, women in particular, were admonished to “sit straight, confound you! Sit straight!”3 There were other like maladies—bicycle hands, bicycle wrists, bicycle gums, bicycle eye—all of which could become permanent, it was said, if not caught early and cured by drastically reducing time in the saddle.
The worst of these imagined afflictions was the dreaded “bicycle face.” The Minneapolis Tribune described it in July 1895 as having three constituent parts: wild eyes, strain lines around the mouth, and a general focus of the features toward the center. In the Tribune, a “prominent bicycle academy instructor” explained how each affliction was acquired:
The phenomenon of the wild eyes . . . is caused by a painful uncertainty whether to look for the arrival of the floor from the front, behind, or one side, and, once fixed upon the countenance can never be removed.
The strained lines about the mouth are due to anxiety lest the tire should explode. Variations of the lines are traceable to the general use of chewing gum.
The general focus of the features is indicative of extreme attention directed to a spot about two yards ahead of the wheel.4
After Tillie, Dottie, Lizzie, and several others completed a six-day race at the Coliseum in St. Louis in 1897, the Post-Dispatch ran a full-page spread under a screaming banner. Across the width of the page were “before and after” sketches of the five principal women racers showing each first as a calm beauty and then as a crazed cyclienne with clear signs of bicycle face. The “after” sketches were purported to represent the women at the close of the six days.
The feature also included firsthand accounts from two local authorities asked by the newspaper to attend the women’s races and share their honest impressions of what they observed. Both writers focused on what they believed to be the obvious physical harm the women were subjecting themselves to by engaging in the races. Here is an excerpt from the statement of “Mrs. Martha Frazer, Matron at the Union Depot”:
I had not looked upon the scene more than ten minutes until I reached a conclusion.
I saw eight young women riding wheels around a ring, said to be one-tenth of a mile. The riders dashed at a frightful speed. I shuddered. Their bodies were bent almost double. They passed the point where I sat and around again so swiftly that it made me dizzy. I will not speak of their garb. It was scarcely enough to deserve mention.
I wondered when they would stop. I was sorry for the poor creatures. I thought they would surely fall from their wheels from exhaustion. When I was told that according to programme the riders were required to spin around the ring incessantly for two hours, and that daily for six days, I was astonished. I was shocked. I was amazed. When I learned that these young women subject themselves to such tests of endurance for money I was grieved. It pained me to see them forfeiting health for gain in such a way. I was almost tempted to say: “They are selling body and soul.”
But to waive the question of morals, I see many other reasons to condemn the Coliseum Bicycle Show. Such strain is bound to wreck the body. The owner of a valuable horse would not allow the animal to test his endurance to such a point. No. He would be solicitous for the life of the horse. God intended women to be better than horses. But in the Coliseum Tuesday night I saw women—probably the daughters of good parents—taking the place of race horses. Yes, even going to a greater extreme in the test of speed and physical endurance. The sight was not pleasing. I was more horrified than pleased.
Somebody may say that I am opposed to bicycle riding in any form. That is not true. I see no harm in ladies indulging in bicycle exercise. By this I mean that in my judgment a lady may ride a wheel with perfect propriety, provided she rides in a ladylike manner. A spin on the boulevard or through a park, in proper costume, is certainly not harmful, either to morals or health.
Briefly summarized, my observations at the Coliseum result in the conclusion that the “show”—and I think “show” is the correct word to use—is demoralizing. Since I am asked by the Post-Dispatch for my opinion, I must say that I denounce bicycle races by women. If the men are foolish enough to race under such strain, let them do it. My chief interest is in the elevation and improvement of woman.5
The second eyewitness was a physician, Dr. George L. Kearney. Here is what he had to say:
I went to the Coliseum last night and sat where I could observe the effect of their exertions on the female riders. My observation confirmed my previous conviction, based upon my knowledge of general physical and metaphysical laws, of the harmful effects of such contests, especially upon women.
The physical and mental strain is tremendous. It would be exceedingly injurious even to men who were not scientifically trained and carefully dieted. A woman’s vital organs are more delicate than a man’s. They are much more quickly affected by any violent or unusual strain. It is very easy to induce disorders which may become chronic.
These women do not appear to me to have been adequately trained. Some of them look as though they had not trained an hour. They are bound to be injuriously affected. Disorders are often caused merely by too close applications to studies. I venture to say no girl ever lived who was so studious as to apply herself to the task of getting ahead in her classes as these young women do to getting ahead on the saucer-shaped track. There is the close mental concentration which is reflected in the tensely drawn features, coupled with the greatest anxiety and physical strain, which is, I think, greater than in almost any other form of athletics.
The violent exertion makes undue demands upon the blood-pumping capacity of the heart. The effect is enlargement of the organ, with resultant weakness. It would not be strange for a woman who persists in such exercise to fall dead on the track. I anticipate at the least that the racers will suffer a physical collapse at the end of each race.6
Dr. Kearney had apparently not been told that the women entered in the St. Louis race—who to him appeared not to be adequately trained—included Tillie, Lizzie, Dottie, Ida Peterson, and Lillie Williams, who to that point had collectively logged in excess of fifty thousand miles in cycling competition. It’s true that the race had begun with a couple of local women who clearly didn’t measure up to the seasoned professionals and “did not last much longer than the proverbial snowball in the furnace,” according to the Republic. But Tillie and the others were clearly in very good shape and showed it. Even so, the reporters found the women’s physical prowess difficult to get used to. “How funny it sounds,” they said, “talking of a woman in ‘condition’ for an athletic event.” Ultimately, however, even these reporters acknowledged the “wonderful specimens of muscular womanhood.”7
Although the focus of their denunciations was on the presumed adverse effects on the women’s health, both St. Louis observers touched on the moral dimension as well. Mrs. Frazer suggested that the racers essentially sold their bodies for money, while Dr. Kearney censured the women for focusing too intently, almost compulsively, on winning. So-called moral arguments against cycling, especially for women, represented the third broad angle of attack against women’s racing. Such attacks were not new, of course. In its 1896 declaration against women’s cycling, the Women’s Rescue League had, besides cautioning against cycling’s health dangers, railed against the moral consequences of female independence fostered by bicycle riding. Young women liberated from their homes and chaperones added to “the ranks of reckless girls,” said the league, “who finally drift into the standing army of outcast women of the United States.”8
As might be expected, religion often figured in the moral arguments against cycling. Most Americans in the late nineteenth century worked a six-day week, with Sunday ostensibly reserved for worship at the local church and long family meals. After the bicycle boom, recreational tours and picnic outings suddenly drew the time and attention of Americans everywhere—drawing them away from church, it was claimed—and the church latched onto the bicycle as a new symbol of the degradation of traditional values. One minister, the Reverend J. H. Messenger of Chicago’s Hope Baptist Church, had the temerity to ride a bicycle while making pastoral calls and was forced by his scandalized parishioners to resign his position and quit the ministry.
One leading religious voice against the bicycle was the Reverend Dwight L. Moody, the globe-trotting evangelist based in Chicago. In March 1897 the Cycle Carnival Company made its way to Cincinnati, where the women racers were scheduled to appear at the sprawling Music Hall beginning on Monday, March 8. As it happened, Reverend Moody arrived in Cincinnati to preach on Thursday, March 11—also in the Music Hall. The women’s eighteen-lap track was built in the south wing, or Horticultural Hall, which held about three thousand, while Moody had booked the larger central auditorium. It was a coincidental convergence of two opposing social forces, made all the more ironic because Tillie herself had worshiped at Moody’s home church back in Chicago.
Although Moody never visited Sweden, he’d established a large following there in the 1870s, and it’s possible that Tillie’s family was aware of his ministry even before they immigrated to Chicago. When told of Moody’s presence in the very same building, Tillie was mortified. “I think Mr. Moody is a very good man,” she said. “Two years ago when he had the great Moody church on Chicago Avenue in Chicago, I was one of his flock and a member of his Bible class.”9
“I don’t know what we are coming to!” Moody exclaimed when asked about the bicycle. “Of course I believe in wholesome exercise, but we Americans are so apt to overdo anything that it often results in lasting injury. Where women overdo it, especially, I should think it would lead to troubles particular to woman; and then that is not the worst of it. I think the bicycle and the Sunday newspaper are doing an incalculable injury. They keep people from church services.”10
Tillie was in the middle of a tight race. After she’d led the way on Monday and Tuesday, May and Lizzie finished ahead of Tillie on Wednesday. It was the first time May finished ahead of Tillie in any heat. Then on Thursday, Tillie was confronted with the news that her old minister would be preaching next door. “For goodness sake don’t tell him,” she told the reporters. “If he knew I was riding a wheel in the very building in which he is preaching, he’d be angry and would come and take me off my wheel—and I can’t afford to lose a lap. I would not have him know I was riding for anything, and don’t you dare say anything about it.”11
Obviously the reporters didn’t listen, and on Friday morning the Enquirer published a full-page article featuring a sketch of a dour-looking Moody pointing accusingly at Tillie on her bicycle. “Rev. Dwight L. Moody Discovers Tillie Anderson,” the headline read, and quotes from the teacher and pupil were set in contrasting type, one against the other.
Tillie reclaimed first place on Thursday and Friday nights, and the crowds in Cincinnati were as pleased as those in any other city that winter and spring. Ignoring the condemnations of LAW officials, railroad depot matrons, doctors, and ministers, the general public clearly approved of women’s racing. As the Plain Dealer had said two weeks earlier, “Everybody who witnesses the races seems to approve of them pretty thoroughly, and there is more excitement to the square inch in these same races than can be found in any event that has been seen here of late.”12