Chapter 2

ZIMMIE AND THE BIRDMAN

Louis Munger’s racing career was rolling backward with all the might of an onrushing tsunami. In the summer of 1893 he was thirty, and in the youth-obsessed world of bike racing his strong but aging legs had all but spent themselves on the nation’s tracks. He was a stylish man, firmly muscled, with a full crop of hair rarely allowed to creep out of place and, at times, a Napoleonic mustache.

Born in Iowa in 1863 and raised in Detroit, Michigan, Munger was a tall, good-looking bachelor whose humor and charm seldom left him wanting for attention from those around him. He had a pronounced bird-like nose, giving rise to his nickname “Birdie.” He moved with a gentle swagger, a kinetic pantomime of silent confidence that some people could mistake for cockiness. No one seemed to know why, but when he spoke, he often raised his voice to a thunderous level; perhaps a serious accident involving his bicycle and a horse cart had caused partial hearing loss for which he compensated by speaking with a deep, penetrating voice. Regardless of the reason, people could hear him coming. His voice, quipped one acquaintance, “was a cross between the noises made by a cornet five miles away, two cats over a clothes line, and a man churning mush with a feather duster.”

Known in racing circles as “The Western Flyer,” Munger was a well-traveled man. Before arriving in Indianapolis, he lived on the road of the racing circuit, sleeping in long-ago motels, hostelries, or homes of admiring fans. Other times, the train or train station served as his home, and his bicycle was his best friend as the circuit looped almost nonstop from Detroit to Illinois to Kentucky, then up and down the East Coast. His past had the yesteryear feel of tire tracks on dusty country roads. The exact times and places of his early days are unrecorded, but there were always racing bikes, dirt or wooden ovals, and that familiar clatter of passenger trains rolling over windblown rails.

While Taylor had been befriending young Daniel on the grassy knolls near the Southards’ estate, Munger set a few records on the road, receiving medals that he clung to like the child he’d yet to have. Despite the records he set in those early days, he remained a middling rider on the track, never to become among the nation’s elite. But the perfectionist in him left him wanting more. Since his early years, he’d had tunnel vision, viewing the world from eight feet up, perched high atop the leather saddle of a high-wheeler. So it seemed natural for him to eventually climb down and slip into the business end of the bicycle world.

Arriving in Indianapolis from Chicago in the early 1890s—“he left after his voice,” joked a reporter—Munger brought with him his medals, big dreams, and vivid memories of the speed and pageantry of the early days of bike racing. Hoping to regain his youthful form, he entered local competitions, but his racing career continued eroding there. So Munger quickly staked his business claim, parlaying his race winnings into a prosperous firm called the Munger Cycle Manufacturing Company. He made good use of his racing notoriety as well as his newfound manufacturing and marketing skills, creating an ultra light safety racing bicycle ingeniously called “The Munger.” Though of little importance to the average person for whom casual biking was becoming an obsession, Munger’s eponymous bikes would prove to be popular among the racing fraternity. Perhaps if he had sought the favor of the common rider and concentrated on wider rims or broader seats, his company may have joined the ranks of Schwinn and Co. But Munger was unable to shake the infectious racing bug, so his products followed his passion.

First a racer, then a manufacturer, Munger had dedicated himself so enthusiastically to bicycles it was as if he was deficient without them—an affliction not uncommon at the time. “Munger,” wrote one cycling historian, “lived, ate, talked, slept, and breathed bicycles.”

When he wasn’t on the road peddling his racing bike to dealers nationwide, Munger would stroll into various shops along Indy’s bicycle row to mingle with other wheelmen. Though his bittersweet legend preceded him, he was a big enough star to become a hero in the eyes of many who gathered there. On a day in 1893, he stumbled into H. T. Hearsey’s Bike Shop. With his winning percentage dropping to a woeful level, perhaps he was already thinking about training or managing aspiring young riders.

He couldn’t help but stare at him. Munger was roaming Harry Hearsey’s Bike Shop, probably trying to smooth-talk old Harry into placing another order for his racing models, when a reedy black kid strutted around the training room with a riding talent and composure that belied his youth. Customers looked on inquisitively. Each time Munger returned to the shop, the same smooth black face, the same underfed look piqued his curiosity. When he had time, Munger watched the youngster’s surprisingly seamless interaction with both black and white customers. There’s something about this kid, he thought. If Munger had already been thinking about race managing or finding a rider to lead a future cycling team for his company, he could not have stumbled upon a more unlikely prospect than little Taylor.

Practically speaking, Taylor was everything that an 1890s race manager would have run away from. Unlike road racers, short-distance track racers often carry extra brawn for the requisite fast-twitch explosiveness, especially in their meaty thighs and sturdy upper bodies. Physically, Taylor was still a runty speck of a kid, with spindle-shanked legs and round, protuberant knees—seemingly a lesson in frailty. His upper body was a poignant continuation of his lower—short, slight, toothpick arms, flairless back, and puny shoulders no wider than his waist. When he showed up at bike tracks, trainers surely thought he was lost, pointing him to the horse track where all the like-sized black jockeys converged at the time. Given his diminutive size, one wouldn’t think Taylor would ever possess the leg or lung power to blow out a candle, much less compete with international sprint giants. Sure, he could grow into it, but neither his circumstances nor his bloodlines seemed to suggest future greatness.

Without prosperous parents or any real money of his own to help defray extensive travel and equipment costs, Taylor would be a risky investment. And to top it all off, he was black. At that moment in American history, few managers would have had any interest in someone like Major Taylor other than as a servant or a low-paid manual laborer. No “darkey,” one race reporter wrote, had ever amounted “to a pinch of snuff in the racing game.” Major Taylor and all his worldly ambitions would have been viewed by virtually everyone as a hopeless cause, especially those who were calling him a little “pickaninny,” a highly offensive term that was then used to describe throwaway black kids.

Everyone, that is, except Louis D. “Birdie” Munger. If Taylor possessed unseen attributes ripe for elite track racing, Louis Munger had the mind of a prophet, saint, or both.

On a day in 1893, he and Taylor came face-to-face. The two stood on opposite ends of the racing spectrum. Munger was a refuge from the vanishing world of high-wheelsmen who had been squeezed out; Taylor was a boy hoping to blaze trails on the new safety bikes, moving bravely forward with the eager, naïve eyes of youth. Munger was trying to pave the nation’s tracks with the tread of his new racing machine; Taylor was dreaming of the day when he could ride on those same tracks atop such a bike. Munger had the wisdom and the machine; Taylor had the determination and, perhaps with endless schooling, the engine.

From skills honed over a decade of viewing other riders, Munger had developed a knack for finding hidden talents and rare qualities in people. Spending as much time at Hearsey’s shop soaking up the local flavor as he did his own company, Munger was impressed with the vibrant, young Taylor as he gave lessons in the store’s custom riding school. He first noticed his inherent skills with a bicycle that despite its dominance at Hearsey’s was still an awkward new possession for folks. He was also impressed with Taylor’s work habits and inquisitiveness; the boy constantly drilled him with questions on bike racing tactics and the latest trends in racing bikes.

The two slowly formed an unlikely friendship away from Hearsey’s. Taylor followed Munger to races, begging him to let him try out his latest racing bike. Munger eventually obliged, and the two wheelmen rode together on Indy’s hilly scapes lined with oak trees, enjoying the competition as much as the companionship. While younger riders were often too aggressive, blowing through their physical reserves like jackrabbits early in a ride, Munger conveyed a calming presence. He taught Taylor that the strongest man can lose to the most cunning. He instructed Taylor how to conserve his energy and control his emotions while feeding off his opponents’ aggressiveness. Taylor had a tendency to obey the bike’s mechanical imperatives, its instinctive quest for perpetual motion. Using the all-important technique of drafting behind rivals to cut down on wind resistance—a technique that can save 30 percent of a cyclist’s energy—Munger taught Taylor to restrain himself early on and then unleash his fastest sprint at the finish.

When on the tracks, Munger taught Taylor to weigh the unique angles, surfaces, speeds, and propensities of each individual one. He would have told him to build dossiers on his competitors—slow starter, fast closer, hugs the pole, loves the rail—and track the subtleties of each race like wind direction and the best spot to begin his sprint. He schooled in him the import of proper eating habits, and most importantly, to stay away from alcohol, drugs, cigarettes, and cigars—all used in mass quantities at the time. Always a willing student, Taylor didn’t just listen; he heard.

Sharing years of invaluable insight into the secrets of racing, Munger was amazed at the relentless pace Taylor kept on their rides, sometimes even challenging his more experienced form. Initial thoughts of becoming a manager-trainer began to percolate. And as Taylor’s endurance and pace improved after nearly every outing, it appeared as if the young lad speeding alongside him might be a good, albeit trouble-bound pupil. But Munger wasn’t above having considerable fun at Taylor’s expense. On one occasion, he and a few riding buddies got him to bleach his pitch-black hair inside a velodrome locker room. “We will bleach you and make you white,” joked Munger. To great laughter, Taylor’s black head was then nudged out onto the track sporting a sticky, tangled head of platinum blondish-red hair. “Its effect was ludicrous,” joked Charles Sinsabaugh, a preeminent race reporter and the man who named Chicago’s baseball team the Cubs.

Hundreds of wheelmen had passed through Hearsey’s Bike Shop and fixed their gaze on Taylor’s pint-sized black body, but no one had seen the possibilities that Munger saw. One had to look beyond the small frame, the black skin, and deep into his psyche. Clearly, a fire burned there. That’s why, after spending time with Taylor training and tinkering in his workshop, he offered to hire Taylor away from Hearsey’s. Munger’s “famous” bachelor’s apartment above his warehouse, which was used to entertain countless wheelmen and women, was a disaster—business books, periodicals, and clothing were strewn everywhere. Munger, who employed ninety workers inside a three-story building half the size of a football field, needed a porter, cook, and all-around handyman. Excited about the possibilities, Taylor signed on, agreeing to do various jobs around Munger’s apartment and factory, including, in those days before widespread telephone use, delivering messages.

Under Munger, a regimented pattern developed. They would wake early, work long, hard days, train until dark, and hit the sack early. Like many teenagers at the time, Taylor probably rolled his bicycle inside at night, washed the wheels, polished the spokes, and fell asleep with its shiny exterior at his feet. With almost a canine loyalty, Taylor committed himself to his sundry new responsibilities as he had all others. “He was as faithful and conscientious about the servile duties of those days,” a reporter later wrote, “as he is in his training today . . .”

While Taylor was impressed with Birdie’s knowledge and race stories, what really endeared him to Munger was the patient and kindly intimacy of his friendship—and that he did not care about the color of a man’s skin. “Mr. Munger became closer and closer attached to me as time went on,” he remembered. “Had I been his own son, he could not have acted more kindly toward me.” The sentiment was mutual. “Munger,” recalled a reporter, “took to Taylor as a duck takes to water.”

On a sweltering August day, Munger gave Taylor his most momentous assignment. The Zig Zag cycling club led by Harry Hearsay, Tom Hay, and Bert Willits had organized an important local race with national significance. They had invited some of the best riders in the country. Munger handed over the name of an acquaintance who had committed to the race and directed Taylor to pick him up at the train station and escort him for the weekend. His hands trembling with emotion, Taylor instantly recognized the name.

At the train station in the warm Indianapolis summer of 1893, Major Taylor first laid eyes on Arthur Augustus Zimmerman. He was quite a sight for the young boy. Everything about Zimmerman exuded kindness, warmth, and success. Draped over his nearly six-foot-tall frame was a gabardine jacket tailored to his broad chest and shoulders, a crisply laid tie, and a silk pocket square. His Swiss watch was made of real gold, and he sported genuine green snakeskin shoes. As was the style, diamonds glinted from his tie, badge, and as many fingers as taste would allow.

A ladies’ favorite, Arthur had a hard chin, sagacious eyes, midlength blond hair parted a lick off center, and occasionally a restrained handlebar moustache. In his body language, Zimmie, as his friends called him, spoke with a stutter. He walked with a surprisingly slow and shambling gait. Yet when stationary, he stood straight up military style, no doubt stemming from his days as a military school cadet.

As a general rule, Zimmerman wouldn’t speak in front of large crowds—at a banquet in his honor, he once famously strayed into the hotel saloon for a cocktail, leaving British dignitaries scrambling onstage. But alone with close friends or admiring fans, he was chatty and spoke with a pleasant South Jersey drawl that blended with his jovial disposition. Unlike many athletes of his era, he was an intellectual; before his racing days, he considered going the way of academia—immersing himself in writing and law school. Yet much to the chagrin of his rivals, he delayed his education, only to become an author later. In the summer of ’93 he was twenty-four, rich, jovial, and chock full of life. He also was the greatest rider the sport had ever seen, and one of the world’s most popular athletes. “We are in favor of Zimmerman for president of the United States,” gloated one reporter. “He would get it if he would only start.”

On June 11, 1869, in the rapidly growing industrial region of Camden, New Jersey, Arthur was born to Theodore and Anna Zimmerman. After moving to Asbury Park, his parents used their rambunctious boy’s athleticism as a good excuse to boot him out of the house and into military school. There, his natural talents and long legs found him winning running meets. In an era when medals were awarded for the long jump, high jump, and hop, skip, and jump, Zimmerman medaled in all three. Unlike Taylor, who took to two wheels at a very young age, Zimmerman would not discover cycling until he was seventeen years old. But the attraction was instant. “I liked it so well,” he said, “that I jumped into the game with all the spirit that was in me.”

The elite racing world that Zimmerman plunged into was a colorful one. This was racing in its purest form: raw, unrefined, quick, and often flat-out dangerous. And people could not get enough of it. In cities and burgs up one coast and down the other, hundreds, then thousands, then tens of thousands fought their way into packed bleachers. They spilled onto the infield and cheered their favorites, often at nose-to-nose finishes.

The sport grew so rapidly, entrepreneurs were unable to build new tracks fast enough, leaving cycling fans temporarily bumping elbows with horse racing fans as they raced around horse tracks before the daily equine matches. But once bike racing crowds began to rival those for horse racing, entrepreneurs jumped into action. Thousands of small ovals built specifically for bike racing sprang up in villages nationwide. Dozens of modern tracks, called velodromes, were erected in larger towns, usually equipped with press boxes, smooth wooden or concrete tracks, concessions stands, training and massage rooms. A third type of track combined the two, with a dirt horse track on the outside and a concrete or wooden bicycle track on the inside.

While technically considered amateurs before 1893—stars like Zimmerman won hordes of gifts that, when cashed in, may have exceeded earnings of any other athletes, save a few prizefighters and matadors. According to the New York Times, Zimmie’s haul for 1892 included twenty-nine bicycles, several horses and carriages, half a dozen pianos, household furniture of all descriptions, and enough silver plates, medals, and jewelry to stock a jewelry store. All this was augmented by his earnings as the main sponsor of Raleigh bikes, a stack of Raleigh stock shares received at ground floor prices, and royalties from Zimmie shoes, Zimmie toe clips, and Zimmie clothing. In 1893, the first year of America’s massive economic downturn and when other sports were reeling, his earnings were estimated to be well over $10,000.

The sporting world had never seen anyone quite like Arthur Zimmerman. From the first day he roared around a track, he proved to be a dominating figure, winning fourteen hundred races by the time he retired. He was a spectacular sight for all to see with his muscular body hovering over his bike, his hands grasping the bars, his eyes leveled on the finish line, and his legs spinning like pistons. His form was stealthy, a paragon of balance, agility, and prepotency. “It was as if the man was mounted on rails,” wrote Victor Breyer, a noted cycling journalist, “so complete is the absence of wobbling and the semblance of effort.”

The press followed his every move. Photographers snapped and sketch artists drew pictures of a calm, cool-looking Zimmerman passing a field of riders in various degrees of agony, their faces and bodies twisting and contorting under the strain. “He at present runs a chance of being pictured more extensively and in more varied styles,” wrote one editor during the ’92 election campaign, “than either of the presidential candidates.”

Because he trained fewer hours than many of his rivals, Zimmerman was labeled lazy by some sportswriters. In reality he was among the first to employ a more scientific, interval training approach while his rivals, haunted by a fear of losing their jobs, marched through the same rigid daily routine of riding for long hours at the same pace. Unhindered by tradition, superstitions, or old wives’ tales, Zimmerman rode fewer hours but varied his distance and speed. He trained on the road and track, used “Professor Roberts’s dumb-bell drills” for increased explosive power, played basketball and handball, and ran during the offseason. “Perhaps I can stand a little more than my share of rest,” he said coyly when someone questioned him about his brisk workouts. But he was not, nor did he like being called, indolent, as one newspaper that made such a claim found out. “I’ll go down and clean out that office,” he threatened, “if they don’t set me right in the matter.”

After successfully conquering America, Zimmie shipped overseas with similar effect. In England, where oversized Zimmerman posters hung all over the place, there was talk of a riders’ “strike” because of his dominance. “His path,” complained one scribe, “was littered with the defeat of England’s best men.” In a nation with a rich tradition of athlete prowess, his supremacy caused such a stir that one Brit actually called for a public hearing on the matter. “What happened to our eccentric riders?” she demanded to know. “Why doesn’t she ask Zimmerman?” retorted a London columnist.

In an era when fouling and rough play happened fairly often, Zimmerman prided himself on good, clean riding, becoming a perfect role model for an aspiring young rider like Taylor.

Along with his phenomenal racing success came equally remarkable folktales: how he outpaced a speeding train or passed a greyhound at full stride. One story had him defeating the great racehorse Salvator in a man-versus-horse match race, with Zimmerman, of course, riding on an older and slower high-wheel bicycle. The rumor stuck and made for spicy conversation until someone discovered Salvator wasn’t even alive at the time of the alleged race.

To racing fans, especially young boys who played with toy models of his likeness, Arthur Zimmerman was a godlike figure. He was for the sport of bike racing what James Corbett was for boxing, Salvator was for horse racing, and Cy Young would become for baseball.

From the outset, Arthur Zimmerman was several tire treads ahead of Birdie Munger and all other wheelmen. With the benefit of more than seven decades watching hundreds of bike racers from all over the world, French journalist Victor Breyer summed up Zimmerman’s talents thus: “He was simply the greatest pedaler of all time.”

When Taylor arrived at Union Station, he had no difficulty distinguishing Zimmerman from the large group of cyclists, some of whom had come from as far away as South Africa. There was a crush of fans, journalists, and race organizers enveloping him, clamoring for his autograph or a prized interview. Taylor slithered through the crowd while a large brass band filled the air. He slipped past Zimmie’s porter, trainer, manager, and biographer, who had been recording his every feat down to the finest detail. Taylor recognized the affable smile, the fine clothes, and the glittering jewelry from the many pictures that filled the newspapers. Unaware of Zimmerman’s attitude toward blacks, Taylor was excited and fearful as he neared the celebrated white man. He peered nervously up at his towering figure. Their eyes met. Taylor mentioned that Munger had sent him to escort him back to his home. Zimmerman, who despite his fame was surprisingly approachable, extended his white hand. With a warm smile on his face, he shook Taylor’s small, black hand, instantly putting him at ease.

The slow carriage ride back to Munger’s home would be the most inspirational experience of Taylor’s early life. After returning from Europe with “a trunk full of gold and silver,” and then winning the World Championships in Chicago earlier that month, Zimmerman had returned to his New Jersey home to one of the most intense hero’s welcomes ever seen. More than five thousand people had greeted him, tossed him on their shoulders, then carried him into town. Nearly every home, business, and government building in the Manasquan borough, and later in Asbury Park, flew American flags with a giant “Z” attached. Large blue streamers with national colors in graceful folds adorned every cornice. The parade route, which had been heavily advertised weeks before his arrival, was lit up with Chinese lanterns, Roman candles, and Greek fires. The air crackled with the endless thunder of cannon fire. Later in the evening, Parkers Hall was taxed beyond capacity. Thousand more spilled out onto South Street, never to make it inside. Young boys had shimmied up the columns of the building’s portico, fighting for a glimpse of Zimmerman through the windows. “The town is yours,” proclaimed the mayor.

And here was Taylor, a fourteen-year-old obscure black boy from rural Indianapolis, already with bike racing aspirations, alone with a man who was the daily cynosure of thousands of eyes. If he was nervous, Zimmerman quickly put him at ease, smothering him in wide smiles and warm gestures. “I was always the friend of the struggling amateur,” he told a reporter, “and many times have gone out of my way, at a loss of time and money, to assist a brother rider in poor luck.”

In stark contrast to the constant drone of racing sycophants following Zimmie everywhere he went, Taylor was evidently a welcome change. To Taylor, Zimmie was a welcome surprise. Instead of treating him like a servant as most blacks were at the time, and instead of talking about himself the whole trip, Zimmerman showed interest in learning about Taylor. He spent much of the time inquiring about the gold medal that Taylor had won in the ten-mile race in Indianapolis. “He was surprised when I told him of that feat,” Taylor recalled, “and even more so when I told him of many other boys’ races since winning that gold medal.”

When they arrived at Munger’s home later that evening, dinner was served. At Zimmerman’s insistence, Taylor joined in. The three of them ate a large dinner, then sat around talking about bike racing into the night. Taylor must have been mesmerized as Zimmerman shared story after story of his racing exploits at cities nationwide. His ears must have perked up when Zimmerman poured over his experiences overseas, meeting princes and dukes in exotic faraway cities, where he was hailed by “crowds greater than would turn out to greet the king.” He beamed about meeting, learning from, and competing against the greatest cyclists in the world. He described the fervor of the crowds, the masses clamoring for his autograph, the extensive coverage in the press, and the beautiful scenery and history of the countries he had visited.

Before bedding down for the evening, Munger—sipping an ice-cold glass of egg lemonade—looked Zimmerman in the eye and made a bold prophecy. “I am going to make a champion out of that boy some day,” he said unreservedly. “I have told Major Taylor that if he refrains from using liquor and cigarettes, and continues to live a clean life, I will make him the fastest bicycle rider in the world.” Having been through the trials and tribulations that go with being an elite athlete, Zimmerman reminded Munger and Taylor that they had a long, difficult road ahead. He then turned to Taylor and uttered words that would forever remain seared in his head. “Mr. Munger is an excellent advisor,” he said in a sincere tone, “and if he tells me that you have the makings of a champion in you, I feel sure you will scale the heights some day.”

On August 23, 1893—the night before the race that brought Zimmerman into town—the streets of Indianapolis were lit up with elaborate events. The largest parade of its kind ever given was put on by the Zig Zag Club, and the streets were lined with thousands of people. All the usual horse and pedestrian traffic came to a halt to make way for elegant carriages and five hundred cyclists, seven blocks deep. There were lanterns and bunting and bright-colored paper in abundance. The streets over which they passed, noted the Indianapolis Sun, “looked as though peopled with harlequins of some other time and place.” Regally dressed, Taylor’s former employers Harry Hearsey and Tom Hay caused a royal stir, rolling down the parade route in an elegant four-horse tally-ho, winding up their horns and making the course ring with their imitation of the Zig Zag yell.

Taylor looked on bewitched, his eyes glittering in the bright lights as his heroes, Munger, Zimmerman, and other crack cyclists circled by him several times. Awards were handed out for best decorated rider-bicycle combinations. Known for his eccentric costumes, Birdie Munger had gone all out, flitting through the streets sporting a white duck frock suit, an immense buzz-saw hat, and a conspicuous paper monocle. A writer for the Indianapolis Sentinel clearly wasn’t too impressed with his getup. “It was the most ridiculous exhibition of them all,” he wrote.

As the riders prepared to earn their share of the $5,000 purse the following day, Taylor met another cycling hero named Willie Windle. Windle had been the Sprint Champion of America for several years before Zimmerman came along and stole his thunder. “While on my way out to the track on an errand,” Taylor gushed, “I found myself sitting alongside one of the biggest champions of the day, Willie Windle, of Millbury, Massachusetts. I was the proudest boy in the world as it became noised about that I had shaken the hand of the two outstanding greats.”

For a young black boy living in 1890s America and poking around in local bike races, Zimmerman and Windle formed towering athletic figures. But it was their genial personalities and kindness—qualities that transcended their athleticism—that Taylor cherished most. “I was especially impressed with the friendliness of the two of them, especially toward me, a colored boy. In my youthful mind the thought flashed that men can be champions and still be broad-minded in strange contrast to the young would-be champions that I had met in and about Indianapolis. There was no race prejudice in the makeup of Zimmerman and Windle; they were too big for that.”

The Indianapolis Military Band greeted the large crowd as people streamed into the state fairgrounds for the one-mile open. Taylor watched with a keen eye as trick riders warmed up the crowd, bringing back memories of his days on the Southards’ estate. As always, the press doted on Zimmerman. “He is closely watched by a hundred critics as if he were a derby favorite,” someone wrote. When one reporter punched through the crowd and asked him for his opinion of the track, Zimmie gazed out at the oval, his angular body leaning over his bicycle. “I think I will set a world record today, boys,” he sang out, cocksure.

With Munger, Zimmerman, and Windle all lined up alongside a large field of riders, it must have been difficult for Taylor to decide who to root for. He wouldn’t have much time to decide. Zimmerman “shot by the grandstand like a stone from a catapult,” leaving the rest of the field gasping in his wake. And, as he had prophesized, he had set a new record. “They might as well have chased a locomotive,” wrote one reporter, “so far as there was any chance of catching him.” Windle drifted back to fourth place. Further confirming his best days were behind him, Munger’s homely legs waddled in near the back and out of the money.

At a post-race soiree held at Tomlinson Hall, corncob pipes with Zig Zag ribbons were smoked, and champagne glasses were clinked. Men and women danced while two black entertainers banged on pianos—all ignoring the thunderstorm brewing outside. A crowd hovered over Zimmerman as he accepted a diamond-studded gold cup and then quickly got off the stage before anyone asked him to speak. Taylor surely squeezed his eyes shut, visualizing himself accepting those medals in front of a rapturous crowd.

Following the festivities, with the rail station overwhelmed by departing racegoers and eventually shuttered down from the storm, Munger likely escorted Zimmerman back to his home for one last night before he shipped overseas. To the sound of raindrops pinging off the carriage top, his new bicycle nestled by his side, Taylor could fall fast asleep, the indelible images of the past few days still burning in his head.

In the summer of 1893, Munger, Zimmerman, and Taylor found solidarity in their worldly dreams, tolerant minds, and common obsession with bike racing. But impossibly hard times would dawn with an unprecedented economic depression, government-sanctioned race segregation laws, and unspeakable racial cruelty. During these times young Taylor would need strong allies and enduring inspiration. Above the frames, spokes, and wheels of the Munger Cycle Manufacturing Company, he had found just that in the unusual partnership that had formed among them.