Chapter 9

GUIDING LIGHT

William Brady entered Major Taylor’s cruel world during the cold winter of 1897–1898. By then, Brady had become the nation’s preeminent sports promoter and, in his own immodest words, “was written up in more newspapers then Teddy Roosevelt.” After helping him get his professional license and then watching him at Madison Square Garden, Brady believed Taylor would fit in perfectly with his managing motto—“Always try to find a champion.” Now that he had at least partially recovered from the loss of his first wife, he was ready to get down to business. He contacted Taylor. The two men met and discussed a contract. Before signing on the dotted line, Brady, ever the businessman, checked with Albert Mott, chairman of the League of American Wheelmen, to make certain Taylor would have unfettered rights to race on all tracks nationwide. Mott assured Brady and a contract was signed.

Brady was happy to have him on board. “Billy Brady has always had plenty of admiration for the colored boy,” a New York Journal reporter wrote “and his quick instinct to push a good thing along led him to take the colored boy under his wings.”

An avid boxing fan, Taylor was aware of Brady’s reputation and must have known he’d expect nothing less than another champion. Never one to think small, Brady signed up around fifty other riders, most of them noncircuit pacemen, and immediately provided them with the best of everything. He shacked them up at a spacious cottage called “the homestead,” a stone’s throw from the famous Manhattan Beach Velodrome and Sheepshead Bay horse track. There, he employed full-time chefs to handle the riders’ nutritional needs. Riders were given access to a gymnasium, handball court, and a stable of masseurs, personal valets, and the nation’s best trainers—all innovations in sport. Large enough to sleep fifty people, the homestead was surrounded by vast acreage where the riders and their trainers could relax by riding horseback and shooting the breeze on nonracing days. Close to the Manhattan track yet far enough away from the main hotels where the mass of inquisitive reporters stayed, these idyllic surroundings would serve as their headquarters for the season.

Under Brady’s organization, wrote one reporter, “Taylor will not lack proper encouragement to race, and if he is bound to become as much of a sensation as promised, this summer will develop all there is in him.”

For Brady, Kennedy, and Powers, this sizable investment had the potential for big rewards. While Brady provided Taylor and his entire stable of riders everything they could have asked for, it was also ideal for him personally. He had purchased the Manhattan Theatre close to the track, making it easy for him to juggle his passions. It was not uncommon for him to oversee a Broadway play one moment, then dash down the street and fulfill his obsession for bike racing the next.

Despite the inevitable difficulties of managing a black man in 1890’s America, Brady saw big things in Taylor and sent for noted trainer Willis Troy to round him into top shape. A quick-witted Italian who had helped Arthur Zimmerman achieve worldwide stardom, Troy was hailed as one of the best trainers in the business.

Following the rough treatment he had endured the previous year, Taylor was pleased with the first-class arrangement and motivated to prove himself to Brady. “Naturally I was somewhat disturbed by these conditions until I signed up with . . . Brady. I’m out to whip the champions this season,” he excitedly told a reporter, “and hope to have better luck on the track, and I’ll start out to make this my banner year.”

With the security of a contract with Brady, his future looking brighter, Taylor began filling his closets with new garb. Gone were any remnants of farm life, the Sears & Roebuck denim overalls and work shirts, the heavy lace-up work boots, the newsboy-style cap, the bandana around the neck. He began appearing in tailored suits, pleated gambler shirts with suspenders, and various accessories like a gold gentleman’s pocket watch, brass-headed walking stick, white gloves, and custom shoes. Crowning the impressive wardrobe was the popular black felt Earl of Derby bowler hat. Flitting from town to town, Taylor cut a dapper figure in his new raiment. So much so, he was often hailed by sportswriters as the best-dressed man in the peloton, a notable distinction against men like Tom Cooper and Eddie Bald, long known for their stylish appearances.

When 1897 became 1898, Taylor was all dressed up with someplace to go. To succeed in the competitive sport of track racing a rider must begin training early in the season, usually January or February. This challenged riders living in cold Northern states. To overcome this, professional riders had trained at Camp Thunderbolt in Savannah, Georgia, for more than a decade or at a handful of tracks in sunny Florida. It was widely accepted that any rider failing to go south for winter training would be at a significant competitive disadvantage when the regular season began. So, wanting to get the season off to a good start, Brady assigned Troy the task of organizing a southern trip.

But as everyone knew, the South wasn’t known for rolling out welcome mats for precocious black men. Troy accepted the assignment with much trepidation. Taylor didn’t seem too concerned. “I think the change to a warmer climate will improve my health,” he said with surprising naïveté.

Around the time Taylor signed with Brady, he also made a deep commitment to the teachings of Jesus Christ. Following in the footsteps of his loving mother Saphronia, he became a devoted Baptist. On New Year’s Day, he declared his faith through an adult public baptism at the Johns-Street Baptist Church, a quaint wooden church in Worcester. From that moment until the day he died, he and his Bible became inseparable. He immersed himself in its pages at every opportunity—on trains traveling from town to town, in velodrome locker rooms across the country, on ships, and at home in his spare time. It gave him a sense of love for himself and others as well as a feeling of assurance, warmth, and security. The lessons he learned from its pages were exemplified in the kindness he displayed to those around him. His close relationship to God, his caring nature, and his pacific personality would all be given a startling amount of space in newspapers throughout his career.

Taylor’s deeply held belief in the Baptist faith was sincere. As the lone black man in his chosen sport, it gave him strength when others tried knocking him down both physically and emotionally. It helped guide him during his racing career and through the racism he faced in his personal life. Religion became an integral part of his life, as was his relationship with his pastor, Reverend Hiram Conway. He followed his pastor’s teachings to the best of his ability and devoted Sundays, the Sabbath day, entirely to Christ.

Spiritual leaders of all denominations would come to cherish true believers like Taylor, but initially at least many of them were none too happy with the rise of the wheelmen. As a nation deeply Calvinistic in orientation, they had strict ideas about what was permissible on Sundays. Sporting events were not among them. Yet for many Americans who worked long hours Monday through Saturday, Sunday was the only day they had for leisure and to attend sporting events. Intense debates sprang up over the issue of Sunday racing and leisure riding.

Since the early 1880s, religious leaders had been using their pulpits to broadcast their concerns. There one heard cautionary tales against infidelity, drinking, murder, and . . . bicycling!? Because the bicycle boom had been eating away at their parishioner base, some pastors went to great lengths to get them back. One Connecticut chaplain terrified his parishioners by painting a frightening picture of a string of cyclists, all without brakes, of course, rolling helplessly down a steep hill to a “place where there is no mud on the streets because of the high temperatures.” Religious leaders in Covington, Kentucky, who had tried banning bicycles altogether, voted overwhelmingly to remove “all members who had their teeth filled with gold or who rode bicycles”—a perplexing juxtaposition of sins. Their feelings against wheelmen were so strong, even Taylor had to apply twice before Reverend Conway, who kept a “watchful eye” on him for over a year, finally admitted him to “full brotherhood.”

Unable to compete against the bicycle, most eventually shifted. Deacon Jenkins Lloyd Jones from the All Souls Unitarian Church in Chicago preached that the bicycle was a good thing spiritually and morally, even allowing his congregation to park their bicycles in his church basement. While recognizing that the bicycle was reducing attendance, he still credited it for its ability to bring its jockey into “a closer communion with God.” In his desperate mission to bring wheelmen back, one deacon perhaps swayed too far into his former adversary’s camp. “I would canonize the inventor [of the bicycle],” he shouted to a hushed parish, “if only I knew his name.”

Theologians struggled with the best way to handle the influx of Sunday morning cyclists and the resulting decrease in churchgoers. But for Taylor there was no confusion. While he may not have opposed leisure riding for some folks after church, he adamantly opposed Sunday racing and insisted that his trainers, masseurs, and valets take the day off as well. “I have the satisfaction of believing, and the extreme pleasure in feeling that I am right,” he would say of his stance against Sunday racing, “and I know that many Christian people have been pleased with my testimony . . . I have done it because I believed it to be pleasing in the sight of God . . .”

This insistence against Sunday racing would put him at loggerheads with other riders and race promoters, eventually igniting whole nations into impassioned debates over the issue. Along the way, Taylor became conversant with theology and seems to have read the works of many Christian thinkers. He openly discussed his faith when asked, but never pushed it on others. “I am glad to say that I am a Christian,” he would tell a reporter, “and it doesn’t make any difference who knows it. I don’t make a secret of it, though I don’t go ’round sounding a trumpet.” Yet he was often mocked by other riders for his beliefs, which only further galvanized him to his faith.

As the years rolled on, the most important quality he gained from his religious teachings appeared to be his modesty. Elite bike racers at the time were lionized like today’s auto racers, yet Taylor remained humble. He always had a soft spot for those less fortunate. The messages in the Scriptures would be his guiding light in a world brimming with darkness.

Trainer Troy had a sinister feeling. He had been procrastinating about going South, but the Manhattan winter winds eventually pressed him into action. He knew it was critical for Taylor to train hard that winter because most of his rivals had already headed down there. But Troy, who was in charge of finding safe, comfortable lodging and knew the South from his days as Zimmerman’s trainer, couldn’t get over his edginess about taking Taylor to a section of the country he knew was openly hostile toward blacks.

Troy telegraphed a number of acquaintances in a few Florida cities before leaving. But as he feared, he was told to look elsewhere; the white riders, he was warned, would have no part of any “uppity Nigger” on their tracks. He kept searching. With the aid of another friend, Troy eventually secured a boardinghouse near a track in Savannah, Georgia. But as a Southern training ground for blacks, Georgia was no consolation prize. Next to Mississippi, Georgia had the highest number of lynchings in the country, more than one a day. These highly publicized affairs drew as many as ten thousand spectators and often involved extreme torture, burnings, and dismemberment.

Beneath a gray winter sky and not wanting to cause a stir, Troy shipped out before Taylor. He rented rooms at a boardinghouse in his own name and told other boarders that his black “valet” was on his way. His diversionary tactic worked for exactly one day after Taylor had arrived. Someone noticed bicycle cases sitting outside with the name Major Taylor emblazoned on them. This person put two and two together and began talking to his neighbors. When the other boarders learned that a black man was staying in the same complex, they complained bitterly to the management. Then they threatened to leave if the “darkey” remained. Eventually, the owner buckled under the pressure and kicked Taylor out.

Disheartened, Troy and Taylor scoured Savannah for alternative housing. At some point Taylor was forced to sleep in a squalid horse stable, all musty and bug infested. Finally, they secured lodging with a sympathetic black family on Lincoln Street. After settling in, they set off to the Wheelmen Park Track for much needed training. But when they arrived, Taylor and his pacemakers were immediately booted off the track by an angry mob of track owners and cyclists. Taylor had to consign himself to sitting idly by while his competitors rolled past.

With precious time wasted and the track off limits, Taylor decided to train on the road instead. Here, too, he ran into difficulty. Local wheelmen began complaining bitterly about a “Nigger” having the “gall” to pass them. Not content with just removing him from their tracks, the white riders began devising ways to get him off “their” roads as well.

One afternoon, Taylor was all alone on a drab side street heading northwest out of town. Rolling briskly along, he spotted a trio of riders flying up ahead on a triplet—or bicycle built for three. Like any competitive cyclist who spots riders in front of him, Taylor gunned forward to challenge them. When he caught up to them, he recognized their faces; it was Savannah’s top triplet team. They were startled to see him still in their town. When Taylor slipped in behind them, the rearmost rider craned his neck back and began cawing at him. “We have no intention of pacing a Nigger,” he frothed. “Take a hike.” Taylor ignored him and continued charging down Waters Road. As miles ticked off, the barbs exchanged soon degenerated into outright threats of violence toward Taylor. Taylor offered to settle the dispute with the bicycle instead of with violence. But the Southerners had other ideas. “Alright then,” Taylor retorted, “if you won’t pace me, I’ll pace you.” Taylor stood on his bike and powered forward with everything he had.

What began as a light afternoon training session turned into a heated, heads-down skirmish with Taylor leading three enraged white men through the vertiginous backstreets of Savannah. Taylor must have felt as though he was racing for his life. Eventually, and only because of his brute strength on a bicycle, Taylor was able to distance himself from the angry trio and roll back to his quarters unscathed. At least for that moment.

Taylor may have been a fairly well-read man. But he was not yet completely aware of, or simply chose to ignore, the intensity of the hostility toward blacks in the South. He was about to learn.

The following morning, he rose, ate a hearty breakfast, and limbered up for another day of road training. On his way out, he saw an envelope lying at the base of the door. He opened it. As he read the letter inside, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. It said: “Mister Taylor, if you do not leave here before forty-eight hours, you will be sorry. We mean business. Clear out if you value your life.” The letter was signed “White Riders.” And just in case the threatening words weren’t enough, next to them was a drawing of a skull and crossbones.

Troy received a similar letter, warning him that his alliance with a black man was unacceptable in that part of the country. They gave him the same amount of time to pack his bags and speed north. Letters like these needed to be taken as a shuddering statement of intent. A white man had received a similar letter for giving piano lessons to a black student from a group who called themselves “White Cappers” shortly before Taylor and Troy received theirs. This letter told the recipient to get out of town or face “tar and feathering.” The man discounted the warning and even threatened to prosecute the authors of the letter. Days later, his body was found in his cabin riddled with so many bullet holes, it was difficult to identify him.

Taylor, probably thinking the training incident was nothing more than a hard-fought competitive duel, was aghast at the letter’s tone. With less than a week of broken training behind him, he sent word of the incident north to Brady. Meanwhile, a writer drubbed Taylor in the Savannah Press newspaper. “Major Taylor de coon rider from de north is dead sore on the south,” he wrote, dipping his pen in vitriol. “He does not like the way he was treated in Savannah . . . but the Negro has no cause to kick. It is lucky that he was not severely handled. He forced himself on the white riders and made himself generally obnoxious. Hereafter Major Taylor will give Savannah a wide berth.” A civil war-of-words broke out between Southern and Northern writers. “Cowardly Writer,” responded a Massachusetts reporter, “Writes Like A Midnight Assassin. As soon as evidence is found,” he continued, “they will be prosecuted in the U.S. Court.” Another newspaper printed a drawing of Taylor on his bicycle desperately speeding away from a sign saying “Georgia.” On the same road sign was an arrow pointing toward the words “New York.”

Back at the homestead, Brady—rarely one to shy away from a fight—received word of the threats and boiled over. He probably pondered shipping south with heavyweight champion James Corbett and a few local toughs to pay the riders a visit. But being all too familiar with the lay of the land in the South and wanting to protect his investment, he bit his tongue, then instructed Taylor and Troy to head north.

Immediately, they packed their bags, rounded up their pacemen and all their bicycles, and got the hell out of Georgia. “It is useless for a colored person to attempt to get along in the South,” Taylor told a reporter. “The feeling is so strong only a race war will settle it.”

On his way north, Taylor felt the warm Georgia sun give way to the cold New York snow. If this incident was indicative of the rest of the season, it would be another turbulent year. It made him search for answers and peace of mind. He thumbed through the Scriptures, pausing on messages like those of Luke, whereby iniquities are countered with kindness and understanding:

I say to you that hear,

love your enemies,

do good to those that hate you,

bless those who curse you,

pray for those who abuse you.

He drifted into a deep sleep, the Bible’s pages fluttering to the ground. He woke to the sight of Manhattan’s Iron Pier, charming Victorian brownstones, spires from the eight-hundred-foot Manhattan Beach Hotel, and the Iron Tower whisking tourists three hundred feet up for a high view of Coney Island. Though the year’s racial tensions were just beginning, a sense of calm washed over him.

But Manhattan was enduring one of the coldest winters in years. Before the racing season’s first pistol had been shot, Taylor was already put at a distinct disadvantage to his rivals, many of whom continued training under the swaying palms for months.

When the winter weather finally lifted, Taylor began training on the Manhattan Beach Track. From his headquarters in Manhattan, Brady could do little about the Georgia riders. But he wasted no time warning the rest of the peloton. “He gave the circuit chasers to understand,” stated the New York Journal, “that trouble would follow any underhand work or threats against the Major.” Some riders took note. “The big men of the circuit appreciate the power in the racing game that Brady represented and Taylor was allowed to use the training quarters in peace.”

The early season racial difficulties continued. In April, two men named Tom Eck and Senator Morgan, managers of Philadelphia’s Woodside Park Track and owners of a rival racing syndicate, formally announced their plans to bar Taylor from their track. Taylor, they said, “must suffer with the others. Our entry blanks will be plainly marked ‘for whites only.’” Coming from a supposedly tolerant Northern state, their harsh stance surprised many observers. What made it more puzzling was that Eck had been Birdie Munger’s manager for several years. It’s hard to believe Eck was unaware of the special relationship between Munger and Taylor before attempting the ban.

But as they were about to learn, they weren’t dealing with Munger. They were dealing with an altogether different man. Though it had always been Taylor’s and Munger’s style to remain silent in such instances, hoping it would pass in time, this was not William Brady’s style. “To step on Brady’s toes intentionally was to get hit,” the New York Times would write, “and not always figuratively either.” Brady immediately got on his high horse, clopped down to the New York papers, stormed into the offices of his sports writing friends, and, with all 130 pounds of him, began crucifying Eck and company about their “unjust discrimination.” After a long, largely unprintable verbal incendiary in which the tone of his Irish tongue matched the flame of his fire-engine red hair, he finished with a succinct warning to the duo. “I beg to assure the gentlemen,” he hollered, his voice rising, “that any time the Major enters a race, the American Cycle Racing Association will see to it that he receives fair treatment.”

Over in Philly, Eck caught wind of Brady’s public harangue and began hedging. New York and Boston were okay, he said, but “about Philadelphia, I am not so sure.” But when Brady continued his frontal assault, bringing in every friendly newsman he could find, Eck buckled under the weight of his words. Claiming to have been misquoted by the press, Eck said that he would see if matters could be “adjusted.” Eck then retreated into a complete about-face. “The promoter who could debar a good drawing card like Major Taylor does not understand his business,” he said. “Although a colored man he may ride against my men when and wherever he chooses.”

Senator Morgan, who seemed completely taken aback by Brady’s strong reaction—not to mention the negative press he was receiving in nearly all Eastern newspapers—also backpedaled. “I am not in favor of barring Taylor from any races,” he said, “on any of the tracks of this association . . . this is unfortunate as I think Taylor a gentlemanly little rider, however, Brady has seen fit to take the matter up. Eck spoke before he thought, that is all, and the matter will be righted.”

Taylor sat back and soaked it all in. Never before had such a prominent man, white or black, stood up for him in such a potent public fashion. He took comfort in the strength of Brady’s words.

The train carrying William Brady and Major Taylor whistled into Philadelphia’s Tioga Track on the morning of July 16. Because of his shortened preseason training routine, Taylor found himself floundering in a distant fourth place when the heat of midsummer arrived. But with each passing week, Brady couldn’t help but notice that Taylor was showing signs of catching up to his main rivals. The race handicappers apparently agreed. Whereas they used to position him as limitman thirty-five or more yards ahead of scratchman Bald in one-mile handicap races, they began moving him back to within fifteen or twenty yards. But the stronger he became, the more trouble seemed to follow in his wake.

While most of the hostility directed at Taylor had come from low-level riders, it wasn’t limited to them. As he slowly inched up in the standings, more elite riders became concerned about his rising popularity. Even Eddie Bald, the top circuit rider, began developing a disdain toward Taylor, reportedly threatening to “thrash” him if the opportunity arose. Taylor lived under the constant threat of riders teaming up to pocket, elbow, sandwich, or flat-out dump him to the hard velodrome surface. At times, it was a cruel existence. He began sheltering himself in the protective cocoon of the rear of the peloton where he could eye and stalk his competitors until an opening formed. When he made his jump through the thicket of riders, he was often forced into pitching his head and body deep into his handlebars to avoid the inevitable jab or elbow. He rides so low, commented rider Howard Freeman, “his nose touches his handlebar.” While effective, his new tactics were by no means foolproof.

While Taylor warmed up, Brady watched seven thousand fans trample into Philadelphia’s small Tioga Track for a series of championship-level races. He had Taylor signed up to compete in the one-mile open and the one-mile handicap races. Before the races, a heated argument took place between the riders and track management. Apparently nobody wanted to wear unlucky jersey number thirteen. With a hidden grin, Taylor ended the argument, proudly slipping the forbidden jersey over his shoulders. “They cannot outride me anyway,” Brady overheard him say. Taylor wasted no time making an impression with the ardent Philadelphia crowd, which had become endeared to him at the national convention in 1897. In the one-mile open race, he defeated all his main rivals, becoming “the idol of the meet.”

As the field lined up for the final of the one-mile handicap, the crowd rose and chanted his name. With most of the crowd cheering for him, animosity filled the ranks of the riders. His eyes trained on the track, Brady must have noticed riders sneering at Taylor as they broke from the line. An angry Bald quickly caught up to Taylor, then shot out to the lead, with several riders in tow. Taylor tucked into the slipstream, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Just as the bell rang announcing the start of the final lap, Taylor saw what looked like an opening and uncoiled.

A wall of riders immediately formed in front of him. He rolled near the human barrier, body arching over his bike, eyes set, head down. Suddenly, like a flock of angry birds, the cabal of riders—out of the steward’s view—swerved outward in unison, deliberately bashing him off-kilter. Up in the grandstand, the Taylor-friendly crowd gasped. Pinching a cigar in his fingers, Brady felt his fury intensify.

For an agonizing moment, Taylor fought with his swerving craft, frantically trying to keep it from crashing. With his bike teetering on the edge, Taylor staggered sideways, clinging on for dear life while simultaneously trying to decelerate. For good reason; he was on a collision course with the press and stewards’ stand lining the track. Perched high up in the boxes, scores of horrified reporters recoiled as they watched Taylor, seemingly out of control, rapidly approaching the hardwood structure beneath them. Taylor was on the verge of being maimed. Brady glared out at the main field, tamped out his cigar, then burst into a titanic tantrum.

In an amazing display of acrobatic riding, Taylor somehow righted his bike at the last minute, shimmied back in his saddle, then scorched for the line. By then he was alone—in last place. Brady and the crowd exhaled. When Taylor finally caught up with the pack, it was too late. Owen Stevens had torn across the line in front of him with Bald by his side.

From his seat, Brady continued seething. Acting as head race steward that day, Chairman Mott stared out through his double-barreled opera glasses. Surely aware of Brady’s presence, he knew he had to do something. He immediately called an inquiry and demanded to know who was responsible. Mott had seen the commotion and knew something was afoot, but because of the large number of riders, his view of the infraction had been impeded. He conferred with the other stewards. He then summoned several riders to the stewards’ quarters and one by one called them on the carpet.

None of them would talk.

Outside, the crowd stood in confusion. The ruling finally came down. Their silence had worked. Unable to prove collusion or pin the infraction on any particular rider, the race results were upheld and no fines were levied. Brady was incredulous. Down in the winner’s circle, Stevens, who was no fan of Taylor, accepted the trophy and his purse with a telling smirk. From the sidelines, Taylor watched sober-faced. He had once again lost valuable points to competitors, clearly in cahoots with one another. “The nerve of the men in doing teamwork right under the eyes of the chairman,” barked one race writer, “took the breath away from many.”

Incensed, Brady bounded up the press box stairs to address journalists and to once again stick up for his rider. “Leave the boy alone and he will land a winner every time,” he shouted. “Think of the odds he has worked under. Of course, it is humiliating to have colored boys win,” he continued, his arms flailing, “but he does the trick honestly, and in racing parlance, there isn’t a whiter man on the track. He’s game to the core, and you never hear him complain.” Nearly everyone agreed, including his previously dubious partner, Pat Powers. “He can beat any of them in a match race,” Powers shouted, a lump of chewing tobacco swishing in the corner of his mouth, “and they know it.”

On the train afterward, Taylor felt restless. Brady’s mood mimicked that of his rider. Each unwound in his own way. Brady no doubt soothed his anger with a bottle of wine; Taylor drank water and slept. In the midst of a trying season, both men headed north.

They reeled into New Jersey’s Asbury Park on the morning of July 28. When the railcar door slid open and Taylor stepped out, he caught sight of an old friend surrounded by admiring fans. Though it had been five years since they had first crossed paths, he recalled the man’s features, the wide smile, the caring eyes, the towering figure, as if he’d seen him just yesterday. Waiting on the platform stood Arthur Zimmerman, the former champion of the world. Zimmerman raised his arm and offered his hand. Taylor reciprocated. They smiled at each other.

Hardly a day had passed without Taylor harking back to that memorable day when Zimmerman had wooed him with fantastic stories of races won at tracks across the globe. Zimmerman could not have known just how momentous that brief meeting had been for Taylor or how much the kindness he displayed toward this anonymous black boy had inspired him to carry on amid pervasive racism.

In the intervening years, Zimmerman had lost some of the jump in his legs, yet his legendary status with the American public, sportswriters, and every pro rider remained. Capitalizing on his popularity and his ability to boost attendance, Brady often invited Zimmerman to act as startman, the person who shot the pistol to begin a race. Since their last meeting at Munger’s bachelor pad, Zimmerman had been following Taylor’s rise to national prominence with great interest. Even though he was still recuperating from a near-deadly case of Mexican fever when he received word that Taylor was racing in his hometown, Zimmerman, who didn’t have a racial bone in his body, greeted him at the depot and offered up his home while he was in town.

Familiar with the temptations pro cyclists faced—frequent invitations to late-night parties, the drinking, gambling, and womanizing—Zimmerman praised Taylor for his racing success and for abstaining from the vices that had burned out some of his competitors. Zimmerman escorted Taylor to the track as Taylor had escorted him to Munger’s home years ago.

“I am very anxious to see you win the event this afternoon,” Zimmerman said, “and I feel sure you will, even without a suggestion from me; however I have one to offer, which aided me in my heyday, and I trust you will give it consideration.” Hours before the race, Zimmerman, who had a patriarchal quality about him, led Taylor out on the rain-soaked track where he gave him a lesson on the subtleties of winning on the Newark oval. The two men—one declining, the other rising—stood alone on the barren track and talked in the vernacular of bike racers.

“If you can lead the field into this turn,” Zimmerman said, pointing to the backstretch halfway to the last turn, “nobody can pass you before you cross the tape. I made all my successful sprints from this identical spot.”

Taylor marked the spot, thanked Zimmie for his sage advice, and limbered up. Watching the former world champion walk off the track, his best years behind him, Taylor must have viewed the incident as a passing of the baton. Later that afternoon, Brady and boxer Jim Corbett, his official timekeeper, wedged into the damp grandstand alongside a small and wet crowd of a couple thousand fans. Though it was a drizzly weekday race with a light purse, with Zimmerman and “Papa” Zimmerman standing by, it meant everything to Taylor.

Zimmerman pointed his pistol skyward. The riders, surely jealous of the attention the former star had given Taylor, glanced up at Zimmerman. “No group of racing horses,” commented Taylor, “ever faced the barrier in a more nervous state.” The field broke even and stayed bunched together until midway through the one-mile open race. As he rounded the far turn, Taylor eased up, dropping into the slipstream of the main field and surveying his rivals for potential weaknesses. Rolling into view of “the spot” on the track, Taylor experienced a unique sensation. Professional cyclists claim that on certain days they are so strong it’s as if their bicycles have no chains. They feel no resistance; all things move forward effortlessly.

For Major Taylor, this was one of those days and Zimmerman’s famous spot was upon him. At the precise mark, he channeled his surge of energy into a vicious sprint for the line. One by one, the rest of the field, trying with all their might to respond to Taylor’s move, collapsed under the strain. The first to pop off the back was Stevens, then Gardiner, followed by Cooper. The last to crack, yards before the tape, was Champion Bald.

Taylor flew across the line in front and alone. Glowing like a child, he circled the track waving to the crowd. Zimmerman watched the crowd swarming around him, recalling his own glory days. “Our friend Birdie Munger was right about you,” Zimmerman repeated several times as he, Brady, and Corbett doffed their caps and joined the celebration on the track. “He shared the honors with Major Taylor,” wrote the Boston Globe, “the lion of the hour.”

The victory and the resulting purse, however sparse, proved to be one of the most rewarding moments of Taylor’s life. But it meant as much to Zimmerman as it did to Taylor. “I have never seen a more happy man in my life than Arthur A. Zimmerman as he shook my hand warmly at the conclusion of the race,” Taylor remembered.

In the end, it wasn’t the racing tip that had motivated Taylor. It was that a man of Zimmerman’s stature cared about him, the despised black man. It would prove to be the kind of compassion that was redemptive and everlasting.

Somewhere out on that barren New Jersey backstretch before an otherwise forgettable race, a ceremonial baton was passed. Given the racial acrimony at the time, it was a unique exchange—passing from the wavering hands of a legendary white man who had lived a life of unprecedented fame and glory into the grasp of a persecuted black man who had previously moved in obscurity.

With that baton clenched in his hand, it was now up to Taylor to run with it—or watch it fade away.