Matthew Cherry

 Today, most people believe tricycles are for toddlers or old people. But as the first “bike boom” took shape during the late 1880s, some saw “trikes” as a viable alternative to high-wheelers, a.k.a., “penny farthings”. 

The bikes most commonly associated with that period had front wheels much larger in diameter than the rear. Cranks were attached to the front axle. The bikes were therefore “direct drive,” which meant that the gearing was determined by the size of the front wheel. A larger wheel meant a higher gear and potentially more speed. (I can only imagine pedaling them uphill!) Racers and riders who simply wanted to go fast (or “prove” their manhood) often rode perched over front wheels taller than their bodies. And, aside from their inherent instability, “penny-farthings” posed another hazard: A cyclist’s foot could be caught in the wheel.

Variations of the “safety” bicycle—one with wheels of equal diameter and a chain connecting a sprocket on the rear wheel with a chainring on the crank—had been in the works well before that first “bike boom” began and mostly displaced “penny-farthings” by the middle of it. It’s what most of us have been riding ever since.

But around the same time British inventor and industrialist John Starley introduced the first commercially-successful “safety “ bicycle, another inventor on the other side of the Atlantic patented a new kind of human-powered wheeled transportation: the tricycle. It would look more or less familiar to us today: two rear wheels and a somewhat larger front attached to a metal frame. The first version was propelled (and stopped) by the rider’s feet on the ground; a later version had cranks and pedals attached to the front wheel: the drive system of “penny farthings.”

Among Matthew Cherry’s later inventions were a fender (what we might call a bumper) for streetcars.  Believe it or not, until he developed it, those transport conveyances lacked anything that could absorb shock from a front or rear impact and were thus frequently damaged.

Anyway, in spite of his accomplishments, little is known about Cherry’s life aside from having been born 5 February 1834 in Washington, DC. (Nobody is sure of when or where he died.) The nation’s capital has long been a racially segregated city: It didn’t outlaw slave auctions in its confines until 16 years after his birth.

That last sentence is a clue to what I’m about to say: Matthew Cherry was Black. It’s hard not to wonder whether that was an impediment to his further developing the tricycle. Had he been able to secure more investment and other support, might he have developed a way to create something like the adult tricycle we see today: one with the drivetrain system nearly all of us ride today, with its capacity for variable gears.

I haven’t ridden a tricycle since I was a toddler. I don’t recall seeing an adult trike here in New York, though some cargo bikes resemble them. Still, I wonder:  What if tricycles, and not “safety” bicycles, had displaced high-wheelers?

Certainly bike—or more precisely, trike—design would be different. Transportation and urban planning might also be different. I suspect that one reason why adult tricycles are so rarely seen in New York and other cities is that three-wheelers are more difficult to maneuver in traffic and even in bike lanes. (In fact, some “bike lanes” aren’t wide enough for them.) Would streets and other infrastructure have been designed differently—possibly in less auto-centric ways? And might our cities—and society—be less segregated?

If nothing else, tricycles might not be just for kids and folks in retirement communities.

“Kittie” Knox

 February is Black History Month in the U.S. In years past, I’ve recounted the life and accomplishments of Major Taylor (which I may re-visit this month), a Black cycling brigade and other stories related to the experiences of African-descended cyclists in America. Today, however, I want to call attention to someone who has been all but forgotten, save by a few African American history scholars.

Katherine Towle “Kittie” Knox was born on 7 October 1874 in Cambridgeport, Massachusetts. When she was seven, her father died. Shortly afterward, her mother moved with her and her brother to the West End of Boston, a largely impoverished neighborhood that many American Blacks and immigrants called home.

She would work as a seamstress and her brother as a steamfitter. In addition to helping her family, her work allowed her to save money and buy a bicycle, which was a “big ticket” item. Her job also helped her to create a unique, and sometimes controversial, identity.

Ms. Knox came of age just as the first American bicycle boom was building up steam. And the Boston area was one of its epicenters. Kittie’s enthusiasm and talent were quickly noticed, and she was invited to participate in races and other events—and to become a member of the League of American Wheelmen (now known as the League of American Cyclists) in 1893.

In one of cycling’s more shameful episodes, one year after Knox became a member, the L.A.W. amended its constitution to mandate that only White cyclists could join. Disputes about Kittie’s membership ensued. She did not give in to pressure to resign and the amendment was not retroactive. “Kittie” Knox thus remained a member and a popular rider in its—and other—events.

But her popularity didn’t shield her from the “double whammy” of race and gender discrimination. Even as a card-carrying L.A.W. member, she was denied entry to races and other rides. And she was refused service in hotels and restaurants.  A newspaper account from 1895 describes an all-too-typical incident:

Asbury Park, New Jersey was a fashionable beach town and the site of a prestigious race. That newspaper account offers a glimpse into its troubled racial history. It’s a morning’s or afternoon’s bike ride from where I lived during my high-school years. Whenever I rode through that part of the Jersey Shore, I couldn’t help but to notice how I was pedaling from White to Black, or back, when I entered or left the city, which was ravaged by a race riot in 1970. And neighboring Ocean Grove was a “sundown town.” Both municipalities, like my high school town, are part of Monmouth County—which, according to some sources, had the largest Ku Klux Klan membership of any county north of the Mason-Dixon Line.

The newspaper account of that time also highlights, if unintentionally, the other “prong” of discrimination she faced. The “pretty colored girl from Boston” used the skills she acquired as a seamstress to create outfits that, in addition to allowing more freedom of movement than typical women’s cycling attire of the time, had a distinctive look. So, even when she won a race, reporters and much of the public focused on her appearance rather than her aptitude or hard work.

Unfortunately, not enough has changed. I can recall sports journalists and commentators tamping their praise of Serena Williams’ other-worldly tennis playing with criticisms of her inability to conform to their ideas of femininity.  Rebecca Twigg probably made more money from modeling clothes than from winning a rainbow jersey. And, for all of her dominance on the basketball court, much of the media and public seem more infatuated with Caitlin Clark's Midwestern “girl next door” persona.

Given what I’ve just said, it’s interesting and possibly disturbing to think of what her post-racing life could have been like. Would she have kept the flame of American cycling alive after World War I? Could she have become a fashion designer or created a line of clothing for athletic women? Or would she have been part of the “Harlem Renaissance,” whether on-site or in spirit?  We’ll never know because she died on 11 October 1900–four days after turning 26–from liver disease.

He Didn’t Know He’d Made History

 Today I am invoking, once again, my Howard Cosell Rule:  This post won’t be about bicycles or bicycling.

Almost any someone breaks a barrier—whether it’s based on race, gender, social class or some other trait—that person is referred to as the “Jackie Robinson” of their field. In fact, I had that title bestowed on me when I was the first person to “change” gender in my workplace.

I took that both as a compliment and a warning: I think some were trying to alert me to what I might (and indeed did) face.  On the other hand, I felt honored to be compared to someone I so respect as a human being as well as an athlete.

That respect and admiration is not abstract or idolatory:  I actually met the man when I was very young and—as I could not have known—he was a few years away from the end of his too-brief life.  Years later, I met his widow Rachel, a beautiful and formidable woman.

The man I am about to mention also, when he was very young, met Jackie. At that time, Robinson was in the prime of his baseball career.  And the subject of the rest of this post would embark on his own athletic career, in a league where no one like him played before.

Sixty-six years ago yesterday—18 January 1958–Willie O’Ree’s skate blades glided across the ice in the Montréal Forum.  The hometown fans cheered him and the following day, the city’s sportswriters—lauded his fast, smooth skating.

That Montréal scribes could pay homage to the abilities of á forward who didn’t skate for the hometown Canadiens (Les Habitants) wasn’t unusual, Their praise, however, was particularly interesting given that O’Ree wore the sweater (they’re not called jerseys in hockey) of the Boston Bruins, whose rivalry with the Canadiens is as intense as the enmity between the Red Sox and Yankees.

Oh, and he just happened to be the first Black player in the history of the National Hockey League. That night, Willie was trying to prove himself and win a permanent roster spot in the sport’s top league.  “I did not realize I had made history,” he recalled.

Somehow it seems fitting that he is a descendent of slaves who escaped from the United States into Canada via the Underground Railroad. His family was one of two in Fredericton, the capital of the Canadian province of New Brunswick. Like many of his peers, he grew up as a fan of the Canadiens.

His NHL career was brief, but he played professional hockey—and won scoring titles—well into his 40s. I can’t help but to think that as supportive as his teammates and the league’s fans—in Boston, Montréal and Toronto, anyway—were, racism, conscious or not, on the part of management hindered his development. After all, he had enough natural ability for Montréal sportswriters and fans to notice. But he needed to stay in the NHL longer than he did—parts of two seasons—to refine his skills in the way only nightly competition with and against the best players in the world could have. That is what Jackie Robinson was able to do during his decade with the Dodgers.

A Discount, Because "They're Owed"

 When Willie Mays played stickball with the boys in his neighborhood--Harlem--the media spun it as a story about his love of kids, and how they loved him.

While they certainly had affection for each other, the real reason "The Say Hey Kid" was hitting and catching what those kids hit and threw wasn't that the Polo Grounds, then the Giants' home field, was only a few blocks away.

Rather, he was on those upper Manhattan streets because, even with all his celebrity, he couldn't live anywhere else:  Realtors in other neighborhoods, or other towns, wouldn't rent or sell to him, not because they were Brooklyn Dodger fans, but  because he's black.

Although New York didn't have Jim Crow laws, there was nothing to stop them  from such practices--or to charge a black buyer more than they'd charge a white client.

While it's not possible to change the past, some people are trying, in the ways they know how, to make amends.  Grant Petersen, president and founder of Rivendell Bicycle Works, is one such person.

He's offering "reparations pricing" on some of the company's bikes and frames.  In a way, it's a revival of a practice Rivendell engaged in for two years until the COVID epidemic:  Black customers were offered discount for purchases in the company's Walnut Creek, CA store.  Starting on Monday, 12 October, that discount will be offered on select bikes, nationwide.

Petersen's response to those who object that some customers will "pretend to be black" is, in essence, "I don't care."  He's offering the discount to Black customers, he says, "not because it's a nice thing to do" but because "they're owed."

I'm not surprised that he's getting backlash about this:  Some folks believe that others "deserve" similar discounts for all sorts of reasons, such as being first responders.  I don't disagree with them, but Petersen says that he's trying to keep things "simple."  How simple it will be to identify Black customers, I don't know.  But I respect him for trying to achieve some measure of justice in some segment of the world.