What Did Dr. Graves and Mr. Rhodes Have In Common?

I recall reading that people were always astonished to see Dr. Clifford L. Graves, a renowned surgeon, arriving on his bicycle.  Doctors of any sort were expected to show up for surgery or visits with patients in a Cadillac--the luxury car of choice at that time--or something like it.  

Consternation at seeing him on two wheels instead of four was not alleviated by the fact that he wasn't riding just any old bike:  He rode custom bikes, including a Rene Herse. Of course, most Americans at that time didn't know the Cadillac of bicycles, if you will, from the VW Beetles of the two-wheeled world.

Then again, in those days, almost any adult riding a bicycle in the US would raise eyebrows.  A few, like Dr. Graves, pedaled by choice.  But more often than not, an adult rode a bicycle because he or she couldn't drive a car, for whatever reasons.  And that was (and still is ) a source of shame in America.

Whether the cyclist was a doctor or drifter, the adult cyclist in the States was seen as, if nothing else, an eccentric.  As often as not, they were:  Dr. Graves had a number of interests that ranged far from cycling or surgery.  As an example, he was an accomplished classical pianist and founding President of the La Jolla Symphony Association.

Floyd Rhodes, a.k.a. Bicycle Charlie

Floyd Rhodes' musical tastes, on the other hand, ran more toward country and blues.  And he played guitar, mainly for people who knew him.  As for a career, he wasn't a surgeon or doctor of any sort.  Rather, he supported himself through odd jobs and collecting leftover food from Safeway and W.T. Grant's Bradford Room restaurant.  



He moved to Waynesboro, Virginia with his family in 1916, when he was five years old. Previously, they'd lived in Covington, about 85 miles away.  While the work and bicycle tours of Dr. Graves, born five years before Rhodes, took him all over the world, Rhodes never seems to have ventured much beyond Waynesboro, where he lived in a trailer by the river.

Still, in his own way, he seemed to have garnered respect, and even affection, from his community. When they called him "Bicycle Charlie," it wasn't a taunt or joke:  While they didn't understand his lifestyle, they admired him for his sense of himself.  He was also said to be gentle and generous with everyone.

These two men who lived by their bicycles could hardly have died in different ways.  On the night of 24 July 1981, Rhodes attended a concert near Waynesboro.  After it ended, he rode along Route 250.  A teenager driving along that road struck what he thought was a mailbox.  He continued home and told his father about the accident.  They went to the scene and found, not a mailbox, but a crumpled bicycle.  Not long after, they found "Bicycle Charlie's" broken body in a nearby ditch.

Dr. Clifford Graves

Graves, on the other hand, died on 7 December 1985, after a bout with pancreatic cancer.  Just three days earlier, he'd written a letter to members of the International Bicycle Touring Society, which he'd founded, saying that he had "six weeks to six months" of life left.

In the end, these two very different men had a common legacy:  They reached the corners of their worlds, and other people's lives, on their bicycles.  For as long as they are remembered, they will be remembered for that.

A Holy Text From The Patron Saint

Look at the picture, but don't look at the little box in the lower left hand corner.  (Yeah, right!)  This photo is the cover of a magazine. What kind of magazine? (Remember, you're not supposed to look at the box! ;-))

The same magazine featured this on the cover of another issue:

Lest you think they were concerned only with the French countryside, at least as a cyclist might experience it, take a look at this cover.

OK, so it's from 1970.  I think even Kirkus Reviews had a psychedelic edition around then.  Paul de Vivie might not have approved, but they can be forgiven.

Some of you may know that Le Cycliste, which was published from 1887 until 1973, was founded by someone who wrote under the name of "Velocio."  What you may not have known is that he was none other than Paul de Vivie, also known as "the patron saint of cycling."

If he isn't so recognized by Rome or anyone else, he should be known as the progenitor of a genre of cycling and the godfather, as it were, of a development in bicycle technology that most of us take for granted but wasn't allowed in the Tour de France during his lifetime.

That piece of machinery is, of course, the derailleur.  Whether or not he invented it, or even came up with the idea for it, is disputed.  What is generally beyond doubt is that he did more to make it a part of nearly all high-mileage (and some not-so-high mileage) cyclists' steeds. 

If there is any other person who did as much to popularize the derailleur--as well as other pieces of equipment that are included in every cyclotourist's (and racer's) kit--it's someone whose drawings regularly graced the magazine's pages.

You guessed:  Daniel Rebour.

Now to the kind of riding Velocio inspired, through his writing as well as his own riding:  It's what you all know as randonneuring.  And, of course, there are variations on it, such as the Audax and Gran Fondo.

Now, of course, when he was doing those 800-kilometer rides in five days through the mountains, Velocio did not have to stop at any check points or get a booklet stamped. However, in every other way, his rides are prototypes of randonnees and audax rides:  They were not races, but he always attempted (and usually succeeded) in covering a certain number of kilometers, to a particular destination and back, with as few and infrequent rest stops as possible.

He was not, as some of his critics charged, "hypnotized by speed"or "intoxicated by distance".  Rather, he was enamored of the ways in which such long hours of riding opened his senses to details no one could notice from a car or train (or plane).  A passage Dr. Clifford Graves quotes in an early issue of Bicycling! magazine is evidence of that.

Velocio/de Vivie (With a name like that, why did he need a nom de plume?) died in 1930.  The magazine continued for more than four decades after.  I haven't been able to find out why it ceased publication.  Perhaps the reason is that the number of serious randonneurs and cyclotourists declined in France, as it did in the rest of Europe, after the devastation of World War II was replaced, rebuilt or simply abandoned.  About a decade or so after the war, relatively large numbers of people could afford automobiles and drive them on the newly-created autoroutes.

Now, with  a resurgent bicycle touring community in the Old World as well as in America, Le Cycliste would probably do well--especially given that cyclists tend to appreciate tasteful, crafted work as well as nature.  Le Cycliste combined them beautifully. Thankfully, a current cycle publication seems to be doing something very similar:  Jan Heine's Bicycle Quarterly.