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.
