CHAPTER XXV.ROUMANIA A PARADISE FOR CYCLISTS—DELIGHTFUL RIDING INTO AUSTRO-HUNGARY—VIENNA ACCORDS A SPLENDID RECEPTION TO THE TOURISTSA curious and confusing method of road measurement exists in Roumania, by which many cyclists are led to believe distances are far less than is really the case. If the official distance from village A to E is given as 100 kilometers, that sum does not include the distance inside the boundaries of villages B, C and D. Thus a day’s run through a dozen straggling settlements involves riding a total of 80 kilometers more than maps and road posts indicate. We found this difficulty to exist on our first day’s run from Bucharest. When we reached Siniai the total mileage indicated was 82, yet we had six kilometers to travel ere we halted at the hotel in the center of the town. Siniai is not a city of trade and industry. It is a mountain summer resort, made popular twelve years ago by an eccentric Roumanian prince, and perpetuated by Carol I., King of Roumania, who selected the enchanting hills as the royal summer palace. The palace is called Pelesu Castle, and, as the English-speaking proprietor of our hotel told us that visitors were freely admitted, we pressed him into service as guide, and made a visit to the abode of royalty. We discovered His Majesty on a terrace in front of the castle, playing with two chubby children. I was fearful lest he see us and regard our presence as an intrusion, but assured by our guide that the monarch was not in the least sensitive about strangers, we passed toward the distinguished group. As we neared the king he stood erect, and looked at us intently, and as he raised one finger to salute by touching the side of his military cap, he spoke clearly, “Guten morgen.” The little prince straightened up, brought his boot heels together so that the bare calves of his fat legstouched, and, imitating the sovereign, he piped, “Guten morgen.” The king had mistaken us for Germans, his own nationality.When we departed from Siniai we left behind us one of the most romantic and beautiful of cities. Our route was slightly up-hill for the first twenty-five kilometers, but with excellent roads, cool air and frequent shade we did not feel any discomfort and rode rapidly. It is tantalizing to other cyclists and tourists for one to write of elegant roadways, delightful scenery and charming little roadside inns, when the location is so unavailable as Eastern Europe is to American cyclists, but it would be an act of injustice to Roumania were we not to admit it the most beautiful of countries, and the northern section the most perfect of cycling routes. Where the valleys narrow into a pass, the road, cut into the side of rocks, is shaded by overhanging cliffs, and at short intervals are situated moss-covered wooden troughs, through which trickle ice water, clear as only snow water can be when percolated through porous rock. We were rudely disturbed in our survey of entrancing scenery one bright morning by a soldier standing guard at a small house by the roadside. We were at Predeal, the border line between Roumania and Austria-Hungary. Mr. Boxshall, the American vice-consul at Bucharest, had given us letters from the Austro-Hungarian consul at Bucharest, and this, with my muchly-indorsed passport, made an important looking package document which I had handed two officers in the examining room of the outpost. After a carefulperusalof the papers, they respectfully declined to inspect our luggage and permitted us to pass into Hungary territory. Tomasu, an Austro-Hungarian customs house, was five miles north, and as we did not expect further formality until reaching that point, we set out at a lively pace as soon as our papers had been returned. We had proceeded scarcely a hundred yards ere a trooper in uniform stepped from a sentry-box and commanded us to halt. As he possessed a rifle and a business-like expression, we checked up immediately. An officer now appeared and demanded receipts for sixty florins, which should have been paid on our bicycles as revenue bond. The sixty florins, he explained, would be returned to us on our departure from Austrian territory, but as our entire finances did not greatly exceed that sum, we endeavored to appease the demands of the revenue department by a display of papers. The official after questioning us regarding our trip, became gracious, and returning our papers, motioned us to go ahead without further annoyance. Having successfully run the gauntlet on two occasions, the task at Tomasu was comparatively easy—in fact a pleasure—the officials endorsing our papers, inviting us to luncheon and providing us with maps. Leaving Tomasu, the grade was in our favor, and late in theafternoon we halted at the village inn at Persani. Stepping inside to quench our thirst, two men who had taken an unusual interest in our bicycles and selves drew near to listen to our conversation. One chap had an enormous revolver, and as the other stood with feet far apart, he thrust his hands under the tails of his smock. There was something familiar in the attitude, and I could not but exclaim to my wife, “I will bet a hundred dollars that chap has hip pockets in his trousers, and if he has, he has been in America.” The word America settled all doubt. The pair advanced and declared themselves. In typical “contract labor” dialect. I was addressed as “Boss,” informed that America was “bully,” and that they had “built” a railroad at Salem, Ohio, and had brought home hip pockets filled with big guns and American money. They insisted upon buying us beer in true American style, and as they departed with a low bow, they looked at the common herd of untraveled with haughty air.We endured slight showers during the afternoon of June 29, which proved our undoing for a century run. After a hard fall on one of the slippery hills, I limped into Peterfalva, 85 miles away from our starting point at midnight, the front fork of my wheel badly bent, and the grips broken from the handle-bars. A half-drunken blacksmith, whom I found in the village the next morning, made an aggravating botch of the repair, but it lasted to Muhlenbach, eighteen miles distant, where a cyclist kindly escorted me to a repair shop. The foreman of the shop had read of the Inter Ocean tourists, and promised us a permanent repair. He kept his word, and we again started on our journey at 6 in the evening. Twenty miles out of Muhlenbach a storm broke upon us and for two hours no cyclists ever had such hard riding, unless, of course, it be up thesnow-cladmountains of Persia. We eventually found a wine house on the roadside, to which we were admitted, but informed that we could not be permitted to pass the night there. We flatly refused to go, and when the fat wife of the proprietor realized that we meant just what we said, she brought in straw and arranged a bed for us, where we slept until daylight. At Broos, where we stopped for breakfast, a jolly young fellow introduced himself to us as Erlich Janos, captain of the local wheel club, a pilot of Thomas Stevens, American World’s cyclist of ’85, and an admirer of the Inter Ocean tourists. Erlich Janos, or, as we should call him, John Erlich, had maps of a territory through which we would travel, and he asked permission to accompany us on part of the run. We were delighted to have him, and our admiration for him was doubled when he appeared in modern wheeling costume in the seat of one of the latest made machines. We covered thirty miles before halting for luncheon, and the good-natured cyclistcontinued with us as far as a fork in the road ten miles from Dobra. July 4 was spent on a lovely stretch of road, whirling toward Buda-Pesth. Heavy rains made the road almost impassable on July 5, but we foolishly attempted to press on and reach Kecskemet by 10 o’clock that night. When about eighteen miles from our destination, I was blinded by a flash of lightning, and the next moment pitched over a steep embankment. My damaged front fork was once more broken, and my leg seriously wrenched. The situation was anything but pleasant, and how we ever reached Kecskemet carrying the broken wheel and feeling our way in the darkness, remains this day a source of wonder to ourselves. We arrived in the city just in time to catch the mail train into Buda-Pesth, fifty-one miles north, where our wheels were repaired and our broken journey once more picked up.Though our arrival in the city was unannounced and detracted from by entrance on the conventional railway, the Buda-Pesth cyclists immediately accepted us as wandering members of a vast fraternity. Mr. Emil Philopivich, Mr. Otto Blathy and Mr. Joseph Erlich were active in our behalf, and if we do not know the principal sights of the Hungarian capital, the error is not with them. When we left Buda-Pesth on July 17, with Messrs. Erlich and Philopivich as pace-makers, we had in trail many cyclists journeying from Buda-Pesth to Vienna. Assisted by smooth roads, we were in a fair way of reaching Vienna by night, but a cold rain sent us scurrying into a hotel on the roadside, delaying us until the next morning. We reached the outskirts of Vienna at 10 o’clock in the morning, wheeling into the city through scores of parks, avenues of beautiful buildings, and squares reserved for the erection of some government structure designed to match some magnificent building already rearing its proud dome on the square opposite. Vienna would be a paradise to cyclists if the street pavements and condition of thoroughfares were not a menace to life and limb. There is not a street but that has suffered severe attacks of gas, water and sewage contraction. The result is a maze of holes, ditches, depressions and bumps. There are many places to visit in Vienna and near by, but one of the first runs we made was far out in the suburbs to a cottage occupied by a Mr. Clemens. Few people in the book-reading world know Mr. Clemens, but millions know Mark Twain, and the pair are as closely united as Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde (yet in justice to Mr. Clemens, not so dissimilar in character). Mr. Clemens was situated in a delightful, quiet spot, hard at work, while his daughters were adding to their musical education the desired Viennese polish. I did not ascertain what fountain-pen he used, get a diagram of the house with a cross representing where he sat at work, or even his signatureasserting that I had a genuine interview with him, but I know that he was enjoying good health, was vigorous as ever, smoked good cigars, and said we were welcome.We liked Vienna and its people, and we stayed in the city just long enough to enjoy its pleasures and learn only a few of its inconveniences. The Inter Ocean cyclists had decided to depart westward July 27, and the “Neue Wiener Tagblatt,” which had announced every movement we had made, did not lose advantage of a final write-up. Early in the morning of the date agreed upon we were aroused by a visitor. He was a cyclist and came to announce that hundreds of people were awaiting us in the Kohlmarkt, and though the hour was 7 o’clock and we were to start at 9, the people would be pleased if we would remain on exhibition during the interval. The idea did not suit us exactly, and communicating the fact to the delegate through closed doors, we again slept the sleep of people who must do two days' work in one. We reached the Kohlmarkt at 9 o’clock, and, as our early informant had stated; a crowd awaited us. It was a Vienna crowd, good-natured and patient, who cheered us as we wheeled into sight, made way for us to pass to the rendezvous, but almost pulled us to pieces in efforts to shake hands with us and attract attention to their hearty “Gleich lich ze reisen.”We pulled out into the street at 9:30 o’clock. Our escort and the police held back the crowd long enough to allow a photographer to add two negatives to his collection, and then with asighof relief we slipped into our saddles and wheeled slowly through the lane of shouting people. Our escort was a unique one, the riders clad in white flannel, black hose, and lavender silk sweaters. Mr. Charles Carpenter, Miss Marion Carpenter and Mr. Fritz of Pottstown, Pa., also lined up, and with a constantly accumulating line of cyclists we started toward the western limits. Near St. Poiten we had lunch, our companions returned to Vienna, and the Inter Ocean cyclists wheeled on alone. We halted that night sixty-four miles from where we had left our Vienna party at midday. We were again in the realm of gast-houses, plain but substantial meals, odd little chambers, equipped with two bedsteads, one chair, a washstand, and several feather beds. It is pleasant, though, clean, and our only regret at the resumption of our trip was that we had left behind Vienna, a city which cannot be excelled in gayety, life and beauty. Paris may be more wicked, vicious and historical in strife, but there is only one Vienna, and that a peerless city of beauty and wholesome pleasure.
CHAPTER XXV.ROUMANIA A PARADISE FOR CYCLISTS—DELIGHTFUL RIDING INTO AUSTRO-HUNGARY—VIENNA ACCORDS A SPLENDID RECEPTION TO THE TOURISTSA curious and confusing method of road measurement exists in Roumania, by which many cyclists are led to believe distances are far less than is really the case. If the official distance from village A to E is given as 100 kilometers, that sum does not include the distance inside the boundaries of villages B, C and D. Thus a day’s run through a dozen straggling settlements involves riding a total of 80 kilometers more than maps and road posts indicate. We found this difficulty to exist on our first day’s run from Bucharest. When we reached Siniai the total mileage indicated was 82, yet we had six kilometers to travel ere we halted at the hotel in the center of the town. Siniai is not a city of trade and industry. It is a mountain summer resort, made popular twelve years ago by an eccentric Roumanian prince, and perpetuated by Carol I., King of Roumania, who selected the enchanting hills as the royal summer palace. The palace is called Pelesu Castle, and, as the English-speaking proprietor of our hotel told us that visitors were freely admitted, we pressed him into service as guide, and made a visit to the abode of royalty. We discovered His Majesty on a terrace in front of the castle, playing with two chubby children. I was fearful lest he see us and regard our presence as an intrusion, but assured by our guide that the monarch was not in the least sensitive about strangers, we passed toward the distinguished group. As we neared the king he stood erect, and looked at us intently, and as he raised one finger to salute by touching the side of his military cap, he spoke clearly, “Guten morgen.” The little prince straightened up, brought his boot heels together so that the bare calves of his fat legstouched, and, imitating the sovereign, he piped, “Guten morgen.” The king had mistaken us for Germans, his own nationality.When we departed from Siniai we left behind us one of the most romantic and beautiful of cities. Our route was slightly up-hill for the first twenty-five kilometers, but with excellent roads, cool air and frequent shade we did not feel any discomfort and rode rapidly. It is tantalizing to other cyclists and tourists for one to write of elegant roadways, delightful scenery and charming little roadside inns, when the location is so unavailable as Eastern Europe is to American cyclists, but it would be an act of injustice to Roumania were we not to admit it the most beautiful of countries, and the northern section the most perfect of cycling routes. Where the valleys narrow into a pass, the road, cut into the side of rocks, is shaded by overhanging cliffs, and at short intervals are situated moss-covered wooden troughs, through which trickle ice water, clear as only snow water can be when percolated through porous rock. We were rudely disturbed in our survey of entrancing scenery one bright morning by a soldier standing guard at a small house by the roadside. We were at Predeal, the border line between Roumania and Austria-Hungary. Mr. Boxshall, the American vice-consul at Bucharest, had given us letters from the Austro-Hungarian consul at Bucharest, and this, with my muchly-indorsed passport, made an important looking package document which I had handed two officers in the examining room of the outpost. After a carefulperusalof the papers, they respectfully declined to inspect our luggage and permitted us to pass into Hungary territory. Tomasu, an Austro-Hungarian customs house, was five miles north, and as we did not expect further formality until reaching that point, we set out at a lively pace as soon as our papers had been returned. We had proceeded scarcely a hundred yards ere a trooper in uniform stepped from a sentry-box and commanded us to halt. As he possessed a rifle and a business-like expression, we checked up immediately. An officer now appeared and demanded receipts for sixty florins, which should have been paid on our bicycles as revenue bond. The sixty florins, he explained, would be returned to us on our departure from Austrian territory, but as our entire finances did not greatly exceed that sum, we endeavored to appease the demands of the revenue department by a display of papers. The official after questioning us regarding our trip, became gracious, and returning our papers, motioned us to go ahead without further annoyance. Having successfully run the gauntlet on two occasions, the task at Tomasu was comparatively easy—in fact a pleasure—the officials endorsing our papers, inviting us to luncheon and providing us with maps. Leaving Tomasu, the grade was in our favor, and late in theafternoon we halted at the village inn at Persani. Stepping inside to quench our thirst, two men who had taken an unusual interest in our bicycles and selves drew near to listen to our conversation. One chap had an enormous revolver, and as the other stood with feet far apart, he thrust his hands under the tails of his smock. There was something familiar in the attitude, and I could not but exclaim to my wife, “I will bet a hundred dollars that chap has hip pockets in his trousers, and if he has, he has been in America.” The word America settled all doubt. The pair advanced and declared themselves. In typical “contract labor” dialect. I was addressed as “Boss,” informed that America was “bully,” and that they had “built” a railroad at Salem, Ohio, and had brought home hip pockets filled with big guns and American money. They insisted upon buying us beer in true American style, and as they departed with a low bow, they looked at the common herd of untraveled with haughty air.We endured slight showers during the afternoon of June 29, which proved our undoing for a century run. After a hard fall on one of the slippery hills, I limped into Peterfalva, 85 miles away from our starting point at midnight, the front fork of my wheel badly bent, and the grips broken from the handle-bars. A half-drunken blacksmith, whom I found in the village the next morning, made an aggravating botch of the repair, but it lasted to Muhlenbach, eighteen miles distant, where a cyclist kindly escorted me to a repair shop. The foreman of the shop had read of the Inter Ocean tourists, and promised us a permanent repair. He kept his word, and we again started on our journey at 6 in the evening. Twenty miles out of Muhlenbach a storm broke upon us and for two hours no cyclists ever had such hard riding, unless, of course, it be up thesnow-cladmountains of Persia. We eventually found a wine house on the roadside, to which we were admitted, but informed that we could not be permitted to pass the night there. We flatly refused to go, and when the fat wife of the proprietor realized that we meant just what we said, she brought in straw and arranged a bed for us, where we slept until daylight. At Broos, where we stopped for breakfast, a jolly young fellow introduced himself to us as Erlich Janos, captain of the local wheel club, a pilot of Thomas Stevens, American World’s cyclist of ’85, and an admirer of the Inter Ocean tourists. Erlich Janos, or, as we should call him, John Erlich, had maps of a territory through which we would travel, and he asked permission to accompany us on part of the run. We were delighted to have him, and our admiration for him was doubled when he appeared in modern wheeling costume in the seat of one of the latest made machines. We covered thirty miles before halting for luncheon, and the good-natured cyclistcontinued with us as far as a fork in the road ten miles from Dobra. July 4 was spent on a lovely stretch of road, whirling toward Buda-Pesth. Heavy rains made the road almost impassable on July 5, but we foolishly attempted to press on and reach Kecskemet by 10 o’clock that night. When about eighteen miles from our destination, I was blinded by a flash of lightning, and the next moment pitched over a steep embankment. My damaged front fork was once more broken, and my leg seriously wrenched. The situation was anything but pleasant, and how we ever reached Kecskemet carrying the broken wheel and feeling our way in the darkness, remains this day a source of wonder to ourselves. We arrived in the city just in time to catch the mail train into Buda-Pesth, fifty-one miles north, where our wheels were repaired and our broken journey once more picked up.Though our arrival in the city was unannounced and detracted from by entrance on the conventional railway, the Buda-Pesth cyclists immediately accepted us as wandering members of a vast fraternity. Mr. Emil Philopivich, Mr. Otto Blathy and Mr. Joseph Erlich were active in our behalf, and if we do not know the principal sights of the Hungarian capital, the error is not with them. When we left Buda-Pesth on July 17, with Messrs. Erlich and Philopivich as pace-makers, we had in trail many cyclists journeying from Buda-Pesth to Vienna. Assisted by smooth roads, we were in a fair way of reaching Vienna by night, but a cold rain sent us scurrying into a hotel on the roadside, delaying us until the next morning. We reached the outskirts of Vienna at 10 o’clock in the morning, wheeling into the city through scores of parks, avenues of beautiful buildings, and squares reserved for the erection of some government structure designed to match some magnificent building already rearing its proud dome on the square opposite. Vienna would be a paradise to cyclists if the street pavements and condition of thoroughfares were not a menace to life and limb. There is not a street but that has suffered severe attacks of gas, water and sewage contraction. The result is a maze of holes, ditches, depressions and bumps. There are many places to visit in Vienna and near by, but one of the first runs we made was far out in the suburbs to a cottage occupied by a Mr. Clemens. Few people in the book-reading world know Mr. Clemens, but millions know Mark Twain, and the pair are as closely united as Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde (yet in justice to Mr. Clemens, not so dissimilar in character). Mr. Clemens was situated in a delightful, quiet spot, hard at work, while his daughters were adding to their musical education the desired Viennese polish. I did not ascertain what fountain-pen he used, get a diagram of the house with a cross representing where he sat at work, or even his signatureasserting that I had a genuine interview with him, but I know that he was enjoying good health, was vigorous as ever, smoked good cigars, and said we were welcome.We liked Vienna and its people, and we stayed in the city just long enough to enjoy its pleasures and learn only a few of its inconveniences. The Inter Ocean cyclists had decided to depart westward July 27, and the “Neue Wiener Tagblatt,” which had announced every movement we had made, did not lose advantage of a final write-up. Early in the morning of the date agreed upon we were aroused by a visitor. He was a cyclist and came to announce that hundreds of people were awaiting us in the Kohlmarkt, and though the hour was 7 o’clock and we were to start at 9, the people would be pleased if we would remain on exhibition during the interval. The idea did not suit us exactly, and communicating the fact to the delegate through closed doors, we again slept the sleep of people who must do two days' work in one. We reached the Kohlmarkt at 9 o’clock, and, as our early informant had stated; a crowd awaited us. It was a Vienna crowd, good-natured and patient, who cheered us as we wheeled into sight, made way for us to pass to the rendezvous, but almost pulled us to pieces in efforts to shake hands with us and attract attention to their hearty “Gleich lich ze reisen.”We pulled out into the street at 9:30 o’clock. Our escort and the police held back the crowd long enough to allow a photographer to add two negatives to his collection, and then with asighof relief we slipped into our saddles and wheeled slowly through the lane of shouting people. Our escort was a unique one, the riders clad in white flannel, black hose, and lavender silk sweaters. Mr. Charles Carpenter, Miss Marion Carpenter and Mr. Fritz of Pottstown, Pa., also lined up, and with a constantly accumulating line of cyclists we started toward the western limits. Near St. Poiten we had lunch, our companions returned to Vienna, and the Inter Ocean cyclists wheeled on alone. We halted that night sixty-four miles from where we had left our Vienna party at midday. We were again in the realm of gast-houses, plain but substantial meals, odd little chambers, equipped with two bedsteads, one chair, a washstand, and several feather beds. It is pleasant, though, clean, and our only regret at the resumption of our trip was that we had left behind Vienna, a city which cannot be excelled in gayety, life and beauty. Paris may be more wicked, vicious and historical in strife, but there is only one Vienna, and that a peerless city of beauty and wholesome pleasure.
CHAPTER XXV.ROUMANIA A PARADISE FOR CYCLISTS—DELIGHTFUL RIDING INTO AUSTRO-HUNGARY—VIENNA ACCORDS A SPLENDID RECEPTION TO THE TOURISTS
ROUMANIA A PARADISE FOR CYCLISTS—DELIGHTFUL RIDING INTO AUSTRO-HUNGARY—VIENNA ACCORDS A SPLENDID RECEPTION TO THE TOURISTS
ROUMANIA A PARADISE FOR CYCLISTS—DELIGHTFUL RIDING INTO AUSTRO-HUNGARY—VIENNA ACCORDS A SPLENDID RECEPTION TO THE TOURISTS
A curious and confusing method of road measurement exists in Roumania, by which many cyclists are led to believe distances are far less than is really the case. If the official distance from village A to E is given as 100 kilometers, that sum does not include the distance inside the boundaries of villages B, C and D. Thus a day’s run through a dozen straggling settlements involves riding a total of 80 kilometers more than maps and road posts indicate. We found this difficulty to exist on our first day’s run from Bucharest. When we reached Siniai the total mileage indicated was 82, yet we had six kilometers to travel ere we halted at the hotel in the center of the town. Siniai is not a city of trade and industry. It is a mountain summer resort, made popular twelve years ago by an eccentric Roumanian prince, and perpetuated by Carol I., King of Roumania, who selected the enchanting hills as the royal summer palace. The palace is called Pelesu Castle, and, as the English-speaking proprietor of our hotel told us that visitors were freely admitted, we pressed him into service as guide, and made a visit to the abode of royalty. We discovered His Majesty on a terrace in front of the castle, playing with two chubby children. I was fearful lest he see us and regard our presence as an intrusion, but assured by our guide that the monarch was not in the least sensitive about strangers, we passed toward the distinguished group. As we neared the king he stood erect, and looked at us intently, and as he raised one finger to salute by touching the side of his military cap, he spoke clearly, “Guten morgen.” The little prince straightened up, brought his boot heels together so that the bare calves of his fat legstouched, and, imitating the sovereign, he piped, “Guten morgen.” The king had mistaken us for Germans, his own nationality.When we departed from Siniai we left behind us one of the most romantic and beautiful of cities. Our route was slightly up-hill for the first twenty-five kilometers, but with excellent roads, cool air and frequent shade we did not feel any discomfort and rode rapidly. It is tantalizing to other cyclists and tourists for one to write of elegant roadways, delightful scenery and charming little roadside inns, when the location is so unavailable as Eastern Europe is to American cyclists, but it would be an act of injustice to Roumania were we not to admit it the most beautiful of countries, and the northern section the most perfect of cycling routes. Where the valleys narrow into a pass, the road, cut into the side of rocks, is shaded by overhanging cliffs, and at short intervals are situated moss-covered wooden troughs, through which trickle ice water, clear as only snow water can be when percolated through porous rock. We were rudely disturbed in our survey of entrancing scenery one bright morning by a soldier standing guard at a small house by the roadside. We were at Predeal, the border line between Roumania and Austria-Hungary. Mr. Boxshall, the American vice-consul at Bucharest, had given us letters from the Austro-Hungarian consul at Bucharest, and this, with my muchly-indorsed passport, made an important looking package document which I had handed two officers in the examining room of the outpost. After a carefulperusalof the papers, they respectfully declined to inspect our luggage and permitted us to pass into Hungary territory. Tomasu, an Austro-Hungarian customs house, was five miles north, and as we did not expect further formality until reaching that point, we set out at a lively pace as soon as our papers had been returned. We had proceeded scarcely a hundred yards ere a trooper in uniform stepped from a sentry-box and commanded us to halt. As he possessed a rifle and a business-like expression, we checked up immediately. An officer now appeared and demanded receipts for sixty florins, which should have been paid on our bicycles as revenue bond. The sixty florins, he explained, would be returned to us on our departure from Austrian territory, but as our entire finances did not greatly exceed that sum, we endeavored to appease the demands of the revenue department by a display of papers. The official after questioning us regarding our trip, became gracious, and returning our papers, motioned us to go ahead without further annoyance. Having successfully run the gauntlet on two occasions, the task at Tomasu was comparatively easy—in fact a pleasure—the officials endorsing our papers, inviting us to luncheon and providing us with maps. Leaving Tomasu, the grade was in our favor, and late in theafternoon we halted at the village inn at Persani. Stepping inside to quench our thirst, two men who had taken an unusual interest in our bicycles and selves drew near to listen to our conversation. One chap had an enormous revolver, and as the other stood with feet far apart, he thrust his hands under the tails of his smock. There was something familiar in the attitude, and I could not but exclaim to my wife, “I will bet a hundred dollars that chap has hip pockets in his trousers, and if he has, he has been in America.” The word America settled all doubt. The pair advanced and declared themselves. In typical “contract labor” dialect. I was addressed as “Boss,” informed that America was “bully,” and that they had “built” a railroad at Salem, Ohio, and had brought home hip pockets filled with big guns and American money. They insisted upon buying us beer in true American style, and as they departed with a low bow, they looked at the common herd of untraveled with haughty air.We endured slight showers during the afternoon of June 29, which proved our undoing for a century run. After a hard fall on one of the slippery hills, I limped into Peterfalva, 85 miles away from our starting point at midnight, the front fork of my wheel badly bent, and the grips broken from the handle-bars. A half-drunken blacksmith, whom I found in the village the next morning, made an aggravating botch of the repair, but it lasted to Muhlenbach, eighteen miles distant, where a cyclist kindly escorted me to a repair shop. The foreman of the shop had read of the Inter Ocean tourists, and promised us a permanent repair. He kept his word, and we again started on our journey at 6 in the evening. Twenty miles out of Muhlenbach a storm broke upon us and for two hours no cyclists ever had such hard riding, unless, of course, it be up thesnow-cladmountains of Persia. We eventually found a wine house on the roadside, to which we were admitted, but informed that we could not be permitted to pass the night there. We flatly refused to go, and when the fat wife of the proprietor realized that we meant just what we said, she brought in straw and arranged a bed for us, where we slept until daylight. At Broos, where we stopped for breakfast, a jolly young fellow introduced himself to us as Erlich Janos, captain of the local wheel club, a pilot of Thomas Stevens, American World’s cyclist of ’85, and an admirer of the Inter Ocean tourists. Erlich Janos, or, as we should call him, John Erlich, had maps of a territory through which we would travel, and he asked permission to accompany us on part of the run. We were delighted to have him, and our admiration for him was doubled when he appeared in modern wheeling costume in the seat of one of the latest made machines. We covered thirty miles before halting for luncheon, and the good-natured cyclistcontinued with us as far as a fork in the road ten miles from Dobra. July 4 was spent on a lovely stretch of road, whirling toward Buda-Pesth. Heavy rains made the road almost impassable on July 5, but we foolishly attempted to press on and reach Kecskemet by 10 o’clock that night. When about eighteen miles from our destination, I was blinded by a flash of lightning, and the next moment pitched over a steep embankment. My damaged front fork was once more broken, and my leg seriously wrenched. The situation was anything but pleasant, and how we ever reached Kecskemet carrying the broken wheel and feeling our way in the darkness, remains this day a source of wonder to ourselves. We arrived in the city just in time to catch the mail train into Buda-Pesth, fifty-one miles north, where our wheels were repaired and our broken journey once more picked up.Though our arrival in the city was unannounced and detracted from by entrance on the conventional railway, the Buda-Pesth cyclists immediately accepted us as wandering members of a vast fraternity. Mr. Emil Philopivich, Mr. Otto Blathy and Mr. Joseph Erlich were active in our behalf, and if we do not know the principal sights of the Hungarian capital, the error is not with them. When we left Buda-Pesth on July 17, with Messrs. Erlich and Philopivich as pace-makers, we had in trail many cyclists journeying from Buda-Pesth to Vienna. Assisted by smooth roads, we were in a fair way of reaching Vienna by night, but a cold rain sent us scurrying into a hotel on the roadside, delaying us until the next morning. We reached the outskirts of Vienna at 10 o’clock in the morning, wheeling into the city through scores of parks, avenues of beautiful buildings, and squares reserved for the erection of some government structure designed to match some magnificent building already rearing its proud dome on the square opposite. Vienna would be a paradise to cyclists if the street pavements and condition of thoroughfares were not a menace to life and limb. There is not a street but that has suffered severe attacks of gas, water and sewage contraction. The result is a maze of holes, ditches, depressions and bumps. There are many places to visit in Vienna and near by, but one of the first runs we made was far out in the suburbs to a cottage occupied by a Mr. Clemens. Few people in the book-reading world know Mr. Clemens, but millions know Mark Twain, and the pair are as closely united as Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde (yet in justice to Mr. Clemens, not so dissimilar in character). Mr. Clemens was situated in a delightful, quiet spot, hard at work, while his daughters were adding to their musical education the desired Viennese polish. I did not ascertain what fountain-pen he used, get a diagram of the house with a cross representing where he sat at work, or even his signatureasserting that I had a genuine interview with him, but I know that he was enjoying good health, was vigorous as ever, smoked good cigars, and said we were welcome.We liked Vienna and its people, and we stayed in the city just long enough to enjoy its pleasures and learn only a few of its inconveniences. The Inter Ocean cyclists had decided to depart westward July 27, and the “Neue Wiener Tagblatt,” which had announced every movement we had made, did not lose advantage of a final write-up. Early in the morning of the date agreed upon we were aroused by a visitor. He was a cyclist and came to announce that hundreds of people were awaiting us in the Kohlmarkt, and though the hour was 7 o’clock and we were to start at 9, the people would be pleased if we would remain on exhibition during the interval. The idea did not suit us exactly, and communicating the fact to the delegate through closed doors, we again slept the sleep of people who must do two days' work in one. We reached the Kohlmarkt at 9 o’clock, and, as our early informant had stated; a crowd awaited us. It was a Vienna crowd, good-natured and patient, who cheered us as we wheeled into sight, made way for us to pass to the rendezvous, but almost pulled us to pieces in efforts to shake hands with us and attract attention to their hearty “Gleich lich ze reisen.”We pulled out into the street at 9:30 o’clock. Our escort and the police held back the crowd long enough to allow a photographer to add two negatives to his collection, and then with asighof relief we slipped into our saddles and wheeled slowly through the lane of shouting people. Our escort was a unique one, the riders clad in white flannel, black hose, and lavender silk sweaters. Mr. Charles Carpenter, Miss Marion Carpenter and Mr. Fritz of Pottstown, Pa., also lined up, and with a constantly accumulating line of cyclists we started toward the western limits. Near St. Poiten we had lunch, our companions returned to Vienna, and the Inter Ocean cyclists wheeled on alone. We halted that night sixty-four miles from where we had left our Vienna party at midday. We were again in the realm of gast-houses, plain but substantial meals, odd little chambers, equipped with two bedsteads, one chair, a washstand, and several feather beds. It is pleasant, though, clean, and our only regret at the resumption of our trip was that we had left behind Vienna, a city which cannot be excelled in gayety, life and beauty. Paris may be more wicked, vicious and historical in strife, but there is only one Vienna, and that a peerless city of beauty and wholesome pleasure.
A curious and confusing method of road measurement exists in Roumania, by which many cyclists are led to believe distances are far less than is really the case. If the official distance from village A to E is given as 100 kilometers, that sum does not include the distance inside the boundaries of villages B, C and D. Thus a day’s run through a dozen straggling settlements involves riding a total of 80 kilometers more than maps and road posts indicate. We found this difficulty to exist on our first day’s run from Bucharest. When we reached Siniai the total mileage indicated was 82, yet we had six kilometers to travel ere we halted at the hotel in the center of the town. Siniai is not a city of trade and industry. It is a mountain summer resort, made popular twelve years ago by an eccentric Roumanian prince, and perpetuated by Carol I., King of Roumania, who selected the enchanting hills as the royal summer palace. The palace is called Pelesu Castle, and, as the English-speaking proprietor of our hotel told us that visitors were freely admitted, we pressed him into service as guide, and made a visit to the abode of royalty. We discovered His Majesty on a terrace in front of the castle, playing with two chubby children. I was fearful lest he see us and regard our presence as an intrusion, but assured by our guide that the monarch was not in the least sensitive about strangers, we passed toward the distinguished group. As we neared the king he stood erect, and looked at us intently, and as he raised one finger to salute by touching the side of his military cap, he spoke clearly, “Guten morgen.” The little prince straightened up, brought his boot heels together so that the bare calves of his fat legstouched, and, imitating the sovereign, he piped, “Guten morgen.” The king had mistaken us for Germans, his own nationality.
When we departed from Siniai we left behind us one of the most romantic and beautiful of cities. Our route was slightly up-hill for the first twenty-five kilometers, but with excellent roads, cool air and frequent shade we did not feel any discomfort and rode rapidly. It is tantalizing to other cyclists and tourists for one to write of elegant roadways, delightful scenery and charming little roadside inns, when the location is so unavailable as Eastern Europe is to American cyclists, but it would be an act of injustice to Roumania were we not to admit it the most beautiful of countries, and the northern section the most perfect of cycling routes. Where the valleys narrow into a pass, the road, cut into the side of rocks, is shaded by overhanging cliffs, and at short intervals are situated moss-covered wooden troughs, through which trickle ice water, clear as only snow water can be when percolated through porous rock. We were rudely disturbed in our survey of entrancing scenery one bright morning by a soldier standing guard at a small house by the roadside. We were at Predeal, the border line between Roumania and Austria-Hungary. Mr. Boxshall, the American vice-consul at Bucharest, had given us letters from the Austro-Hungarian consul at Bucharest, and this, with my muchly-indorsed passport, made an important looking package document which I had handed two officers in the examining room of the outpost. After a carefulperusalof the papers, they respectfully declined to inspect our luggage and permitted us to pass into Hungary territory. Tomasu, an Austro-Hungarian customs house, was five miles north, and as we did not expect further formality until reaching that point, we set out at a lively pace as soon as our papers had been returned. We had proceeded scarcely a hundred yards ere a trooper in uniform stepped from a sentry-box and commanded us to halt. As he possessed a rifle and a business-like expression, we checked up immediately. An officer now appeared and demanded receipts for sixty florins, which should have been paid on our bicycles as revenue bond. The sixty florins, he explained, would be returned to us on our departure from Austrian territory, but as our entire finances did not greatly exceed that sum, we endeavored to appease the demands of the revenue department by a display of papers. The official after questioning us regarding our trip, became gracious, and returning our papers, motioned us to go ahead without further annoyance. Having successfully run the gauntlet on two occasions, the task at Tomasu was comparatively easy—in fact a pleasure—the officials endorsing our papers, inviting us to luncheon and providing us with maps. Leaving Tomasu, the grade was in our favor, and late in theafternoon we halted at the village inn at Persani. Stepping inside to quench our thirst, two men who had taken an unusual interest in our bicycles and selves drew near to listen to our conversation. One chap had an enormous revolver, and as the other stood with feet far apart, he thrust his hands under the tails of his smock. There was something familiar in the attitude, and I could not but exclaim to my wife, “I will bet a hundred dollars that chap has hip pockets in his trousers, and if he has, he has been in America.” The word America settled all doubt. The pair advanced and declared themselves. In typical “contract labor” dialect. I was addressed as “Boss,” informed that America was “bully,” and that they had “built” a railroad at Salem, Ohio, and had brought home hip pockets filled with big guns and American money. They insisted upon buying us beer in true American style, and as they departed with a low bow, they looked at the common herd of untraveled with haughty air.
We endured slight showers during the afternoon of June 29, which proved our undoing for a century run. After a hard fall on one of the slippery hills, I limped into Peterfalva, 85 miles away from our starting point at midnight, the front fork of my wheel badly bent, and the grips broken from the handle-bars. A half-drunken blacksmith, whom I found in the village the next morning, made an aggravating botch of the repair, but it lasted to Muhlenbach, eighteen miles distant, where a cyclist kindly escorted me to a repair shop. The foreman of the shop had read of the Inter Ocean tourists, and promised us a permanent repair. He kept his word, and we again started on our journey at 6 in the evening. Twenty miles out of Muhlenbach a storm broke upon us and for two hours no cyclists ever had such hard riding, unless, of course, it be up thesnow-cladmountains of Persia. We eventually found a wine house on the roadside, to which we were admitted, but informed that we could not be permitted to pass the night there. We flatly refused to go, and when the fat wife of the proprietor realized that we meant just what we said, she brought in straw and arranged a bed for us, where we slept until daylight. At Broos, where we stopped for breakfast, a jolly young fellow introduced himself to us as Erlich Janos, captain of the local wheel club, a pilot of Thomas Stevens, American World’s cyclist of ’85, and an admirer of the Inter Ocean tourists. Erlich Janos, or, as we should call him, John Erlich, had maps of a territory through which we would travel, and he asked permission to accompany us on part of the run. We were delighted to have him, and our admiration for him was doubled when he appeared in modern wheeling costume in the seat of one of the latest made machines. We covered thirty miles before halting for luncheon, and the good-natured cyclistcontinued with us as far as a fork in the road ten miles from Dobra. July 4 was spent on a lovely stretch of road, whirling toward Buda-Pesth. Heavy rains made the road almost impassable on July 5, but we foolishly attempted to press on and reach Kecskemet by 10 o’clock that night. When about eighteen miles from our destination, I was blinded by a flash of lightning, and the next moment pitched over a steep embankment. My damaged front fork was once more broken, and my leg seriously wrenched. The situation was anything but pleasant, and how we ever reached Kecskemet carrying the broken wheel and feeling our way in the darkness, remains this day a source of wonder to ourselves. We arrived in the city just in time to catch the mail train into Buda-Pesth, fifty-one miles north, where our wheels were repaired and our broken journey once more picked up.
Though our arrival in the city was unannounced and detracted from by entrance on the conventional railway, the Buda-Pesth cyclists immediately accepted us as wandering members of a vast fraternity. Mr. Emil Philopivich, Mr. Otto Blathy and Mr. Joseph Erlich were active in our behalf, and if we do not know the principal sights of the Hungarian capital, the error is not with them. When we left Buda-Pesth on July 17, with Messrs. Erlich and Philopivich as pace-makers, we had in trail many cyclists journeying from Buda-Pesth to Vienna. Assisted by smooth roads, we were in a fair way of reaching Vienna by night, but a cold rain sent us scurrying into a hotel on the roadside, delaying us until the next morning. We reached the outskirts of Vienna at 10 o’clock in the morning, wheeling into the city through scores of parks, avenues of beautiful buildings, and squares reserved for the erection of some government structure designed to match some magnificent building already rearing its proud dome on the square opposite. Vienna would be a paradise to cyclists if the street pavements and condition of thoroughfares were not a menace to life and limb. There is not a street but that has suffered severe attacks of gas, water and sewage contraction. The result is a maze of holes, ditches, depressions and bumps. There are many places to visit in Vienna and near by, but one of the first runs we made was far out in the suburbs to a cottage occupied by a Mr. Clemens. Few people in the book-reading world know Mr. Clemens, but millions know Mark Twain, and the pair are as closely united as Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde (yet in justice to Mr. Clemens, not so dissimilar in character). Mr. Clemens was situated in a delightful, quiet spot, hard at work, while his daughters were adding to their musical education the desired Viennese polish. I did not ascertain what fountain-pen he used, get a diagram of the house with a cross representing where he sat at work, or even his signatureasserting that I had a genuine interview with him, but I know that he was enjoying good health, was vigorous as ever, smoked good cigars, and said we were welcome.
We liked Vienna and its people, and we stayed in the city just long enough to enjoy its pleasures and learn only a few of its inconveniences. The Inter Ocean cyclists had decided to depart westward July 27, and the “Neue Wiener Tagblatt,” which had announced every movement we had made, did not lose advantage of a final write-up. Early in the morning of the date agreed upon we were aroused by a visitor. He was a cyclist and came to announce that hundreds of people were awaiting us in the Kohlmarkt, and though the hour was 7 o’clock and we were to start at 9, the people would be pleased if we would remain on exhibition during the interval. The idea did not suit us exactly, and communicating the fact to the delegate through closed doors, we again slept the sleep of people who must do two days' work in one. We reached the Kohlmarkt at 9 o’clock, and, as our early informant had stated; a crowd awaited us. It was a Vienna crowd, good-natured and patient, who cheered us as we wheeled into sight, made way for us to pass to the rendezvous, but almost pulled us to pieces in efforts to shake hands with us and attract attention to their hearty “Gleich lich ze reisen.”
We pulled out into the street at 9:30 o’clock. Our escort and the police held back the crowd long enough to allow a photographer to add two negatives to his collection, and then with asighof relief we slipped into our saddles and wheeled slowly through the lane of shouting people. Our escort was a unique one, the riders clad in white flannel, black hose, and lavender silk sweaters. Mr. Charles Carpenter, Miss Marion Carpenter and Mr. Fritz of Pottstown, Pa., also lined up, and with a constantly accumulating line of cyclists we started toward the western limits. Near St. Poiten we had lunch, our companions returned to Vienna, and the Inter Ocean cyclists wheeled on alone. We halted that night sixty-four miles from where we had left our Vienna party at midday. We were again in the realm of gast-houses, plain but substantial meals, odd little chambers, equipped with two bedsteads, one chair, a washstand, and several feather beds. It is pleasant, though, clean, and our only regret at the resumption of our trip was that we had left behind Vienna, a city which cannot be excelled in gayety, life and beauty. Paris may be more wicked, vicious and historical in strife, but there is only one Vienna, and that a peerless city of beauty and wholesome pleasure.