Mid-Winter Wheeling in California.
By Joseph J. Bliss.
On January 15, 1888, I took a ride on my wheel (54-inch New Mail), around the Bay of San Francisco, distance about ninety miles, and have thought that perhaps some of the readers of the Gazette might like to see an account of it.
Not that I consider the ride a remarkable one, or that I am able to put an account of it in a very readable shape, having had little experience in the way of writing, and I have seen it stated somewhere that it takes a clever writer to make a readable account of a bicycle trip, therefore my only reason for thinking it might be at all interesting is on account of the time of year it was made, being the coldest snap ever experienced in this vicinity, so far as I am able to learn. The Eastern rider may like to hear that in some sections of the United States riding is practicable in mid-winter, and that in the land of the "glorious climate," even during the years when the winter is unusually severe, there are only a few days when riding is impracticable.
California wheelmen will, I think, like to see the subject in print, even though there be nothing new for them to read about, for I think that many like to read about what they are themselves most familiar with and in which they are per consequence most interested in. I have myself thought that I should appreciate it if the cycling press occasionally gave detailed accounts of rides, with minute particularity, so that they would be of benefit to a wheelman desiring to go over the same ground. With this somewhat lengthy preamble, I will endeavor to start on the account of my, trip.
On Sunday, Dec. 11, last, I made a straightway ride of sixty miles and on the following Sunday, Dec. 18, another of sixty-two miles over a different road and I contemplated making the trip around the Bay on the next succeeding Sunday, Dec. 25, but rain on the night of the 24th caused me to change my intention, and the condition of the roads also induced me to give up the idea on the two following Sundays. Although there had been a number of favorable days in the meantime, I could not make the trip as my only spare time for wheeling is on Sundays and holidays. Therefore, I must wait until Sunday, Jan. 15. This was a little unfortunate for me as during the month of enforced abstinence from the wheel my muscles lost the benefit of the practice of the sixty and sixty-two mile rides, and having also contracted a bad cold, I was hardly in condition for the longer ride.
On Sunday, Jan. 15, however, I rose at 6:30 and got my wheel from its storing place for the start from Alameda at 7 o'clock. It was scarcely light enough to see at that hour. The thermometer outside of my front door, I discovered with the aid of a match, registered 26° above zero, which is the lowest I ever saw it in California.
Dressed in precisely the same clothing I have been accustomed to riding in at other seasons of the year, even in the warmest part of summer, and having no artificial supply of heat within me, for I left breakfastless, I felt constrained, after riding a few hundred yards, to dismount and push my machine on the run for about a mile to warm myself a little for my finger tips and toes ached somewhat from the cold, and the keen, easterly wind blowing in my face made my eyes water. As the wind was against me and the road for this first mile was not very good, it was but with little regret that I made it on foot. Occasionally I tried the strength of the ice on the roadside puddles and found it nearly strong enough to bear me.
As soon as I reached the main road running south from Oakland I mounted my wheel and bowled along at a lively pace toward San Leandro. The road (nearly always a good one) was in about its normal condition. The only drawback was that the wind was slightly against me. Being from the south-east it struck me quarterly; not strong enough to impede my progress much, but very unpleasant on account of its keenness.
Passing the halfway saloon I noticed the genial proprietor looking out through the upper part of his doorway, which was glazed. It was too cold for him to be out this morning. I had never passed the place before, though frequently as early as 6 a. m., but that the doors were open and the proprietor on the outside to pass the time o'day. A little further on, the water company's stand pipe at the side of the road which supplies water for sprinkling the road during summer, seemed to be burst for the water was escaping from near the top and the wind blew it away over all the surrounding objects, where freezing it made such a mass of ice as I had never before seen in California. Pretty soon another stand pipe was passed and as the water was also escaping from it, I began to think that the cold had not caused the bursting of the pipes but that the water had intentionally been allowed to run in order to prevent its freezing.
I now take the side path, not that it is much better riding than the road, but probably one likes to ride the side paths on account of the slightly added spice of danger occasioned by the narrow spaces and closer proximity of the trees and fences. At the next stand pipe, however, I had a dangerously slippery place to cross over the ice for I was now on the side of the pipe and the escaping water had frozen all over the ground for some distance. I got over it all right, but riding on ice was a novelty to me.
I reach San Leandro at 7:34 which is good time for the 6-1/2 miles considering that the first mile had been made on foot. San Leandro is a pretty, prosperous little town of probably 1,600 inhabitants, in the center of some of the finest orchards in the world. I admire San Leandro principally because it keeps its streets and the roads in all directions around it for a radius of three or four miles in such perfect condition. The finest roads for bicycle riding in the state are probably in this vicinity. There are two roads from this place to the next town, Hayward, both of which are excellent. One leads slightly to the right for nearly four miles and then turns to the left through San Lorenzo, to the main or direct road; the two roads thus form a triangle of about ten miles, which is all splendid wheeling. I take the straight road this morning, and spinning along lively I notice a board in the road and in my attempt to avoid striking it I run upon an unseen rock, and for a moment I am riding ahead of the center of gravity, my hind wheel is considerably elevated, but by a lucky shove on my pedals at just the right instant, I recover my balance. It was, I thought, the closest approach I ever made to a rattling header without quite getting there.
Twenty-five minutes after leaving San Leandro I have covered the intervening six miles and am in Hayward. There was no temptation to dismount this morning for the purpose of obtaining a pocketful of luscious peaches, plums or pears from the roadside orchards. This is a temptation not to be resisted during the warm summer by the average wheelman, I think. A number of handsful of choice fruit have I eaten here. Occasionally of a summer evening I have mounted my wheel and ridden the twenty miles there and back for the avowed purpose of treating myself to a little ripe fruit fresh from the tree. This country is hardly civilized enough yet for the proprietor to object to the wayfarer helping himself to a handful of fruit, the orchards are so vast and in places there is not even a fence dividing them from the road. So that one hardly feels that he is trespassing in stepping to one side to pluck the fruit. In many places the public highways are lined with peach or almond trees.
The riding for the past half hour, since the sun had risen had been tolerably comfortable so far as warmth was concerned. The exercise had warmed me even to the finger ends. But now it again grew cooler and clouds obscured the sun. There was no doubt in my mind that it was colder than at daybreak. Three miles from Hayward I leave the main road and take a by-road three miles across to Alvarado. On this by-way I was again obliged to walk nearly the first half of it. The soft, natural road had been cut up by teams since the rains, the frost had then hardened up the ridges and there had not been enough traffic since to wear them down. Probably not more than one or two teams had passed each day, judging from appearances.
I was now nearing the marshes on the edge of the bay and I could hear the frequent gun of the sportsman as he blazed away at the unfortunate duck, probably whether within or beyond shooting range. One flock of ducks arose from a pond within easy shooting distance from me and they only took the trouble to fly a few yards and then settled on another ice covered sheet of water. Perhaps they knew the difference between a bicycler and a gunner. I was tempted to blaze away at them with my revolver for they were so near it looked as though I might hit one but I reflected that even if I did I did not want to carry it along.
The last mile before reaching Alvarado was rideable. Crossing the creek at the edge of the town I noticed as an evidence of general prosperity that a new iron bridge had just taken the place of the former wooden one. It was 9:15 as I reached Alvarado, a town of about 350 inhabitants, presenting generally a moist appearance by reason of the low ground and willows which extend up into the center of the place. It is on the verge of the marsh but some distance from the bay. I stopped for breakfast at the Alvarado Hotel, kept by Germans, who gave me a breakfast of ham and eggs, coffee, bread and butter, and cake, but no vegetables, for twenty-five cents. It seems to me that at country places they almost invariably make a mistake in not allowing vegetables or fruit, which should there be cheap, to form the more important part of the meal. There is another hotel, the Riverside, at Alvarado where better accommodations are furnished at double the price. I frequently prefer the unpretentious places. The bicycler when he stops at a high toned place in his dusty clothes and perspiring face, is I think, looked down upon as being somewhat below their average run of customers, and he does not get the little flattering attentions he sometimes receives from the people of the more modest tavern. At the Alvarado Hotel a fresh plate of butter and fresh bread were cut especially for my benefit, and I found myself somewhat hasty in pouring milk into my coffee for immediately after a pitcher of cream was brought me. One day at the same hotel they set before me two roast ducks, evidently for my sole use, which was surprising at the modest price of twenty-five cents. In San Francisco, one of the cheapest restaurant cities in the world, a half duck costs more money, however a half duck more than satisfies me, even on bicycling trips when my appetite is particularly good.
After lighting a cigar I mount my wheel and leave Alvarado at 9:45. The road is now quite level and in good condition since the rain. The last time I was over the same road it had just received a new coat of gravel, which was now fairly packed by the rains and the traffic and afforded good wheeling. The great mistake in road repairing in California seems to be that they wait until they can treat the whole surface for miles at a stretch with a new top dressing instead of patching in spots as soon as a hole or rut puts in an appearance, which would be much more economical and satisfactory. After a road has received a top dressing of gravel or rock no one will drive over it if it can be avoided, but invariably drives to the side on the natural ground if there be room, until rain perhaps makes it too muddy there and forces them to take the gravel. In places I have noticed roads abundantly graveled will lay for months or perhaps years without scarcely a team passing over them. They take the grass or ploughed land in preference, and grind into the soft dirt till there is a foot or more of dust. No driver would try to avoid a newly graveled spot if it was but short, or a hole filled in; all parts of the road would consequently be kept beaten down and better fit for travel. Frequent patching is therefore better than the wholesale repair system.
The driver of one buggy that I meet shouts to me as I pass that I have a cold looking horse. I reply, that for the driver it is much warmer than his. I had noticed several drivers in the act of buffeting their hands, which was evidence that they were colder than me.
At Washington Corner I met a couple of Portuguese with a good sized dog. The men evidently see a bicycle only semi-occasionally, judging from their gaze, and the dog seemed inclined to have a barking frolic at the unusual vehicle, seeing which the unspeakable Portuguese endeavor to "sic" him on me, but the dog has more sense, and, like most large dogs, is of good temper, and only wants a little fun in having a short chase after the wheel and its rider. Had he been vicious I might have shot him and the Portuguese would have learned a lesson in the loss of a valuable dog. I have had several wordy rows with Portuguese at various times and they seem to be the worst species of road hog in this section.
I try the side path again a little further along and barely escape an overhead wire arranged for the purpose of opening a carriage gate without dismounting. I perceive the wire which was stretched across the pathway on about the level of my eyes as I sat on my machine, just in time to avoid it. In the garden of the same premises, I notice a lemon tree covered with the handsome fruit, the leaves, however, were frozen and shriveled.
A short distance from Washington Corner are three young men sliding across a pond. I inquired as I passed if they had ever done that before. One shook his head negatively, but then seeming to recollect replied, "yes, once before." Here, I thought, is evidence that the present is not the coldest snap ever experienced in this vicinity, but I believe the present is of the longest duration ever known. In my own experience of four years in California I had not before known ice to form on several successive nights, or seen it thick enough to bear a man's weight.
From Warm Springs to Milpitas (four miles) the road is excellent, of fine gravel, firm and hard; and the only thing that keeps me from making rapid time is a horse and buggy ahead of me, the driver of which — a female — has not sufficient politeness to turn out until I have followed some distance. There is hardly room to pass while the buggy occupies the center of the road, and I prefer to await a better opportunity to shoot past rather than make a request which may be met ungraciously, and which, as the woman could plainly see I was desirous of passing, should have been unnecessary. I have noticed that many women apparently consider that all acts of politeness should come from the male sex.
The usual route for bicyclers making the trip around the bay is to continue south from Milpitas to San Jose (seven miles), thence north-westerly via Santa Clara to Mountain View, (twelve miles.) The road is good the entire distance. To-day in order to explore a piece of road new to me, I branch off to the West at Milpitas and proceed via Alviso to Mountain View. The road at first is good but soon degenerates into a common dirt road for a mile or so which I have to walk, then it improves again and is rideable to Alviso, five miles from Milpitas. The country here is quite low, verging on swamp, but there are occasional fine orchards and magnificent strawberry fields. I passed several fields each many acres in length which did not look as though they were injured by the frost. No strawberries were visible though they do grow somewhere or other in California nearly the whole year around, for they are scarcely ever out of the San Francisco market. I pass numerous flowing artesian wells along this mile or two of road. This also appears to be the favorite resort of the sportsman for I pass a number of them as they wait on their "stand" for the passing duck. I do not see much in the way of game except an occasional snipe and a number of killdeer birds of the same species. Ducks do not seem to be so numerous to-day in this vicinity as near Alvarado.
The road near Alviso I found to be very poor. Probably it would be fair wheeling after a week or two of fine weather, but to-day I was obliged to do some walking. At a fair looking piece of road I mount again and my attention immediately after being attracted by a sign board indicating the name of a cross road, I failed to observe a soft place in my way and took my first header for the day, gentle enough, however, and the only ill-effect felt was a wrenching of the muscles of one of my legs, which, in a few moments, made me feel as though I had a violent cramp in the calf. Thinking I was unobserved I lay for a minute rubbing the limb. As I arise I see a man with a gun running towards me, but when he saw me on my feet stopped as though his business no longer lay in my direction. A moment after a duck flew into the creek near by and the man changed his course for the direction of the bird. Probably he was not as careful in his "stalk" as he might have been had he felt that he was unobserved, for the duck did not sit long enough to allow of a pot shot, but the man lost a fair shot as it arose. As I crossed the bridge over the creek I saw two or three other sportsmen there. A little further along two fine large ducks leave the water by the roadside within ten yards of me. I had to walk a good portion of the next two or three miles through a somewhat uninteresting looking country, and it was 1:30 when I reached Mountain View, a village of about 250 inhabitants, and forty-six miles from the start. The riding for the last mile or two through a beautiful oak studded, park-like country was fair, and as I turned the corner into the main road at Mountain View at a pretty good pace, I emerged upon a couple of horses harnessed to sulkeys standing in front of the Mountain View Hotel and surrounded by a number of young men. The horses showed themselves somewhat restive, but as by this time they were both held by the bridles, I did not dismount till one of the animals when I was about twenty yards distant rared up into the air, and falling, seemed to come down on his back. Of course I then dismounted. After a number of struggles and ineffectual attempts the horse was at length brought to his feet and unharnessed. One of the shafts was broken near the end quite off and the horse somewhat damaged about the head and legs. Singularly I did not get any blame or reproaches on account of the accident. I attribute this fortunate state of affairs to the fact that the crowd around the horses were young men who probably considered it no crime to ride a bicycle. The matter was passed off in a joking manner as being the fault of the horse. I think bicyclers will get all their rights on the road by the time the present generation of young men come into power as voters.
Near Mayfield I met several teams with timid drivers, and although I had my doubts as to the staid looking old plugs of horses being at all excitable, I dismounted on two occasions when the drivers were women, the occurrence at Mountain View being yet fresh in my memory. One woman got down from her vehicle while I was yet half a mile distant and leading her horse to the fence bandaged his ears, while I pass on the opposite side of the road. I don't think the animal would have been scared by either a bicycle or a locomotive. I was then wheeling through a beautiful appearing country with elegant houses and grounds adorning the wayside at intervals. A chinaman in reply to an inquiry as to whom a beautiful looking place with imposing entrance belonged, said that it was "Misser Safford's." It was some little time before I jumped to the conclusion that it was Senator Stanford's.
Menlo Park was reached at 3:10 and perhaps the prettiest stretch of the whole journey was along here for a mile or two. Beautiful residences are numerous on either side, and the finest lawn tennis grounds I have ever seen anywhere, with a number of young men in light colored suits at play, I passed on my right. On the opposite side was a magnificent estate surrounded by a substantial tongued and grooved tight board fence with a frontage of at least a half mile on the road. On this fence I saw a dozen or more quail sitting. The road was good along here, except an occasional stretch where there was too much shade to suit me to-day. This shade, however, is very grateful in mid-summer and makes the road most pleasant where to-day by reason of the frost it was most rough. My legs were beginning to feel a bit tired, but at Belmont and beyond the road proved good, and although there are some slight hills, I am disinclined to leave the saddle until I reach San Mateo, four miles further along, and sixty-five miles from the start.
It was 4:40 when I reached San Mateo and I knew that I had but little more than an hour of day light and twenty-one miles before reaching San Francisco, but I expected to make the next six miles within a half hour as the road is unusually excellent. I had been twice over the same piece of road in the previous summer and at the time considered it as good a piece as any I had ever wheeled over, hard and smooth and with just sufficient undulations to make riding the more pleasurable. To-day, however, I was disappointed in the road, the trees on either side, which line the road here for the whole six miles and make it so pleasant in summer, had kept the frost in the ground and it was now so hard and rough that I had occasionally to walk, and dare not attempt any speed on down grades. It took me an hour to make the six miles. I pass Milbrae at 5:15. The beautiful estate of D. O. Mills is here to my left. Reaching the Cabin, a wayside saloon at 5:40, I branch off to the right to San Bruno. Let no wheelman make the mistake of keeping straight along the main county road to San Francisco. I did it once to my sorrow. The San Bruno road, though not of the best is far superior and had I only one more hour of daylight to-day it would have enabled me to reach San Francisco two hours earlier than I did.
The cold was again by this time pretty severe and the prospect of a twelve or thirteen mile walk was not very comforting. I almost wished I had taken the train whose lights I could now see leaving San Bruno for the city, I have never yet, however, during my short bicycling experience taken a train or any other vehicle for any part of a journey I have set out to accomplish on wheel. During 1887, my first year on the bicycle, I made twenty-eight rides, averaging fifty miles for each ride. I am over thirty-five years of age.
The road was good (for walking) and a brisk pace kept me warm except at my fingers ends where I suffered a little, as my gloves were not built for warmth. My way was now along the bay shore and the road was narrow in places overhanging the water where it rounded the rocky bluffs. The road had been patched in places with coarse rock and here in the darkness walking even was difficult and I dare not any where venture to ride. Not a soul did I meet for the next eight or nine miles and the only sounds I heard were the whistle of the widgeon and other ducks in the marshy spots and pools which I passed, or the splashing of the water on the rocks. Ducks seemed to be quite numerous and I caused many flocks to arise. Apparently they could see me although I could not see them, as I hardly made noise enough to frighten them. Some flocks of ducks I disturbed in the wayside pools when well within the city limits of San Francisco.
I made one stop about midway on my walk at a milk ranch and obtained two cups of milk and a biscuit for which the proprietor will not accept more than ten cents. I was hungry enough by this time to make them well worth a dollar.
At last the welcome sounds of steam whistles and other city noises began to be heard. The walk after all did not seem so long as I had anticipated, nor did I feel greatly fatigued. After climbing the six mile hill the lights of the city appeared in view. Aided by the lights from the lofty electric masts in the southern suburbs of the city, I mount my machine again and am soon traversing the gaslighted streets of the city proper, again on foot, however, for San Francisco streets are rough and I might say that one has to walk a mile or two of the vilest, roughest streets a person could find anywhere, between the paved portion of the city and the macadamized road.
At 11:10 the magnificent ferry and train service bring me and my machine the remaining ten miles of the journey across the bay to my home. I busied myself during the ride on ferry boat and train in cleaning my machine, and am ready for bed the moment I get home.
Not feeling so fatigued as on some of the other trips I have made I sleep soundly and pleasantly, and go to my work next day with the feeling that I should like to make the trip again next week and see if I can't finish it by daylight.
THE COLD SNAP.
San Francisco Gets the Tail-End of a Western Blizzard Sun, Jan 15, 1888 – 16 · The San Francisco Examiner (San Francisco, California) · Newspapers.com
California wheelmen will, I think, like to see the subject in print, even though there be nothing new for them to read about, for I think that many like to read about what they are themselves most familiar with and in which they are per consequence most interested in. I have myself thought that I should appreciate it if the cycling press occasionally gave detailed accounts of rides, with minute particularity, so that they would be of benefit to a wheelman desiring to go over the same ground. With this somewhat lengthy preamble, I will endeavor to start on the account of my, trip.
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| Map Of Route |
On Sunday, Dec. 11, last, I made a straightway ride of sixty miles and on the following Sunday, Dec. 18, another of sixty-two miles over a different road and I contemplated making the trip around the Bay on the next succeeding Sunday, Dec. 25, but rain on the night of the 24th caused me to change my intention, and the condition of the roads also induced me to give up the idea on the two following Sundays. Although there had been a number of favorable days in the meantime, I could not make the trip as my only spare time for wheeling is on Sundays and holidays. Therefore, I must wait until Sunday, Jan. 15. This was a little unfortunate for me as during the month of enforced abstinence from the wheel my muscles lost the benefit of the practice of the sixty and sixty-two mile rides, and having also contracted a bad cold, I was hardly in condition for the longer ride.
On Sunday, Jan. 15, however, I rose at 6:30 and got my wheel from its storing place for the start from Alameda at 7 o'clock. It was scarcely light enough to see at that hour. The thermometer outside of my front door, I discovered with the aid of a match, registered 26° above zero, which is the lowest I ever saw it in California.
Dressed in precisely the same clothing I have been accustomed to riding in at other seasons of the year, even in the warmest part of summer, and having no artificial supply of heat within me, for I left breakfastless, I felt constrained, after riding a few hundred yards, to dismount and push my machine on the run for about a mile to warm myself a little for my finger tips and toes ached somewhat from the cold, and the keen, easterly wind blowing in my face made my eyes water. As the wind was against me and the road for this first mile was not very good, it was but with little regret that I made it on foot. Occasionally I tried the strength of the ice on the roadside puddles and found it nearly strong enough to bear me.
As soon as I reached the main road running south from Oakland I mounted my wheel and bowled along at a lively pace toward San Leandro. The road (nearly always a good one) was in about its normal condition. The only drawback was that the wind was slightly against me. Being from the south-east it struck me quarterly; not strong enough to impede my progress much, but very unpleasant on account of its keenness.
Passing the halfway saloon I noticed the genial proprietor looking out through the upper part of his doorway, which was glazed. It was too cold for him to be out this morning. I had never passed the place before, though frequently as early as 6 a. m., but that the doors were open and the proprietor on the outside to pass the time o'day. A little further on, the water company's stand pipe at the side of the road which supplies water for sprinkling the road during summer, seemed to be burst for the water was escaping from near the top and the wind blew it away over all the surrounding objects, where freezing it made such a mass of ice as I had never before seen in California. Pretty soon another stand pipe was passed and as the water was also escaping from it, I began to think that the cold had not caused the bursting of the pipes but that the water had intentionally been allowed to run in order to prevent its freezing.
I now take the side path, not that it is much better riding than the road, but probably one likes to ride the side paths on account of the slightly added spice of danger occasioned by the narrow spaces and closer proximity of the trees and fences. At the next stand pipe, however, I had a dangerously slippery place to cross over the ice for I was now on the side of the pipe and the escaping water had frozen all over the ground for some distance. I got over it all right, but riding on ice was a novelty to me.
I reach San Leandro at 7:34 which is good time for the 6-1/2 miles considering that the first mile had been made on foot. San Leandro is a pretty, prosperous little town of probably 1,600 inhabitants, in the center of some of the finest orchards in the world. I admire San Leandro principally because it keeps its streets and the roads in all directions around it for a radius of three or four miles in such perfect condition. The finest roads for bicycle riding in the state are probably in this vicinity. There are two roads from this place to the next town, Hayward, both of which are excellent. One leads slightly to the right for nearly four miles and then turns to the left through San Lorenzo, to the main or direct road; the two roads thus form a triangle of about ten miles, which is all splendid wheeling. I take the straight road this morning, and spinning along lively I notice a board in the road and in my attempt to avoid striking it I run upon an unseen rock, and for a moment I am riding ahead of the center of gravity, my hind wheel is considerably elevated, but by a lucky shove on my pedals at just the right instant, I recover my balance. It was, I thought, the closest approach I ever made to a rattling header without quite getting there.
Twenty-five minutes after leaving San Leandro I have covered the intervening six miles and am in Hayward. There was no temptation to dismount this morning for the purpose of obtaining a pocketful of luscious peaches, plums or pears from the roadside orchards. This is a temptation not to be resisted during the warm summer by the average wheelman, I think. A number of handsful of choice fruit have I eaten here. Occasionally of a summer evening I have mounted my wheel and ridden the twenty miles there and back for the avowed purpose of treating myself to a little ripe fruit fresh from the tree. This country is hardly civilized enough yet for the proprietor to object to the wayfarer helping himself to a handful of fruit, the orchards are so vast and in places there is not even a fence dividing them from the road. So that one hardly feels that he is trespassing in stepping to one side to pluck the fruit. In many places the public highways are lined with peach or almond trees.
The riding for the past half hour, since the sun had risen had been tolerably comfortable so far as warmth was concerned. The exercise had warmed me even to the finger ends. But now it again grew cooler and clouds obscured the sun. There was no doubt in my mind that it was colder than at daybreak. Three miles from Hayward I leave the main road and take a by-road three miles across to Alvarado. On this by-way I was again obliged to walk nearly the first half of it. The soft, natural road had been cut up by teams since the rains, the frost had then hardened up the ridges and there had not been enough traffic since to wear them down. Probably not more than one or two teams had passed each day, judging from appearances.
I was now nearing the marshes on the edge of the bay and I could hear the frequent gun of the sportsman as he blazed away at the unfortunate duck, probably whether within or beyond shooting range. One flock of ducks arose from a pond within easy shooting distance from me and they only took the trouble to fly a few yards and then settled on another ice covered sheet of water. Perhaps they knew the difference between a bicycler and a gunner. I was tempted to blaze away at them with my revolver for they were so near it looked as though I might hit one but I reflected that even if I did I did not want to carry it along.
The last mile before reaching Alvarado was rideable. Crossing the creek at the edge of the town I noticed as an evidence of general prosperity that a new iron bridge had just taken the place of the former wooden one. It was 9:15 as I reached Alvarado, a town of about 350 inhabitants, presenting generally a moist appearance by reason of the low ground and willows which extend up into the center of the place. It is on the verge of the marsh but some distance from the bay. I stopped for breakfast at the Alvarado Hotel, kept by Germans, who gave me a breakfast of ham and eggs, coffee, bread and butter, and cake, but no vegetables, for twenty-five cents. It seems to me that at country places they almost invariably make a mistake in not allowing vegetables or fruit, which should there be cheap, to form the more important part of the meal. There is another hotel, the Riverside, at Alvarado where better accommodations are furnished at double the price. I frequently prefer the unpretentious places. The bicycler when he stops at a high toned place in his dusty clothes and perspiring face, is I think, looked down upon as being somewhat below their average run of customers, and he does not get the little flattering attentions he sometimes receives from the people of the more modest tavern. At the Alvarado Hotel a fresh plate of butter and fresh bread were cut especially for my benefit, and I found myself somewhat hasty in pouring milk into my coffee for immediately after a pitcher of cream was brought me. One day at the same hotel they set before me two roast ducks, evidently for my sole use, which was surprising at the modest price of twenty-five cents. In San Francisco, one of the cheapest restaurant cities in the world, a half duck costs more money, however a half duck more than satisfies me, even on bicycling trips when my appetite is particularly good.
After lighting a cigar I mount my wheel and leave Alvarado at 9:45. The road is now quite level and in good condition since the rain. The last time I was over the same road it had just received a new coat of gravel, which was now fairly packed by the rains and the traffic and afforded good wheeling. The great mistake in road repairing in California seems to be that they wait until they can treat the whole surface for miles at a stretch with a new top dressing instead of patching in spots as soon as a hole or rut puts in an appearance, which would be much more economical and satisfactory. After a road has received a top dressing of gravel or rock no one will drive over it if it can be avoided, but invariably drives to the side on the natural ground if there be room, until rain perhaps makes it too muddy there and forces them to take the gravel. In places I have noticed roads abundantly graveled will lay for months or perhaps years without scarcely a team passing over them. They take the grass or ploughed land in preference, and grind into the soft dirt till there is a foot or more of dust. No driver would try to avoid a newly graveled spot if it was but short, or a hole filled in; all parts of the road would consequently be kept beaten down and better fit for travel. Frequent patching is therefore better than the wholesale repair system.
The driver of one buggy that I meet shouts to me as I pass that I have a cold looking horse. I reply, that for the driver it is much warmer than his. I had noticed several drivers in the act of buffeting their hands, which was evidence that they were colder than me.
At Washington Corner I met a couple of Portuguese with a good sized dog. The men evidently see a bicycle only semi-occasionally, judging from their gaze, and the dog seemed inclined to have a barking frolic at the unusual vehicle, seeing which the unspeakable Portuguese endeavor to "sic" him on me, but the dog has more sense, and, like most large dogs, is of good temper, and only wants a little fun in having a short chase after the wheel and its rider. Had he been vicious I might have shot him and the Portuguese would have learned a lesson in the loss of a valuable dog. I have had several wordy rows with Portuguese at various times and they seem to be the worst species of road hog in this section.
I try the side path again a little further along and barely escape an overhead wire arranged for the purpose of opening a carriage gate without dismounting. I perceive the wire which was stretched across the pathway on about the level of my eyes as I sat on my machine, just in time to avoid it. In the garden of the same premises, I notice a lemon tree covered with the handsome fruit, the leaves, however, were frozen and shriveled.
A short distance from Washington Corner are three young men sliding across a pond. I inquired as I passed if they had ever done that before. One shook his head negatively, but then seeming to recollect replied, "yes, once before." Here, I thought, is evidence that the present is not the coldest snap ever experienced in this vicinity, but I believe the present is of the longest duration ever known. In my own experience of four years in California I had not before known ice to form on several successive nights, or seen it thick enough to bear a man's weight.
From Warm Springs to Milpitas (four miles) the road is excellent, of fine gravel, firm and hard; and the only thing that keeps me from making rapid time is a horse and buggy ahead of me, the driver of which — a female — has not sufficient politeness to turn out until I have followed some distance. There is hardly room to pass while the buggy occupies the center of the road, and I prefer to await a better opportunity to shoot past rather than make a request which may be met ungraciously, and which, as the woman could plainly see I was desirous of passing, should have been unnecessary. I have noticed that many women apparently consider that all acts of politeness should come from the male sex.
The usual route for bicyclers making the trip around the bay is to continue south from Milpitas to San Jose (seven miles), thence north-westerly via Santa Clara to Mountain View, (twelve miles.) The road is good the entire distance. To-day in order to explore a piece of road new to me, I branch off to the West at Milpitas and proceed via Alviso to Mountain View. The road at first is good but soon degenerates into a common dirt road for a mile or so which I have to walk, then it improves again and is rideable to Alviso, five miles from Milpitas. The country here is quite low, verging on swamp, but there are occasional fine orchards and magnificent strawberry fields. I passed several fields each many acres in length which did not look as though they were injured by the frost. No strawberries were visible though they do grow somewhere or other in California nearly the whole year around, for they are scarcely ever out of the San Francisco market. I pass numerous flowing artesian wells along this mile or two of road. This also appears to be the favorite resort of the sportsman for I pass a number of them as they wait on their "stand" for the passing duck. I do not see much in the way of game except an occasional snipe and a number of killdeer birds of the same species. Ducks do not seem to be so numerous to-day in this vicinity as near Alvarado.
The road near Alviso I found to be very poor. Probably it would be fair wheeling after a week or two of fine weather, but to-day I was obliged to do some walking. At a fair looking piece of road I mount again and my attention immediately after being attracted by a sign board indicating the name of a cross road, I failed to observe a soft place in my way and took my first header for the day, gentle enough, however, and the only ill-effect felt was a wrenching of the muscles of one of my legs, which, in a few moments, made me feel as though I had a violent cramp in the calf. Thinking I was unobserved I lay for a minute rubbing the limb. As I arise I see a man with a gun running towards me, but when he saw me on my feet stopped as though his business no longer lay in my direction. A moment after a duck flew into the creek near by and the man changed his course for the direction of the bird. Probably he was not as careful in his "stalk" as he might have been had he felt that he was unobserved, for the duck did not sit long enough to allow of a pot shot, but the man lost a fair shot as it arose. As I crossed the bridge over the creek I saw two or three other sportsmen there. A little further along two fine large ducks leave the water by the roadside within ten yards of me. I had to walk a good portion of the next two or three miles through a somewhat uninteresting looking country, and it was 1:30 when I reached Mountain View, a village of about 250 inhabitants, and forty-six miles from the start. The riding for the last mile or two through a beautiful oak studded, park-like country was fair, and as I turned the corner into the main road at Mountain View at a pretty good pace, I emerged upon a couple of horses harnessed to sulkeys standing in front of the Mountain View Hotel and surrounded by a number of young men. The horses showed themselves somewhat restive, but as by this time they were both held by the bridles, I did not dismount till one of the animals when I was about twenty yards distant rared up into the air, and falling, seemed to come down on his back. Of course I then dismounted. After a number of struggles and ineffectual attempts the horse was at length brought to his feet and unharnessed. One of the shafts was broken near the end quite off and the horse somewhat damaged about the head and legs. Singularly I did not get any blame or reproaches on account of the accident. I attribute this fortunate state of affairs to the fact that the crowd around the horses were young men who probably considered it no crime to ride a bicycle. The matter was passed off in a joking manner as being the fault of the horse. I think bicyclers will get all their rights on the road by the time the present generation of young men come into power as voters.
Near Mayfield I met several teams with timid drivers, and although I had my doubts as to the staid looking old plugs of horses being at all excitable, I dismounted on two occasions when the drivers were women, the occurrence at Mountain View being yet fresh in my memory. One woman got down from her vehicle while I was yet half a mile distant and leading her horse to the fence bandaged his ears, while I pass on the opposite side of the road. I don't think the animal would have been scared by either a bicycle or a locomotive. I was then wheeling through a beautiful appearing country with elegant houses and grounds adorning the wayside at intervals. A chinaman in reply to an inquiry as to whom a beautiful looking place with imposing entrance belonged, said that it was "Misser Safford's." It was some little time before I jumped to the conclusion that it was Senator Stanford's.
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Menlo Park was reached at 3:10 and perhaps the prettiest stretch of the whole journey was along here for a mile or two. Beautiful residences are numerous on either side, and the finest lawn tennis grounds I have ever seen anywhere, with a number of young men in light colored suits at play, I passed on my right. On the opposite side was a magnificent estate surrounded by a substantial tongued and grooved tight board fence with a frontage of at least a half mile on the road. On this fence I saw a dozen or more quail sitting. The road was good along here, except an occasional stretch where there was too much shade to suit me to-day. This shade, however, is very grateful in mid-summer and makes the road most pleasant where to-day by reason of the frost it was most rough. My legs were beginning to feel a bit tired, but at Belmont and beyond the road proved good, and although there are some slight hills, I am disinclined to leave the saddle until I reach San Mateo, four miles further along, and sixty-five miles from the start.
It was 4:40 when I reached San Mateo and I knew that I had but little more than an hour of day light and twenty-one miles before reaching San Francisco, but I expected to make the next six miles within a half hour as the road is unusually excellent. I had been twice over the same piece of road in the previous summer and at the time considered it as good a piece as any I had ever wheeled over, hard and smooth and with just sufficient undulations to make riding the more pleasurable. To-day, however, I was disappointed in the road, the trees on either side, which line the road here for the whole six miles and make it so pleasant in summer, had kept the frost in the ground and it was now so hard and rough that I had occasionally to walk, and dare not attempt any speed on down grades. It took me an hour to make the six miles. I pass Milbrae at 5:15. The beautiful estate of D. O. Mills is here to my left. Reaching the Cabin, a wayside saloon at 5:40, I branch off to the right to San Bruno. Let no wheelman make the mistake of keeping straight along the main county road to San Francisco. I did it once to my sorrow. The San Bruno road, though not of the best is far superior and had I only one more hour of daylight to-day it would have enabled me to reach San Francisco two hours earlier than I did.
The cold was again by this time pretty severe and the prospect of a twelve or thirteen mile walk was not very comforting. I almost wished I had taken the train whose lights I could now see leaving San Bruno for the city, I have never yet, however, during my short bicycling experience taken a train or any other vehicle for any part of a journey I have set out to accomplish on wheel. During 1887, my first year on the bicycle, I made twenty-eight rides, averaging fifty miles for each ride. I am over thirty-five years of age.
The road was good (for walking) and a brisk pace kept me warm except at my fingers ends where I suffered a little, as my gloves were not built for warmth. My way was now along the bay shore and the road was narrow in places overhanging the water where it rounded the rocky bluffs. The road had been patched in places with coarse rock and here in the darkness walking even was difficult and I dare not any where venture to ride. Not a soul did I meet for the next eight or nine miles and the only sounds I heard were the whistle of the widgeon and other ducks in the marshy spots and pools which I passed, or the splashing of the water on the rocks. Ducks seemed to be quite numerous and I caused many flocks to arise. Apparently they could see me although I could not see them, as I hardly made noise enough to frighten them. Some flocks of ducks I disturbed in the wayside pools when well within the city limits of San Francisco.
I made one stop about midway on my walk at a milk ranch and obtained two cups of milk and a biscuit for which the proprietor will not accept more than ten cents. I was hungry enough by this time to make them well worth a dollar.
At last the welcome sounds of steam whistles and other city noises began to be heard. The walk after all did not seem so long as I had anticipated, nor did I feel greatly fatigued. After climbing the six mile hill the lights of the city appeared in view. Aided by the lights from the lofty electric masts in the southern suburbs of the city, I mount my machine again and am soon traversing the gaslighted streets of the city proper, again on foot, however, for San Francisco streets are rough and I might say that one has to walk a mile or two of the vilest, roughest streets a person could find anywhere, between the paved portion of the city and the macadamized road.
At 11:10 the magnificent ferry and train service bring me and my machine the remaining ten miles of the journey across the bay to my home. I busied myself during the ride on ferry boat and train in cleaning my machine, and am ready for bed the moment I get home.
Not feeling so fatigued as on some of the other trips I have made I sleep soundly and pleasantly, and go to my work next day with the feeling that I should like to make the trip again next week and see if I can't finish it by daylight.
San Francisco, Cal., Jan. '88.
THE COLD SNAP.
San Francisco Gets the Tail-End of a Western Blizzard Sun, Jan 15, 1888 – 16 · The San Francisco Examiner (San Francisco, California) · Newspapers.com
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