Chapter One Mad About the Bike Cambridge Mob Rule It is May 21, 1897, and a large, raucous crowd of male students-- some armed with eggs and fireworks--have gathered in Cam‑ bridge's medieval Market Square. A few women students, looking a bit apprehensive, stand at the edge of the crowd. Above everyone's heads, suspended from the second‑floor window of a bookshop facing the university senate, hangs an effigy of a woman on a bicycle dressed in a blouse and bloomers. Why is she here and why is there a mob of undergraduates swarming below her? They had all gathered to await a decision from the university's senate, which had been debating a proposal to grant full degrees to women studying at the university. Although they had been attending and sitting exams at the women‑only colleges of Girton, Newnham and Hughes Hall since the late 1860s, women were not entitled to be awarded degrees at the end of their studies; they also had to ask permission from a professor before attending their lectures and were not considered full members of the university. While they could just about study, they could not graduate--though they were in a slightly better position than their predecessors in the 1860s, those first five female students who had to study thirty miles away, lest their presence upset the male students. The protestors outside the senate were not challenging the gross unfairness and inequality of the situation, they were outraged at the possibility that the proposal might be passed, even though other universities in the U.K. were already awarding degrees to men and women on an equal basis. The proposal was so divisive that extra trains had been put on from London to enable graduates to return to cast their vote. Many held aloft placards that made their feelings clear, such as "No Gowns for Girtonites" and "Varsity for Men." When the news broke that the Senate had rejected the pro‑ posal, with 661 voting in favor and 1,707 against, the male students' delight was palpable. They tore down the effigy in a frenzy, ripping off her head and tearing her body into pieces before posting her remains through the gates of Newnham College. The women students locked inside--disgusted and possibly terrified--looked on as a mob tried to break down the gates. As far as these men were concerned, they were the moral victors; women needed to know their place and stop making outrageous demands that were encroaching on male privileges. It was another fifty years before women would be granted degrees at Cambridge on equal terms to men--the last university to hold out against the tide of change. It wasn't until 1988 that the last of its all‑male colleges accepted women, and once again the male students protested--though less violently this time--by donning black armbands and flying their flag at halfmast. To understand why the 1897 protest targeted that female cycling effigy, we need to trace two movements that intersected in the run‑up to that raucous event. One was the emergence of the "New Woman"--the term for feminists who, in short, wanted to throw off the restrictive shackles imposed by late‑Victorian patriarchy and were demanding the same social and political rights as men, as well as educations and careers: women who many thought were trying to inhabit spaces or partake in activities that should be the sole preserve and prerogative of men. This was to be an important decade in the history of feminism that had been building since at least the late eighteenth century, with the publication of Mary Wollstonecraft's A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792), and that would ultimately evolve into the large‑scale movements for suffrage in the early part of the twentieth century. The other was the "bike boom," triggered by the invention of a new type of bicycle. This was a time when interest in cycling was at its absolute peak, becoming a mass activity in Western Europe and North America, not least with women, who took it up in droves. First, though, we must understand the revolutionary potential of this new machine, and why some men were intent on keeping it for themselves. Two-Wheeled Genesis In 1885, Coventry's Starley & Sutton company launched a new bicycle called the Rover Safety. It wasn't the first bicycle, but it was the one that would stand the test of time and have the most seismic impact, its basic design forming the blueprint for the machines we ride today. Although the reverberations of this unveiling weren't felt immediately, with some tweaks and refinements it would become the must‑have accessory of the following decade. Looking at pictures of bicycles before the launch of the Safety, it's easy to see why they were superseded. The first was designed by German inventor Baron Karl von Drais, who had set out to create a horseless carriage and launched his "Laufmaschine," or "Running‑Machine," in 1817. "Running" was the pivotal word, as that was exactly what the rider was required to do on a contraption that was essentially two carriage wheels joined together by a wooden plank, with a cushioned seat for the rider and a rudimentary steering mechanism. The rider propelled the machine by running along the ground while seated. Apart from looking quite silly, this wasn't an easy thing to do when going uphill, and the absence of brakes didn't make the downhill any more comfortable. But the appetite for a self‑propelled wheeled device, pre-motor age, was clearly there; in spite of its drawbacks, and high price tag, it was soon seen in fashionable cities such as London, Paris and New York. But as a craze it was short‑lived; the novelty of running along while seated--wearing quickly through the soles of the rider's shoes--was destined to have limited appeal.* In the years between Drais's invention and the Rover Safety in 1885, countless aspiring bike builders had a go at improving on the concept. But it wasn't until 1867 that the first pedal‑powered bicycle rolled onto the scene in Paris. This much‑improved machine designed by Pierre Michaux, a Parisian blacksmith, featured pedals attached to the hub of the front wheel--no more running! Despite the prohibitive cost (250 francs, nearly $1,600 today), velocipedes became a relatively common sight in France and beyond. Michaux's machine has since been dubbed "the boneshaker" because of the deleterious effect the all‑iron frame and wooden wheels had on the rider, with air‑filled rubber tires still a few decades away. It became a popular pastime for a few years with those who could afford one. Theater and circus performers incorporated the machine into their acts, and the more competitive enthusiasts took part in the world's first organized bike races. As inventors worldwide competed to refine this new style of two‑wheeler, patent offices were deluged with variations on Michaux's theme. In the 1870s, the craze for the boneshaker was eclipsed by the arrival of the "high‑wheeler" or "Ordinary." Perhaps the most emblematic of all Victorian‑era inventions, with the cyclist perched above an enormous front wheel and a diminutive rear wheel providing counterbalance. Its British name of "penny‑farthing" comes from the wheels, which resemble a large penny coin and more diminutive farthing. The design now looks so outlandish and impractical it seems it must have been invented by someone with a loose grasp of reality. Yet there was something about this strange new beast that stuck, at least for the few decades after 1871 when Starley & Sutton put their model on the market with its 48‑inch big wheel. This new bike was also much lighter and, perhaps most important to many, it was remarkably nippy. Even without the luxury of air‑filled tires, the oversized front wheel meant the rider was much farther from the lumps, bumps and ruts that were endemic of roads at that time. As the decade progressed the wheels continued to expand and speeds increased, with riders competing in races that attracted large crowds and where they were soon busting the three‑minute mile, as well as covering progressively longer distances. Demand grew so great that by 1880 there were over a hundred Ordinary manufacturers in the U.K., with consumers in the United States--after overcoming some initial skepticism--no less enthu‑ siastic. One convert was Thomas Stevens, an emigrant from the U.K., who in 1884 became the first to cross the United States on two wheels when he rode a U.S.‑made Columbia Ordinary from San Francisco to Boston. That was just the start of Thomas's cycle adventuring, and the following year he set off from London, cycling through Europe, the Middle East, China and Japan, to become the first to pedal around the world. You may be wondering why the evolution of the bicycle didn't stop with the Ordinary if it had so much going for it. First, they were dangerous: it was a long way to climb up onto the saddle, and a long way to fall, and falling was an occupational hazard for the high‑wheel enthusiast. Even for experienced riders, strong winds, ruts in the road and other obstacles (such as fellow cyclists who'd hit the deck) could prove deadly. Serious head injuries--dubbed a "cropper," "header" or "imperial crowner"-- were common, and were enough to stop most from giving it a go. The tag many of its detractors gave it as "a young man's game" is telling, and even then, it was only a certain type of young man who was willing to put up with the bicycle's potentially fatal design quirks. It also wasn't inexpensive (though far cheaper than Michaux's boneshaker), so largely only middle‑ and upper‑class men of means could splurge on one. All this meant it was some‑ what exclusionary; cycling's pleasures as well as its dangers, were denied not just to sensible, aged or less affluent men, but to women. While some women did take to the machines--a few intrepid female riders even raced on them, drawing large audiences--it's fair to say female fans of the high‑wheel were in the minority. The dangers of falling aside, if social norms required you to wear long skirts and petticoats made up of yards of material that drag on the floor when you walk--as women were largely required to do at this time--then just getting up into the saddle is going to be near impossible. Even if they had managed such a feat, all that fabric would inevitably jam in the spokes and send them plummeting back down to the ground.* Instead some women--and men--took up the tricycle, a three‑wheeled machine propelled by foot levers that gained popularity in the late 1870s. No straddling was required, which accommodated standard Victorian dress, and knees could be kept firmly together, which made them appropriately ladylike and uncontroversial. So much so that Queen Victoria bought one for herself and her daughters in 1881. But like the high‑ wheel, they had a few fundamental flaws. First, they were extremely heavy and cumbersome: getting uphill required a helping hand, as pedaling was insufficient against such a weight. And while the rider didn't need much in the way of lessons, they weren't without their dangers--while not overly common, rolling over was one possible hazard. Their size meant you couldn't exactly store them in your hallway. If you didn't have a coach house, then you might be a bit stuck. More to the point, if you weren't wealthy enough to own a coach house, then you probably couldn't afford a tricycle. Meanwhile, the high‑wheeler remained an exclusive boys' club--though that probably suited a lot of its fans--and clubs started springing up specifically for them. Some were positively lavish: the Massachusetts Bicycle Club was housed in an imposing four‑story town house in Boston, financially supported by the Pope Manufacturing Company. Its members could cycle straight into the building via a handy ramp to make use of its washroom and library before settling down in the parlor to en‑ joy post‑ride drinks and cigars in front of roaring log fires. While not all clubs were quite as grand, with many taking whatever space they could find, such as a room above a pub, they all placed high importance on uniform, with members turning out in caps and jackets in their chosen colors and emblazoned with their club's badge. There was a sense of pride in being part of this elite group of young men who adventured, raced and diced with death, so it's no surprise the students of Oxbridge formed their own clubs, with Ivy League universities in the United States following suit. However, high‑wheeler fans could cling to their caps, badges and deadly giant wheels all they wanted--they would soon start to look somewhat anachronistic when a new type of bike that would democratize cycling arrived. It was long overdue. Safety First John Kemp Starley got straight to the point when he named his successor to the high‑wheeler the "Rover Safety" back in 1885. With its two standard‑sized wheels, it was exactly that: a safe choice compared to its seemingly absurdist predecessor, for here was a machine low enough for the rider to place their feet on the ground when they stopped. While the early designs featured a slightly larger front wheel, there was only a small disparity, so anyone who was reasonably mobile could mount one without difficulty. It's iconic diamond frame, still the basis for bikes today, proved the design breakthrough all those aspirational inventors had been hoping to get to first. But, as with most objects that become design classics, it was a few years before it really took off, and even Starley is unlikely to have predicted how revolutionary it would become. Devoted high‑wheelers initially spurned the Safety, believing proximity to the ground to be most undignified, but change was a‑wheel in the bicycling world, and the Rover was soon being shipped all around the globe. Three years later, another design breakthrough finally set the wheels turning for a true bike boom. Its creator was John Dunlop, a Scottish veterinarian based in Belfast who, in his spare time, had been experimenting with fitting air‑filled rubber tires to his son's tricycle to make it more comfortable. Realizing he was onto something, he quickly registered a patent. There were the usual naysayers who thought it would never catch on, and early sightings sometimes attracted a crowd, but a quick spin on a Dunlop was all that was needed to prove that riding on air‑filled, shock‑absorbent tires was preferable to a solid wheel. When the tires were fitted to bikes at a race and the average speed was increased by a third, there was no doubt that they would become a permanent fixture. With this winning combination, the western world was about to go bike crazy. Excerpted from Revolutions: How Women Changed the World on Two Wheels by Hannah Ross All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
