BICYCLE-TOURING DURING SUMMER VACATIONS.

Wheeling has become such a universal matter now that it may prove of interest to give some practical hints to riders who have not yet realized what health and enjoyment, as well as experience, may be gained by taking something more than a day's ride in the vicinity of home and daily work. By far the greater number of those who own wheels are, or rather have been up to the present, satisfied to take afternoon runs of from ten to fifty miles in length, or, at most, to ride out of town to some friend's house, returning the next day. In those cities and towns of the United States which admit of it hundreds of men, young and old, ride every day to school or college or business, but until this year there has been comparatively little of the two weeks' or two months' touring—that is the best use to which a wheel can be put. Naturally one of the reasons for this has been that but few people have time to go off on fortnightly trips. The chief reason probably has been the difficulty of getting good accommodations, good roads, and good opportunity for repairs in case of accidents. It has become the custom to ride through England or France, and thus combine a sight-seeing tour with a long bicycle ride, rather than make similar runs at home, and why not here?

If a tour is possible in Europe, it certainly is possible in America, and to him who has eyes to see there is much to see and learn about his own country, if he goes on a wheel, that never can be seen in any other way. Now, too, the facilities for such a trip are greatly improved over anything in the past. There is not a village of any size, to say nothing of towns and cities, that has not one repair shop at least, and in New England and the Middle States, and all along the northern part of the United States, out beyond Chicago, a wheelman can get to one within an hour, except, perhaps, in some isolated instances where there are long stretches of woodland. A five or ten mile walk with a badly broken wheel is an unpleasant job; but if you are on any reasonably important thoroughfare you are sure to get a chance to ride on some passing wagon, and then, once the repair shop is reached, the wheel can either be repaired, or another one hired until your own is in good order again.

Hotels are now accustomed to bicyclists. There was a time when many a hotel had a regulation that no one in bicycle costume was permitted to enter the dining-room, but such inns are fast getting behind the times. All hostelries are in existence to make money, and the moment—which is now arrived—that a sufficiently large number of men and women ride to them on bicycles they will open dining-rooms and the whole hotel to them. Then, again, the League of American Wheelmen is doing a great deal for this touring of the bicyclist. The League is not a money-making affair in any way; most of its officials give their services free, and the endeavor is merely to pay expenses, while the object is to unite wheelmen and make them a sufficiently strong body to urge the different governments of the States, cities, etc., to build good roads and pass reasonable laws for the bicyclist. If you join this L.A.W. you secure for your initiation a ticket which in most large towns and cities admits you to at least one hotel for a somewhat reduced price. At any rate, on a two weeks' tour the wheelman will get his initiation fee back again half a dozen times over. Besides his ticket the member also is presented with a road-book of his State, which not only gives the best routes all over the State, but tells him also the hotels which give reduced rates, gives distances from one place to another, and other information of this kind. It also suggests good runs from 50 to 500 miles in length. With the improvement in the strength, durability, and lightness of the bicycle itself, the information of L.A.W. road-books, and the increase in repair shops, the great difficulties of touring have vanished. It turns out, therefore, that the facilities for touring are really better in the United States than in Europe, the one real disadvantage being that English and French roads are in better condition than those in America.

The difficulties to be overcome, then, are those of the bicyclist himself. How shall he fit out? Where shall he go, at what rate, and by what route? These questions, hard to answer as they may seem to any one who has not travelled much, are not difficult if they are taken up in detail. The real objects of such a trip should be amusement, comfort, sight-seeing, and out-door exercise. The speed at which you go should be comfortable to you, and you yourself must therefore settle that. Some men want to do seventy or eighty miles a day. Others are tired if they do more than ten. The distance, however, is or should be absolutely of no importance. If you feel like doing a good bit one day, it is possible. If you feel like staying abed the next day, or taking a walk, that is possible, too. In either case the idea of bicycle-touring does not or should not be concerned with distance at all. One man will have quite as good a time on a two weeks' tour covering a hundred miles as another will in covering a thousand.

In laying out the trip, some general idea of its course ought to be decided upon, such as a run from Boston to New York and return, from New York to Washington, New York to Buffalo and Niagara, Chicago to Buffalo, Chicago to St. Louis, and so on; or a trip to the White Mountains in New Hampshire, or the Berkshire Hills in Massachusetts, from any of the places named. The words "mountains" and "hills" have a dangerous sound to wheelmen, but the beauty of scenery, the visions of long even coasts, and pleasant variations from the continual revolving of wheels to walking up the next slope, all mean a great deal more than mere hilly roads. Once the trip is laid out, however, all idea of the different stages must be forgotten or never figured out. That planning to reach this town on Monday, and another on Tuesday, and the next on Wednesday, is ruinous to pleasure and to the nerves. The constant strain to get there, or the still greater vexation of getting there in the middle of the afternoon and feeling like going on, is bad.

At any rate, there is not much pleasure in running on railroad time. If the week or fortnight at your disposal is up before the journey is done, take a train and go home, with the wheel in a baggage-car; but on no account hurry. You have your road-map with you, and can see at a glance that Johnstown is three miles further on, and Brownstown is ten. If at Johnstown you don't want to stop, make for Brownstown. If you grow weary five miles out, stop at the first decent-looking house and tell the housewife you are on a pleasure tour, that you want to rest, or hope for a glass of milk or a dinner or a bed. She will help you out if you pay, and often if you don't; but should she refuse, try the next house after suggesting to her that she should ride a bicycle; for as sure as there is a wheel resting up against the house anywhere, you will be received and comforted. Some of the pleasantest incidents of a trip, some of the kindest friends, are found in these little unexpected stops. In any case be pleasant, be considerate; take the baby on your knee, show Johnny how the wheels go round, and scratch the cat's back. All these will open the spare bedroom and the larder, to say nothing of the hostess's heart, and they will even save money.

Suppose, for instance, the trip is to be from New York city to Boston along the Connecticut coast, and back through Massachusetts, over the Berkshire Hills, and down the Hudson—a trip that it will be difficult for any one to surpass anywhere else in the United States for variety of scenery, historic interest, and for good roads and accommodations. You leave New York city, run out through Stamford, New Haven, New London, in Connecticut, thence through Providence to Boston, taking a side trip, if there is time, to Newport, Rhode Island. From Boston the run is westward through Worcester and Springfield, and then, winding about through Lenox, Pittsfield, Stockbridge, and all the Berkshire towns, it finally crosses the border into New York State, until the Hudson is reached; thence it extends down the east bank of the river to New York city. The whole trip has a good name for roads, is full of historic interest, combines sea and mountain air, and gives you a glimpse of old New England life as well as of modern country life of the most advanced type. There are towns and repair shops in plenty, and not many hills as such tours go. You can do it in two weeks or less, or you can easily take a month to it, and at any time you can reach New York city in one night by rail.

There are other trips that in some ways would prove more interesting to different men, and any one, wherever he lives, provided it is somewhere in the northern or eastern part of the United States, or on the Pacific or Atlantic coast, can lay out such a tour from his road-books or his own head. Suppose, for the moment, this trip is to be taken, however, how shall a bicyclist fit out? The questions which require solution are how to carry sufficient clothing for exigencies, and to have it weigh as nearly nothing as possible; and how to travel at as near no cost as possible. There is a well-known system for carrying baggage on a walking tour which is eminently suited to bicyclists; this is to have two pieces of baggage. The first is a large valise or small trunk, containing clothing of all kinds needed for an ordinary two weeks' trip by rail, besides toilet articles, and so on. The materials for the other is composed of a similar set of toilet articles, and one or at most two sets of underclothing, besides an extra pair of shoes or slippers—moccasins pack easily and are very serviceable. This last is packed in a leather case set into the diamond frame of the wheel, or into a knapsack carried on the shoulders. If the diamond-shaped portmanteau is properly made it is better. Luggage seems lighter on the wheel than on your back.

The trouble with the average portmanteau is that it is too thick, making it necessary for the wheelman to straddle it instead of giving him the free use of his limbs to press up and down on the pedals perpendicularly. If you will take the trouble to have this portmanteau made to order and carefully measured, so that it will not come outside a line drawn on either side of the bicycle from the sides of the saddle to the inside of each pedal when at its lowest point in a revolution, you will find no trouble with it. This, however, necessitates its being narrower at the top than at the bottom. On arriving at a hotel for the night, it is unstrapped from the wheel and taken up to your room. Then after your bath there is the change of clothing, the slippers, the toilet articles in a little case by themselves, and your repair kit, which may be wanted in the evening for some little repairs on the wheel. The portmanteau will always be full, so take only what is absolutely necessary, otherwise you will find that some important thing has been left behind, and a useless appendage brought only to occupy valuable space, and be thrown away in disgust. Always carry soap and a towel. They are sometimes hard to find, and oftener so bad that one goes dirty rather than use them. Then, too, a good wash by a stream is only satisfactory when soap and towel are at hand. If you have been compelled to repair a puncture by the way, such a wash with soap and towel is everything. If you stop for a bath in some stream, the towel comes in again.

Another good addition is one of the tiny cameras that are sold nowadays for a small amount. For if you cannot sketch well they bring back with you little reminders of a journey which are invaluable, and they do not take the time in preparation that a sketch does. Of course it would be foolish to attempt to state that photographs are better than good sketches. Any one who can draw reasonably well has something of the greatest value with him. For the average mortal a camera must take its place.

All this time nothing has been said as to the use to be made of the large valise or small trunk. It contains several changes of clothing, extra shoes, extra suits, extra everything, and is sent from New York by express to the Narragansett House at Providence, or to Newport, or even to Boston. On the first day's ride you make Stamford, thirty miles away, or New Haven, forty-one miles further on. The next day New London is far enough. Perhaps you want to stay there an extra day, or perhaps you spend two or three days getting to Providence. At any rate, in three or four or five days you are in Providence, and there is the valise awaiting you with a fresh supply of clothing for the portmanteau. Next morning it goes to Boston, and you follow it the same day, or the next, or three or four days later, just as you wish. In Boston all the clothing can be laundered in a day, and a new start made. From this city the valise goes by express to Springfield or Lenox or Stockbridge, and you follow on at your leisure. If at any time you decide not to pass through the city or town holding your valise for the time being, send a letter and order it sent elsewhere, paying the required amount and a little more by money-order enclosed. Such transactions are safe in any good hotel; but always have the valise marked "to be called for by John Brown, expecting to arrive by bicycle about such and such a date."

It is not improbable that you may want the valise at once. In that case the best plan is to get on a train and ride to it. It will never be more than four hours away, and instead of covering the distance you ride in the train on your wheel, you can add some unexpected and therefore interesting detour to your programme.

From Lenox the valise goes to Hudson or Poughkeepsie, or even to New York city again, and the trip is finished, as it was begun, in pleasant irregular stages, with stoppages wherever desirable, and long runs whenever wanted. And this suggests another word as to the regulation of habits on the road. Don't eat and drink in every town you happen to pass through. Eat a hearty breakfast, and then read a paper for an hour. With breakfast, at eight, the start will be at nine. Then run along at any gait that suits you, only remembering that an easy start means a pleasant and a long run. Stop at twelve or thereabouts, as the town appears and the spirit moves, wash up, and eat a big noon dinner. After another hour's rest—sometimes including a nap—start out again, going slowly usually, or rest till four or five o'clock if it is midsummer and very warm.

When a hill is reached, remember that a little walk is a great rest and recreation, and a ride up a short hill is equal to a long stretch of level road. It is really wiser and pleasanter to walk up all hills that are steep. If you see a pretty brook and a shady tree near it, and the spirit again moves, dismount and read a volume out of the portmanteau, or lie quietly, enjoying one of the privileges of a bicycle trip—a little communion with honest nature, far removed from the railroad, the hotel, the guide, and the summer tourist. If it rains, ask the first man to take you in—and so on.

One man can enjoy such a trip hugely. Two, if they are congenial, can, also; but never go with three, and usually not with four or more. Somebody is always getting punctured, or falling ill, or not waking up, or wanting to rest. If you are alone you can usually agree with yourself, though sometimes that is hard work, and even two make the agreeing more difficult.

The best trips in the northern and eastern part of the United States are briefly: 1. The tour already mentioned. 2. The run from New York city, up the east bank of the Hudson, crossing at Albany; thence through the highly interesting and historic valley of the Mohawk, through Utica, Syracuse, Rochester, and so on to Buffalo; thence to Niagara, Detroit, and Chicago. 3. From New York city or Albany or Boston (in the latter cases reaching New York city as described), across Staten Island to Tottenville and Perth Amboy; thence through Princeton, Trenton, Philadelphia, Baltimore, to Washington. 4. From Boston, northward through Lowell, Concord (New Hampshire), Manchester, and on to the White Mountains, or through Portsmouth, Portland, and out along the Maine coast towards Bangor or Bar Harbor or Eastport. Most of these trips have been given in the Round Table Bicycle Department, and can be had by any one from the publishers, by ordering the numbers in the foot-notes accompanying that Department. They can practically all be secured by purchasing the different road-books issued by the L.A.W.

Of course there are hundreds of other tours, and, indeed, each man can make up a good tour for himself by merely studying his road-books. These trips are comprehensive in many ways, and as they are much more ridden, and therefore more accurately described, it is wiser to take one of them for your first tour than to begin exploring on your own account at once.