fastest mile ever ridden on a bicycle track. Then picture their amazement when the announcer also reminded them that I was the same boy who in 1892 had finished third in the race for boys.
After I had received one of the most flattering ovations, I set about my afternoon’s work. Incidentally it was won before I had even hit the measure. Before the sun set I had won three races—the one-mile invitation, the two-mile open and the five-mile lap race. All the finals were paced by motor and despite the fact that the track was very heavy because of recent rains the time was exceptionally fast.
In the one-mile invitation race Harry Gibson of Cincinnati rode second to me and Charles Porter of Chicago was third. Tom Butler of Boston was second to me in the one-mile open event; Charles Porter of Chicago was third and Gus Phillips of Chicago was fourth. In the five-mile lap race Tom Butler followed me over the tape with Gus Phillips third, the time being 11:35.
Newspaper men who were present for the program were a unit in declaring had the track been dry that several new world records would have been established in each of the races because all of the final heats were motor paced. This was without a doubt the hardest racing program that I had ever undertaken and but for my wonderfully fine physical condition I would never have been able to accomplish this strenuous task. The Peoria track was one of the fastest in the country. It was not a trotting track but was built especially for bicycle races. The management for selfish reasons decided to have all of the final heats motor-paced which was an innovation for sprint racing.
Although I was “dog tired” after having won the first two finals, I decided at the last minute to start in the five-mile event. A plot aimed against me by the other riders in the race was responsible for my starting in this last-named race. As the cyclists discussed their plans to put me down in the five-mile race, my trainer overheard them and reported the fact to me. That settled it. I was out on the track in a few minutes gritting my teeth and tugging at the leash to get another crack at the field. This specially arranged program attracted an all-star entry list. One of the finest that had ever graced any meet of the entire season. I figured that since this was the last meet of the year I could well afford to risk being thrown from my wheel by the other riders as I would have several months in which to recuperate before the next season’s races started.
At the crack of the pistol Butler jumped and beat me to the pacemaker. He had the pole while I was on the outside, his position providing him with a good footing, while out where I was it was quite soft and heavy. Shortly, however, by quick maneuvering I got the position I desired—right at Butler’s rear wheel. There I stuck.
