in for a penny

There’s an otherworldliness to Joff Summerfield.

43, lean and spare, there’s something of the aesthete and visionary about him; it’s as if he’s discovered the meaning of life, and finds the world around him amusing, perplexing and all a little strange. He certainly has seen much of the world from a unique perspective: from the saddle of a penny farthing, and is only the second person ever to have done so. What makes the achievement even more remarkable is that he did it on a bike he designed and built himself.

Summerfield’s apparent detachment from the material world seems almost inevitable when you think about it. When a person’s whole existence, for months and then years on end, has revolved around a bike and the few possessions they can carry upon it, there emerges a peculiar and specific focus. Life is cut down to the essentials needed for day-to-day survival; the immediate problems of food, water and shelter. Those who have tried it know that it generates a feeling of complete liberty and self sufficiency, and that it’s addictive. That’s why Joff’s planning to ride around the world again.

Living in the loft above his Victorian workshop in London’s Trinity Buoy Wharf, he leads a spartan existence; making his unique bicycles in an old ships’ cable proving-house and saving his money for his next journey. One of a long line of workshops and studios, there are boxes of herbs on the window ledges and a dilapidated motorbike propped up outside. It’s tucked out of the way and the 19th-century setting seems entirely appropriate. Inside, it’s organised chaos; penny farthings in various stages of assembly hang from the rafters and tools are littered across the work surfaces. I’m offered black tea (all there is) made on the woodstove, and he starts to tell me about his journey and the bikes he builds for a living.

“I built them, broke them and then modified the design until I had something that didn’t break any more,” he says. Coming from a family with roots in classic racing and car manufacture, he was already well-equipped with the engineering skills needed to build his own penny, but had to visit a museum to see how one was actually put together. Now he sells them to customers around the world and his order book continues to grow.

His first attempt at circumnavigation got him as far as Folkestone, before acute knee-pain forced him to abandon the journey. Undeterred, he set out again, and got as far as Budapest, before the same problem stopped him. Some people might take that as a sign that man was not meant to circumnavigate the globe on a large, spoked wheel. Instead, he returned to the UK, sought specialist help, and with special knee-support bands in place, set out on his third attempt. Two and a half years later, and to high acclaim in the national media and cycling press, he returned; largely unscathed.

That first journey - in the cycle-tracks of Thomas Stevens, the Victorian cycling-pioneer - took him through Europe, the Middle East, the Indian Sub-Continent, the Himalayas, China and America. Now he’s planning to tick off the bits he missed, with South America and Africa high on the agenda. “The average day’s journey on a penny is about 40 miles,” he says. “That’s quite low compared to what a modern bike can cover, but there is something about the penny that is addictive.”

His adventures were many: he had crocodiles in his camp site; he was hit by a lorry; suffered two muggings; and was moved-on by gun-toting soldiers. “Every 18-year-old should be kicked out of the country for a year to learn about the world they live in. We’d have a much better society,” he opines. His outlook on life gives me pause for thought, and I find myself planning a round-theworld trip as we speak.

“I built them, broke them and then modified the design until I had something that didn’t break any more.”

“Every 18-year-old should be kicked out of the country for a year to learn about the world they live in. We’d have a much better society.”

Even during its heyday in the late 19th century, the penny farthing was known as a notorious killer. There’s a reason that the modern diamond-framed bike was marketed as the ‘safety bicycle’ when it was first introduced: the penny broke necks and impaled people on iron railings. ‘Wheelmen’, as they were known, were the daredevils of their day, akin to today’s freerunners and skateboarders.

Equipping yourself with a top-of-the-range expedition bike can cost thousands of pounds. They can have hub gears, suspension, computers, dynamos to power your laptop and a whole host of other ‘essentials’. Summerfield went to the opposite extreme and built the simplest of bicycles; and in so doing, proved that guts, determination and a sense of humour are far more important to a round-the-world tour than the latest gizmo.

Braking is especially inadvisable on a penny, as the rider sits directly over the bicycle’s balance point. As the front wheel slows, the lack of counter-weight from the rear means the rider simply rotates over this fulcrum and does a ‘header’ straight into the ground. As the legs are trapped under the handlebars, there’s fantastic scope for injury. “I’ve broken my wrist four times, my elbows five; my collarbone and my leg,” Summerfield says, “but they’re great bikes.” He did all this while racing his penny against other enthusiasts...

His preferred method of dealing with errant pedestrians and stray dogs is simply to ride them down; it apparently does less damage. Bumps and potholes are equally dangerous, necessitating much dismounting and pushing. Imagine taking such a machine through the high mountain passes of Tibet and the jungles of Cambodia. Thomas Stevens’ account of his circumnavigation (1884-87) is littered with headers, collisions and stretches where he had to get off and push. It’s a wonder either of them made it down the garden path, let alone around the world.

So why on earth attempt long distance touring on such an impractical machine?

For all its danger, the penny farthing has a certain purity of essence that many people find irresistible. It’s the original fixie. There are no gears. There isn’t even a chain. There is nothing to come between the rider and their direct connection to the road. The rider is literally, ‘riding a wheel’. It’s a little like using a quill and home-made iron-gall ink to write a letter. It is simple, elegant, and instead of relying on over-complicated technology to work, it relies on skill. And more than a little bloody-mindedness.

To cycle around the world takes a certain spirit of adventure and a large degree of fortitude. To do it on a self-built penny farthing takes a certain type of brilliant madness. Overused perhaps, but the phrase, ‘mad dogs and Englishmen’ comes to mind after talking to Joff Summerfield. Well, long may mad dogs and Englishmen venture forth in the noonday sun. The world would be far less fun without them.