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By…..John Howard & Rene Maurer It’s post-‐Civil-‐War America when Victorian standards define the social mores of its citizens, and African-‐Americans are former slaves or first-‐ and second-‐generation freeborn. An eight-‐year-‐old Negro boy leaves his family’s small farm in Indianapolis to live for several years with his father’s employer, a wealthy white family. Educated by private tutors, dressed in tailor-‐made clothing, and given expensive gifts that include a bicycle, he learns the advantages of money and prestige and gets his first bitter taste of racial bias while on an outing with his white playmates. Returning to the farm when his adopted family relocates, his siblings are resentful of his expensive toys, tutored behavior and speech, treating him like a stranger. His skill on the bicycle presents him with an opportunity to escape the poverty and misery at home. Extensively researched and professionally edited, Requiem for a Wheelman is a 120,000-‐word novel based on a true story about Marshall Walter (Major) Taylor, a man who is driven to be the best bicycle racer in the world. His early successes earn the applause of crowds and the bitter anger of his white opponents who will stop at nothing to keep him from winning or even competing. Haunted by vicious verbal and physical attacks from his fellow cyclists, fearing for his life at times, he becomes the first internationally recognized African-‐American World Champion; literally the fastest man on two wheels. Historically accurate for the most part, the Major’s best friend, a childhood pal and journalist, tells the story of a man who raced during an era before the birth of Jackie Robinson, before baseball became America’s sport, and when people went to baseball games only after attendance at the bicycle tracks reached capacity. Requiem captures the excitement and drama of track racing in America, Europe, and Australia, and explores the consequences of being a man of color in a world dominated by whites. His personal relationships with family, friends, colleagues, and business associates illustrate the influence his early years and deep religious beliefs had on the decisions he made
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during his racing career and after it ended. Major Taylor, the politics, the people, and the social conscience of the era are colorfully resurrected in Requiem for a Wheelman.
Excerpt: Joshua Owen, Chicago, June 30, 1932 Dust billowed out from beneath the long black hearse as it made its way along the unpaved road in Mount Glenwood Cemetery, the first cemetery in Chicago to permit AfricanAmericans to be buried among dead whites. The cumbersome vehicle bounced in and out of ruts and over stones on its journey to Pauper’s Field, a lonely, neglected plot of land behind the main cemetery; the final resting place for those whose bodies had gone unclaimed or who were too poor to pay for a plot in the cemetery proper. The simple knotty pine casket containing the remains of Marshall Walter Taylor was suspended over a hole so dark that the sunlight had no power to illuminate it. I unfolded the sash he had worn bearing the Stars and Stripes and draped it over the lid, a reminder of the greatness of the man who was lying beneath it. The casket was lowered slowly into the seeming abyss. The brightness of the morning and the accompanying birdsong did little to lessen my grief as shovelfuls of pungent earth were thrown on top of the box. I had loved him as a brother, a dear friend, and as the hero he had become. I closed my eyes and saw him looking at me with his toothy grin once more, and I wished that the world could know him as I had. Joshua Owen, Chicago, June 22, 1944
I stood at a large window near the top floor of the Tribune Tower, an ornate, forty-story neo-gothic behemoth that rose 462 feet above North Meridian Avenue. A large flock of birds moved in almost magical synchronicity as they spiraled upward, the bright white of their wings
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outstretched against the deepening blue of Lake Michigan. As darkness approached I felt a longing to take wing and fly with them and leave my brooding thoughts behind. Global war was raging, the reports crackling over the WGN airways in the newsroom. I moved away from the window, straightened my tie and returned to my desk. Working The Chicago Tribune news beat, my day was about over. I was a sportswriter, but baseball was taking a backseat to the war. I capped my final article, a Normandy D-Day accounting written from a well of jingoism deep enough to catch the attention of the wire service. Gossipmonger Walter Winchell had tapped my words in his nightly strafing of the Nazis, and I was enjoying some success with the series I had begun writing soon after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. It was twelve years since his passing and thoughts of Marshall invaded my consciousness relentlessly, rekindling the grief I’d felt about the way he had been laid to rest, in anonymity instead of honor. Since his death, I had been obsessed with writing Marshall’s story. I had interviewed all of the people I could track down who had known him when he was still racing. He would not have approved.
Most of America lost track of “Major” Taylor after he hung up his bike for good about 1910. There were a few old men haunting seedy little bars in places like Moline and Newark and down on the south side of Chicago, those who talked about how the Maj used to storm the tracks. But most of the men, like the tracks, were now gone. A few of the former racers were still about; most old and broken, but one or two wound with a youthful spring. Gentleman Joe Kopsky up in Union City, who still stood up straight and looked half his age, had raced with the Major in his prime. Pop Brennan, who had wrenched for the Major at the New York Six-Day race, was still looking fit. I visited them in their bicycle shops where the last remnants of the old sport and its long-toothed participants could be found. I also found them in the saloons of Hoboken, where some of the retired wheelmen refurbished tramp steamers in the shipyards. I sat in on their drunken reveries, each of the old boys a fancy spinner of yarns. Some limped and leaned heavily on canes. One fingered rosary beads. Another proudly displayed scars from combat on the tracks. He lifted his shirt and loosened his belt, revealing a low, roughly-stitched gut wound sagging at odd angles with rolls of fat. Their tongues were loosened by liquor and sometimes they got obnoxious, lost their trains of thought, or cursed each other the way they did in younger days when they raced against one another. They filled the gaps in my memories of Marshall, and I pieced together the chapters of his life with stories that were exciting, poignant, awe-inspiring and pitiable. The finished manuscript lay on the desk in my home office, and I wondered if I would have the courage to submit the work for publication. Requiem for a Wheelman told the story conspicuously absent in Marshall’s autobiography. What would his daughter Sydney think when she saw some of the more personal details of his life in print? Would she forgive me? I ran my fingers through hair now more grey than blond and removed my glasses to rub the bridge of my nose. The space to which I had tethered myself for much of my life was cluttered with the detritus of a long career in journalism. Files were stacked on top of cabinets already stuffed to the gills with folders, and books were piled along the wall. A tired-looking corkboard was crowded with notes, reminders, and phone numbers. On one side of my desk
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stood a Victorian timepiece I'd inherited from my father. Conspicuously absent were pictures of a spouse and children, as my relationships with women had been intense, but fleeting. I had neither married nor had any offspring, none that I was aware of anyway. It was a sad testimonial to someone who had spent a good deal of his life avoiding commitment and more responsibility than was palatable for the long term. While my lifestyle was well-suited to my chosen career, at times I felt a profound sense of grief; especially during the holidays when my friends and colleagues disappeared to be with their families. I sometimes regretted that I had not found a way to manage marriage and a family with a profession that had seen more days on the road than home. Early in my career, much of my time was spent with a man who had been my oldest and dearest friend. He rode in the first bicycle race I covered professionally, and the memories were as vivid as if it had happened yesterday instead of nearly fifty years ago.
Madison Square Garden, December 1896 They were all angry: the officials with their bow ties and silver watches, the racers in their tight woolen togs, and the missile-throwing fans. While standing at the railing, I could hear the riders’ labored breathing above the ceaseless clatter of the boards as they lapped the tight track. The smell of sweet liniment and a faint spray of sweat emanated from the pack that flew past only feet away, the human odors mixing with the scents of hot Bratwurst and cold beer from the stands. The challenge to compete against the bitter, hostile and sometimes violent wheelmen was formidable but Marshall Walter Taylor thrived on adversity. When the Major lined up against the toughest competitors in American bicycle racing he faced odds that to many appeared insurmountable, an opinion shared by many of my fellow journalists. On the track he appeared poised and unperturbed, yet every insult and attempt to crush him fed a fury that simmered in his belly. His opponents used a tactical maneuver called a combine. Nearly all of the men who had qualified for the final heat of the series were riding not to win but to make sure that Major Taylor didn’t. The more gifted racers clustered protectively around the fastest qualifier while the slower men closed ranks on the Major, bumping his hips and bars. If they failed to trap him, one or more might try to hook his front wheel with a pedal; each attempting to rip the spokes and throw him head first over the handlebars to the track below. Track officials commonly turned a blind eye to these illegal tactics, and collusion ran rampant in the rank and file of the L.A.W., popularly known as the “Old Boys’ Club.” Eddie “The Cannon” Bald was the favored racer that night in the Garden. Just before the final lap, Bald launched himself from the bank of the track hot on the wheel of Tom Cooper,
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who led him into a forty-mile-per-hour surge that immediately put them both in the front. Cooper’s job was to pace Bald as long as possible, then send him down the bank to the pole and finally to the finish line and victory. The bell signaled the final lap and the entire crowd rose as one, cheering wildly. Bald streaked away from the pack and the others slowed, catching the Major in their midst. Taylor’s expression remained cool and focused; then, suddenly, his smoldering anger erupted in an intense, unbridled blaze that unleashed his sharpest competitive instincts as he drew the measure of their ranks and attacked. He propelled himself from the crush of the pack with raw power, escaping from his moving trap like a bottle rocket. An elbow as sharp as a spear jabbed one man’s ribs and, with a front-to-rear wheel slap to the rider on his left flank, he was gone. Taylor streaked after the Cooper/Bald express with a perfectly-timed sling off the top of the corner banking. With no help whatsoever he rose out of the saddle and sprinted, his glittering nickel-plated bicycle dancing beneath his dusky form. The crowd went wild. Three feet from the finish line he drew even with his adversary. With a rapid pelvic thrust, he threw his bike forward and nosed Bald by inches. He pumped his right arm and reached for the heavens, savoring the sweet revenge of victory. My father’s old clock chimed the lateness of the hour. The presses would be rolling soon with the morning edition of the paper, and I headed home and directly to my upstairs office. Seated in a worn leather chair permanently indented with the shape of my backside, I poured a couple fingers of Scotch from the decanter on my desk. My thoughts wandered back to a time before Marshall was the “Major,” back to my childhood years in Indianapolis.
Endorsements - Requiem for a Wheelman Major Taylor lived his life with the idea of excellence, and that’s one of the things that Muhammad Ali stands for. Lonnie Ali, wife of Muhammad Ali Major Taylor has to be the greatest African-American sports hero nobody has heard of. Howard and Maurer tell a compelling story. Earvin “Magic” Johnson, former NBA star No one tells a champion’s story like another great champion. John Howard and his co-author Rene Maurer tell a powerful, compelling, yet bittersweet story. Requiem for a Wheelman is the untold dramatic saga of a legendary, pioneering black cycling sports icon who battled unrelenting racism in America to become an incredible hero on all fronts, against all odds, more than a century ago. John Howard has been King of the Mountain for five decades now. This is a fine and provocative work in which Howard and Maurer turn a big gear. It is an honor and privilege to be associated with this masterpiece. Bill Walton, former NBA star and cyclist
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This undertaking by John Howard and Rene Maurer, which is an extremely important work, captures the life and time of one of America’s most amazing and yet forgotten athletes. As our country and the world wrestles with all types of injustice and inequity, your book on “Major” Taylor provides insights to the life of a true American Hero, one who stood against negative forces as a shining example of perseverance and determination, one who overcame the odds to become a champion on and off the bike. Rashaan Bahati, President of the Bahati Foundation
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About the authors: John Howard, author of Pushing the Limits, Dirt!, The Cyclist’s Companion, Multi-‐Fitness, and Mastering Cycling, is a three-‐time Olympic cyclist, gold medalist in the 1971 Pan-‐American Games, and holds many national championships along with other cycling accolades. Inducted into the Bicycling Hall of Fame on the same day as Major Taylor, John met Taylor’s daughter Sydney at the induction ceremony and subsequently interviewed her for several days about her father, providing critical insights into her father’s personal and business relationships. John brings his expert first-‐hand knowledge of the excitement, color, and nuances of bicycle racing that gives the reader the feeling that he or she is standing at the rail on the track as the riders pass by. He understands the drive to compete and the determination needed to succeed and be the best. He has experienced the jubilation of victories and the crushing anguish of defeats.
Rene Maurer, co-‐author of Mastering Cycling, has been a cyclist for more than thirty years. A retired research chemist with a penchant for research and writing, she has conducted extensive literature and online research on Major Taylor’s life, his racing career, and the era and locales the story entails. Her science background gives her a sharp eye for detail and accuracy. She attended a writers’ workshop held by Hay House in San Diego and worked diligently through the editorial process with Human Kinetics before Mastering Cycling was published. Soon after meeting John Howard in 2001, Rene became involved with Requiem and since retiring in 2010 has had much more time to spend on the project. poignant, and sometimes tragic, appealing to anyone who enjoys a well-‐told tale about someone who overcomes extreme adversity to succeed.
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