In the late nineteenth century cycling swept over Europe. It was suddenly a huge craze. Everyone was doing it. And some were doing it more vigorously than most. The term “scorcher” was coined. It applied to individuals who rode their machines at a fast and furious pace. And there were large groups of these characters. The Tuesday Night Ride was born. It was then, as it is now, a “race without rules.” All Tuesday Night Rides are the same. Everywhere, and at all times. Even if they happen on Thursday.
Generally, cyclists don’t get along well with horses. Horses are prey animals. To them, a bike mimics a predator. It is large, silent, and comes in fast.
Upset horses and startled pedestrians resulted in chaos in the streets. Laws were enacted. Groups of cyclists were required to announce their presence. In the daytime the leader and the last rider were required to ring bells. At night the leader was to have a bright lantern affixed to his bike. The last rider in the group was required to have a red lantern attached to the back of the bike. These measures let the other road users, carriages, wagons, pedestrians, and such, know that a group of cyclists was coming, or was ahead.
Some years ago, I participated in organized, sanctioned, bicycle racing. I am a rather large individual, and I lived in a mountainous region. Races are won by climbers. “Big climber” is an oxymoron. I have never been an exceptional climber. Usually, I was struggling to stay with the very back of the pack. Frequently, I was dropped completely. I was accustomed to being the lanterne rouge in mountain races.
One such race took place near Roanoke, Virginia. I was unfamiliar with the area. The route was on backcountry roads, as is proper. It involved climbing. A lot of climbing.
I was, at that time, a Cat 4. The Cat 4 race started late in the day, a bit after 2:00 P.M. It was late in the season, a fall race. (All of this has bearing.)
We started, and immediately hit a vicious climb. I hung on desperately. Two more wicked hills later, I was off the back. Twenty minutes into the race, I could not even see another rider. I soldiered on. As Churchill says, “Never, never, never give up!” Besides, I needed to finish in order to get home.
For a while, it wasn’t too bad. I’d come to an intersection, and there would be a race marshal with a flag. Then I stopped seeing those guys. They had gone home. It was, after all, the last race of the day, and they hadn’t seen a racer in a while.
I came to a cross roads, way out in the middle of nowhere. I had no idea what to do, so I decided to turn, and stay on paved roads. (I would later learn that the organizers had deliberately run the race through an unpaved section.)
An hour later I knew I was lost. I wandered around out in the country. Every intersection looked the same. I worked at getting unlost by a simple expedient. At any intersection, I chose the road that looked more maintained, wider, more trafficked.
It was getting on toward dusk, and I was going through an area that looked kind of promising. At least there were houses, and they where starting to show up more frequently.
It was almost dark when a large car pulled up beside me. It was an older Cadillac, a bit shabby, but still running strong, and mostly shiny. The passenger window rolled down, and the driver, an older woman, called out, “You need help, honey?”
I replied that I was “kind of lost.” The lady asked me where I was trying to go. I explained my situation, and described the school where the race had started, where my truck was parked.
“Why sugar!” she said, “That’s over 50 miles from here, and it’s almost dark. Let me give you a ride!”
“We go right past my place,” the lady said once we were under way. (My bike had fit handily in the huge car’s trunk.) “I should stop there for a short bit, and you look like you could use something to eat. Would you like that? Actually, that sounded wonderful.
In short order, we pulled up at a large old house, located in a sort of run down neighborhood. The lady led me in through the back door, into a large kitchen.
“I have the house subdivided,” she said. “I take in borders, but my apartment is up those stairs. Please go up and help yourself to the shower. I will lay out a robe for you.” And there was just no refusing her.
The robe she had hung, just outside the bath door, was a large terrycloth thing. It covered me decently. I padded downstairs again, following fabulous smells, into the big kitchen.
She insisted that I eat with her, at the large kitchen table. And dinner was, excellent. Pure southern comfort food. While we were eating, my hostess got up to answer the phone several times. She apologized to me after about the fifth occurance, and said, some of my borders are having a party this evening. I’m afraid I am required to officiate. May I make a suggestion?” I nodded and she said, “I have a small spare room in the back. Why don’t you stay the night? I will drive you back to your car in the morning. You look like you are sleepy. Please be my guest.”
I was tired. So I accepted. And yes, it did sound like a party was developing in the front parts of the house. The lady led me back upstairs, and let me into a small plain bedroom, opposite the door to her apartment. “Sleep well, Shugar,” she said as she turned to go back downstairs.
I did sleep well. I could hear the sounds of a rollicking party in the distance, but I was more than tired enough to drop off, undisturbed by that.
The next morning, I woke, feeling well rested and hungry. I realized what had awakened me. There was a soft knock at the door. It was the lady again, asking if I would like some breakfast, or would I rather just be driven to my destination?
Breakfast was ready in the kitchen. We ate quickly, in near silence. Then she waited while I went back upstairs and changed back into my riding clothing. (It was all I had with me.)
As we pulled around the house, and toward the street, I noticed that the porch light was still on. It was quite visible in the murky light of almost-dawn.
My benefactress drove me to the school where I’d parked my truck. I unloaded my bike, and thanked her. I offered to pay her for her kindness, but she refused, seeming on the verge of being insulted. “Hon,” she said, “this is Christian kindness, not business!”
As we parted company, she gave me a business card, saying, “If you ever get back in town, do look me up.” Then she drove away. I was staring at that amazing card as she vanished. It explained a lot. The card said,
Millicent La Blanc
Escorts Refined Entertainment
Parties Welcome
It explained the red glow of the porch light, I’d seen, and the oddly subdivided house. As I loaded my bike up, I reflected that there was more than one meaning to a Lanterne Rouge.
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