We looked at Alice Lee Moqué last week, especially at her writing and interest in health education. But this week, we want to look at her real love: Traveling. And, most importantly, her love of traveling by bicycle. A trip she took to England and the continent turned into an essay that was published in Outing Magazine in two parts, the in December 1896, the second in February of 1897 under the name “A Bohemian Couple Awheeling.”
It was generally a blow-by-blow account of their ride, all written in a lively style:
Two Englishmen, long ago, were called upon separately to name the prettiest bit of road in England. One said, “It is the road from Warwick to Kenilworth;” the other, “The road from Kenilworth to Warwick.” It is indeed a lovely ride, and one on which many charming bits of rural scenery are met with, besides being a well-traveled road on which the wheelman will meet many cyclists and see numerous swell English turnouts, if he cares for such things. Some one has well said “All rich people are alike – uniteresting.” We are such confirmed Bohemians that we prefer to see and study “the people;” and in consequence troubled ourselves not at all about the grand dames sitting up in rigid state in their carriages, who I have no doubt looked down upon the dusty wheelers as being “very common individuals” – but we were happy, nevertheless. And wouldn’t change with one of them.
It was not all easy going, however: On their (extremely long) way through the grounds of the Duke of Westminster’s estate Eaton Hall, they found themselves in very rough going.
To add to our tribulation we found, to our dismay, about two miles from the outer gate, that the road had been newly fixed, and was, in consequence, only a rough uncrushed mass of ragged and jagged stone. To go on was the lesser of two evils, however, for by no amount of fortitude could I stand the pain of walking in my thin-soled shoes. Could or tires stand it? was the question, which my wheel soon answered in the negative by getting punctured.
My husband decided at once that we needed a rest anyway; so down under one of the Duke’s grand old trees we sat, while he got out the repair kit and fixed what proved to be our first and last puncture. John is a born philosopher, and he smoothed all the rough places by his imperturable good humor, and, as in this instance, made light of what might have been thought a great hardship. When the cement was try we walked carefully on the grass to save our feet and our wheels, until at last the good road began again; and mounting, we were soon on our way to Beeston Castle.