“The Santa Cruz Wheelmen and Wheelwomen did meet on the 15th of September 2024, and it was purported that they had an excellent time.”
-mjustin.net
Standing in my kitchen one Sunday last month, I watched a phantom glide into my backyard. He wore high-waisted tweed trousers, a wool vest over his button-down shirt, and an absurd moustache across his ghastly countenance. A moment later, there was another. This time a lady. She hovered past my window like she didn’t touch the ground, her white dress waving behind her.
Although they were clearly restless apparitions from the 19th century, they were quite welcome—and expected. It was the morning of a club ride of the Santa Cruz Wheelmen (and Wheelwomen), a local bicycle organization which was active in the 1880s. Since nobody remembers when the previous club ride was, and since anybody who would remember is now long-dead, my friends and I took it upon ourselves to organize this one.
The ghosts rolled into my backyard one-by-one, and we bantered over coffee, hard-boiled eggs, and flapjacks while inspecting each other’s vintage bicycles. The itinerary was to ride to a friend’s studio to have the club’s portrait taken and then to haunt Wilder Ranch State Park with an extravagant picnic, causing a mild spectacle along the way.
Our portrait was taken by Tasha and Sean of Midnight Oil Collective on their period-correct 5x7 tintype camera. The experience sent us back in time. Each exposure costs more than shooting three full rolls of 35mm film, and an exposure lasts 4 seconds. Fortunately, any anxiety from these facts is completely appropriate and contributes to the iconic stone-faced gaze common in old tintype photographs. Sneeze, and you’ll ruin it for all of us! Ready? Click. One. Two. Three. Four. Click.
The plate was developed on-the-spot, and we huddled around to watch the final step which transforms a dull negative into the final image. “Oh my God!” someone shrieked as we watched our forms appear under a shallow bath of some toxic chemical. The result appeared more ancient than any of us expected. Even today, when you can capture your own likeness with less effort than blowing your nose, the experience was striking. I can only imagine how it would have been one hundred twenty years ago to watch my immortal likeness materialize from nothing like this. We took two more tintypes, one “ladies” and one “gents”, and loitered in the shade until we had built up an appetite.
In the pursuit of food, wine, and happiness, we began the most dangerous activity of the day, descending the hill from the Midnight Oil Collective studio toward Wilder Ranch. The reason for the danger was our bicycles, and our bicycles were, in fact, the reason for the whole event. In the spring of 2023, Brendan Lehman and I started talking about my plans to build up a three-speed fixed-gear bicycle in the style of the early 20th century, and he offered to build the frame and fork out of 70+ year-old tubes and lugs. 
In the year that it took us to complete the project, he acquired an 1880s Columbia Roadster “ordinary” bicycle. We organized the ride to celebrate our two proud machines. “Ordinary” is what they called penny-farthings to distinguish them from normal bicycles in the days shortly after God invented the “normal bicycle”. A normal bicycle was called a “safety” back then. As for the danger, there’s a reason why brakeless fixed-gear bikes were originally called “safeties”. Watching Brendan on his “ordinary” made that reason apparent. Riding a penny-farthing is like sitting on someone’s shoulders. At high-speed, any small disturbance can topple the rider forwards with disastrous consequences. Pushing the pedals affects the steering in unexpected ways, and it has no brakes. Not to let the “ordinary” steal the show, two brakeless safety bicycles from the early 20th century also joined us in the descent. Fortunately, we defeated the hill with a bit of shameless walking and only one instance of “Out of the way! Can’t slow down!” being shouted.
We finally stopped in a complex of 19th century buildings at the bottom of Wilder Ranch State Park, about a mile from the edge of town. From a backpack stashed nearby in advance, Brendan revealed a spread of cheese, bread, crackers, canned fish, and pickles. He proclaimed that this was the first annual club ride of the Santa Cruz Wheelmen, that we collectively assumed control of the long-dead organization, and that there would soon be a discussion of administrative roles and membership dues. He pointed out that in 1890, membership cost the equivalent of $70 per year. After feasting, we proceed to confuse State Parks employees by holding an impromptu game of baseball in our period-correct clothing, using under-ripe apples for balls and a scavenged stick for a bat.
Although the picnic concluded the scheduled activities for the day, most of our group made it to a westside brewery, relishing the spectacle that we were. After more than one hundred years of inactivity, the Santa Cruz Wheelmen and Wheelwomen ride again!
