In Remembrance of You Read online

  I came out West in 1902. I wanted to visit my older brother who lives in Southern California, but I really came out because of the Velodrome, where I could compete with other bicycle riders. Southern California has one of the best banked, oval, enclosed tracks for bicycle racing.

  Shortly after I got here, I wrote to my mother in snowy Mattapoisett, Massachusetts: “Remember me to all of the folks, and tell them that they are all foolish to live where it is so cold.” My brother and his wife even have oranges growing in their yard.

  I love to race bicycles, and I am considered a professional, but I needed a job to keep me going. I went to work for Hodge Brothers in Pasadena. They have a two-story brick building on the corner of Delancey and Union Streets. The lower floor is devoted to a machine shop, and the second floor is vacant. There is a ramp leading to the second floor, which is a garage, also known as an auto stable. It’s a place where motor cars can be repaired and stored. In all of Pasadena, there are only five machines, namely, a Curved Dash Oldsmobile; a DeDion Motorette, owned by my friend Lester L. Whitman; an electric; a one-cylinder Packard; and the two-cylinder Panhard.

  I think of myself as a mechanician, or motor car mechanic. At Hodge Brothers, I was responsible for the gasoline rigs. Business began picking up as the family machines owned by Eastern millionaires were shipped westward by rail. Most of the owners hired professional chauffeurs with mechanical experience to drive their cantankerous vehicles. Motorists never attempted to drive out of town more than a few miles, since the road is unpaved.

  When steamers and electrics, the other two types of motor cars, began to dominate our garage, I decided to withdraw from that partnership and go to work for Reuben and Leon T. Shettler in Los Angeles. I’m more interested in working on gasoline engine vehicles. They had just taken over the dealership for both the Curved Dash Oldsmobile (CDO) and the Winton. They have a small garage on Sixth St., near Broadway. The Detroit factory shipped the little CDO Runabouts partially assembled. An Eastern representative came out by train at R. E. Olds’ behest to show us how to put them together and make them run.

  It isn’t easy to sell a horseless carriage in this year of nineteen ought three. The horse and buggy has been around too long, and their owners aren’t quite ready to give up their “oat burners” for a gasoline-engine-powered rig of sometimes-doubtful horsepower. It is a big job to keep the machines running, and as business picked up, Shettler allowed me to bring in my Pasadena friend, Lester L. Whitman, to help us in the repair shop.

  It was while Whitman—actually, I referred to him as “Whit,” and he referred to me as “Ham”—and I were commuting home to Pasadena one night, on a red Pacific Electric trolley car, that our conversation led to the possibility of crossing the continent by motor car. Since no one had ever done it—though several had tried—the challenge of such an adventure became more exciting to us as we weighed the many hazards.

  Whitman told me, “If I were to attempt a transcontinental run, I feel that the little eight-hundred-pound Curved Dash Olds Runabout could do it.” So he wrote the company. His letter was relayed to Ransom E. Olds, who, with the advice of his advertising people, made the following offer. They were to send a factory-owned motor car worth $650 to Los Angeles in a routine shipment to Shettler. Whitman must pay all his own road expenses and that of his mechanic out of his own pocket. Olds would furnish replacement parts as needed once the journey was underway. If Whit could get the CDO to New York City under its own power successfully, the company would pay him one thousand dollars in cash and return all expenses incurred on the run. If he failed for any reason to complete the trip, he would receive nothing!

  Then Whitman contacted the newspapers. “Here is a sporting proposition to gamble on being the first person to drive a light Runabout from coast to coast. I need look no further for a co-driver and mechanic than my fellow autoist and cheerful companion, Eugene I. Hammond. At twenty-three years of age, one hundred eighty pounds, and six feet tall in his stockinged feet, he can lift any wheel of the Olds with one hand and is experienced with gasoline rigs.”

  Whit continued, “Ham says he is eager to go back to Massachusetts to visit his family, have a long ride, and have some fun. He can bring any automobile back to life from the dead! He is always ready to go, and he never strips a gear, burns out a bearing, misses a shot, or flies off the handle. I have agreed to pay all of his traveling expenses. Should we have to abandon the trip somewhere along the way, I will give him railroad fare for the rest of his trip. Otherwise, I have told him he will receive nothing. That is fine with him, since we are both gambling on the success of the trip.”

  Whit and I received our machine on June 27, 1903, at Shettler’s Oldsmobile Motor Works garage in Los Angeles, where it arrived by rail in a carload consignment. We recognized our little Olds because the factory had installed a good-sized luggage box on the rear of the body, back of the seat. This was the only place we would have to store extra parts and personal items. It would have to be removed each time gas, water, or oil was needed. On the sides of this box was lettered “OLDSMOBILE—Enroute From SAN FRANCISCO To NEW YORK.”

  We named our Runabout “Olds’ Scout” in recognition of R. E. Olds, its designer.

  Since I was going on this trip as the mechanic, I wanted to take a good look at the rig. I climbed onto the left-hand side of the black leather seat, and it rocked strangely. Perhaps it was not seated straight. I lifted the cushion to adjust it, and to my surprise, found an envelope addressed to “Gene Hammond.” I couldn’t imagine why anyone would write a letter to me and deliver it that way.

  I eagerly opened it and read.

  Dear Grampa Hammond,

  If you are reading this, my experiment of breaking through the time barrier worked.

  Maybe instead of trying to explain how this happened, I should tell you why, instead.

  This letter is meant to be one of honoring and appreciation from a voice of your future. You and Whitman complete the transcontinental trip, and in 1985, three men will recreate your historic trip in 1902, 1903, and 1904 cars. In remembrance of you, your son and his daughter, your granddaughter—that’s me—will go along on the trip.

  I felt so close to you during my trip. There were moments when the time barrier ceased to exist, and I could see what you were going to see.

  In fact, when I dressed in my turn of the century clothing and sat in the 1902 car, I could see the country you are to experience a year before you do.

  I made a couple of notes for you and Whitman. You can use them as you like.

  I just want you to know how proud I am of you.

  Love,

  Your Granddaughter

  After I read the letter, I set aside the notes that were included. Was someone playing a joke on me? At twenty-three, I wasn’t married, and I didn’t have any children—let alone any grandchildren. I wasn’t going to tell Whit about this, or he would think I was crazy!

  I planned to read over the notes later and have a good laugh.

  We wanted to spare the little Olds the 500 miles from Pasadena north to San Francisco, our planned starting point, so we hoisted the rig aboard the lumber schooner Coronado, bound for San Francisco.

  I had some spare time on the boat trip. We were seasick and confined to our room for two days, so I got out the crazy letter and read over the notes.

  Take along some safety pins for emergencies.

  Be sure to get a good look at the Cliff House in San Francisco because it will be damaged in the earthquake of 1906 and have to be rebuilt.

  As you cross the Bay from the Ferry Building to Oakland, imagine a bridge that will go from San Francisco to Oakland.

  The notes went on and on. Someone has a great imagination. But safety pins are a good idea and don’t take up a lot of room, so I’ll take some along.

  Safety pins were about all the extras we had room for. We wore our complete wardrobe on our backs: khaki trousers, leather coats, chauffer caps, and canvas leggings. We would buy shirts, soc
ks, and underwear along the way. This left room in the luggage box for one spare tire, a tire pump, a bag of tools, and some small repair parts, including a steering spindle, gaskets, nuts and bolts, extra spark coil and plugs, and a small grip. The latter was to hold film rolls, writing materials, our crude maps, and anything else we might need along the way.

  Also included was an empty five-gallon gasoline can, which could be filled when needed enroute, plus a one-gallon can of cylinder oil, a small can of grease, a hatchet, a compass, a pistol, dry batteries, a towrope, a pair of wool blankets, goggles, and a first aid kit. We knew gasoline would be hard to find. Even in Pasadena, we could only find it in large quantity at an auto garage. On our trip, we expected to find it at drugstores, and at mining camps where they used it in their cookstoves and lanterns.

  Whit had already purchased an 1897 Model No. 4 Eastman “Kodet” Cartridge Kodak, one of the first cameras to use 4 x 5-inch 6-exposure roll film. It came with a good German lens, F4 to F12.8, mounted at the front on bellows that could open out 5 ½ inches. When folded, the camera measured 3 ½ x 7 x 8 ¼ inches. It could be mounted on his wooden tripod either vertically or horizontally, with a finder for each position. Using strong thread, he hooked one end to the lens trigger, ran it down one leg of the tripod and through two eyelets. It was long enough to reach either Whit or me so that we could snap our own photos with both of us and the machine in the same picture. We hoped the thread would not appear in our photos or that the position of our hands would not reveal the identity of the photographer. We tried out the camera with the string attachment, and gosh, it worked!

  We finally docked in San Francisco.

  On Sunday, July 5th, we cranked up the Olds, and then we ran it out to the Cliff House. We put the back wheels in the Pacific Ocean. We didn’t want anyone to say we didn’t go from coast to coast! By the way, talking about wheels, we changed the original wooden ones to more flexible wire spoke wheels for the trip.

  The letter from the future was on my mind when we took our own photo in front of the Cliff House, using the string technique. I couldn’t believe that the person who wrote the letter knew what she (or he) was talking about. That’s too big of a building to be damaged by an earthquake!

  No story of our trip could be complete without the help of Whit’s diary. He is accurate on times and places. Besides, it will help me remember our day-to-day experiences.

  We’re off!

  California—Back Wheels in the Pacific

  Monday July 6

  Whit’s diary

  We left San Francisco today 3 p.m.

  Received our letter from Mayor Schmitz at 11 a.m. in front of City Hall.

  We shipped by express box, repairs and set batteries with one extra tire to Reno,

  Nevada and a box of batteries and oils to Winnamucca {sic. (Winnemucca)},

  Nevada.

  We put on set of new tires furnished by the Diamond people. Took one with us and left two at the Pioneer Auto Company to wire after, if wanted.

  We got our papers stamped at P.O. with letter date stamp and also at Oakland.

  We had cyclometer set 312 Cliff House, tonight 345 at Benicia.

  Whit and I drove up to the steps of San Francisco’s City Hall, where Mayor Schmitz handed us a letter for Mayor Low of New York City. It could be the first letter to be delivered by auto coast-to-coast. We had the letter hand-stamped at the post office.

  After going to the San Francisco Post Office, we motored down to the Ferry Building, and put the Olds on the ferry to Oakland. The toll was seventy-five cents.

  On the ferry, I thought some more about the crazy letter from my “granddaughter”. Gosh, I couldn’t imagine building a bridge from San Francisco to Oakland. For one thing, there’s an island that gets in the way!

  From the Oakland Pier, we headed eastward through San Pablo and Pinole with a tank full of gasoline. We were excited to be on our way.

  After traveling 25 miles, we took a ferry across the bay from Port Costa to Vallejo Junction and stopped alongside an enormous steam locomotive. In less than a week, that train would be in New York City. Where would we be in that same amount of time?

  We drove in to Benecia for the night, two hours and thirty minutes after leaving San Francisco.

  Tuesday July 7

  Whit’s diary

  Left Benicia 8:30, ran to Dixon to dinner, then to Sacramento via Woodland as the direct road was impassable on account of water. This made us 50 miles travel instead of 25 in the afternoon.

  Roads were level and fine—miles and miles across the Sacramento Valley.

  We ran out to the Sacramento River, some 15 miles above the city, and then doubled back along the bank arriving at Sacramento 6:40 crossing on bridge.

  Put up at Auto Stable on 10th Street.

  Cyclometer reads tonight 441. (95 miles today—time 8:30 hours).

  Passed through Cordellia, Fairfield, Dixon, Davisville, Woodland and several in between.

  The highlight of today, after having a midday meal in Dixon, was the valley of Sacramento. We passed wheat and barley fields, apricot orchards, and grape vineyards. Fifty or more pig-tailed Chinese were busy picking apricots. They didn’t speak English, but I managed to get them to understand “thank you” for the fruit they gave us.

  Gosh, the weather was hot, and the second day out we got sunburned.

  Wondering what was ahead for us tomorrow, I took out the letter and scanned the notes to see what “gems of wisdom” there were about Placerville.

  Note from Granddaughter’s letter:

  They burn wood in their cookstoves in Placerville and probably won’t have any gasoline for the car. Be sure to take extra.

  Wednesday July 8

  Whit’s diary

  Ran Sacramento to Placerville, 50 miles via Folsom State Prison—the last 30 miles climbing hard round mountain roads. All worked well.

  We took one creek crossing 20 deep. Then machine got water on spark or in vaporizer and stopped—water over axles.

  Time 6 hours.

  We found one quart of water in tank of gas on machine. This caused some spitting during day and made us investigate. Put on new connection pipe tank to vaporizer.

  Placerville—mining town of 2,500 inhabitants.

  We took time in Sacramento to take a photo of the machine in front of the California State Capital. What a stately building! I was impressed. I’m getting to like California more all the time.

  We headed out east from the capital city on a good, well-oiled dirt road, toward Placerville. We learned the other trail, to Truckee, was very rough with steep grades.

  I got a kick out of visiting Folsom State Prison. I made sure to have the rig pointed out away from the gate so folks wouldn’t think we were being run in!

  On the last 30 miles, over rough roads, on our way up the lofty Sierras to Placerville, we had to ford a deep creek. We stopped dead in midstream, with water above the axles. For the next few miles our engine missed and skipped. We later found that water in the gas tank had caused the engine to miss.

  Placerville, once called Hangtown, is now a sleepy little village—that is, until we got there. We came into town with a misfiring engine, scaring horses and townsfolk alike. People surrounded us in a swarm, pinched the tires, and asked us everything they could think of about our machine. “Are those solid rubber tires? How fast will it go? Can you make it run backwards? Is it a steam engine? How do you stop it?”

  Most of the townspeople had never seen an automobile, but there were a few who had seen a whale of a machine that tore up the mountain like a house afire. It was Tom Fetch in his Packard, “Old Pacific,” headed for New York. He won’t get far driving like that! We read in the newspaper that a Dr. Jackson, in a big Winton, was also trying his luck at crossing the country. This is no damn race! We’re all just trying to show we can get across in a motor car.

  Thursday July 9

  Whit’s diary

  We could not get gasoline in Placerville this morni
ng. So had to make a run up to River Hill Mine where the superintendent let us have 5 gallons.

  Then left Placerville at 11 a.m. after putting cut-off to muffler so we could pull a string and stop the noise in passing teams where on these mountain roads is very dangerous. Hundreds of feet drop right from wheel tracks.

  We ran the machine on embankments where it was almost straight down hundreds and hundreds of feet to the American River like a thread of silver in the canyons below.

  Big pine forests and towering mountains all around. Road winds round and round for 15 miles above Placerville.