Bike Month Spotlight: Major Taylor
In a world fueled by steam, soot, and the thunder of industrial progress, one young man dared to race against more than just time. His name was Marshall “Major” Taylor, and his weapon wasn’t a sword or a rifle — it was a bicycle.
Born in 1878 in Indianapolis, at a time when America was still healing from the Civil War, Taylor was a Black boy in a white world. The roads ahead weren’t paved — not literally, and certainly not metaphorically. But from the moment he wrapped his fingers around a handlebar, something in him sparked.
He was unbelievably fast — so fast that shopkeepers paid him to perform stunts in a soldier’s uniform just to draw a crowd. That’s where the nickname “Major” stuck — and it would follow him into legend.
But Taylor wasn’t riding for applause. He was racing for something much bigger: respect, dignity, and a place in a world that tried to shut doors in his face at every turn. By his teens, he was outpacing grown men. By his twenties, he was a world champion — the fastest man on two wheels. And by doing so, he became a storm — the Black Cyclone — that the sporting world couldn’t ignore.
The tracks were battlegrounds. Competitors elbowed him, threw him off his bike, even tried to strangle him mid-race. But Taylor rode on — not with vengeance, but with honor. He refused to play dirty. He refused to quit. He raced with the quiet fury of a man who knew he was making history — and with every mile, he did just that.
In 1899, he shattered barriers as the first Black American to become a world champion in cycling — a title he earned with fire in his legs and steel in his soul. The crowds may have cheered, but the battle was far from over. Racism shadowed him in every hotel lobby, every racetrack, every headline. But Taylor didn’t flinch. He rode in Europe, where he was celebrated like royalty. He conquered Australia, where his speed left fans breathless. Wherever there was a track, Taylor made it his kingdom.
But heroes often pay a price for greatness. The struggle took its toll. He retired, bruised in body and spirit, and faded from the spotlight. When he died in 1932, he was buried in a pauper’s grave, his name nearly forgotten.
Yet legends don’t die — they just wait for the world to catch up.
Today, Marshall “Major” Taylor rides again in murals, museums, and in the hearts of those who dare to defy the odds. He wasn’t just a cyclist. He was a comet streaking across the sky of injustice, blazing a trail for others to follow. The wheels he turned didn’t just spin — they roared with purpose.
And long after the dust has settled, his legacy keeps rolling.
