Curtiss finally—and eagerly—makes their acquaintance.
It makes sense that Thomas Baldwin would first bring together Curtiss and the Wrights. We think of the dawn of aviation as belonging to the enshrined airplane pioneers but, in the early years of the twentieth century, it was Baldwin and a handful of others who owned the skies. The vexing work of getting airborne, after all, wasmostly shunned by the establishment. Travel in the air—such as it was with a colorful array of balloons, dirigibles, and boldly envisioned (and mostly impractical) heavier-than-air flying machines—was left largely to an extraordinary collection of outsiders, including cranks, charlatans, wealthy eccentrics, and showmen like Baldwin.
A balloonist and former tightrope walker in a traveling circus, “Captain” Baldwin—the title was a show-business honorific he gave himself—was already world-renowned when he burst into Curtiss’s life in 1904. The avuncular Baldwin, brimming with worldly experience, would become an important influence on Curtiss, and would draw him into the world of aviation.
Like many others interested in flight at the turn of the century, Baldwin was galvanized by Santos-Dumont’s flight around the Eiffel Tower. Aside from the impressive nature of the feat, Santos-Dumont, heir to a large, Brazilian coffee fortune, led an enticing life of glamour at the height of the Belle Époque in Paris, setting new trends in fashion and dining nightly at a regular table at the swank restaurant Maxim’s. When Santos-Dumont’s balloons and airships would get caught in the trees, friends such as the Rothschilds, would send up champagne lunches for him to enjoy during repairs. Louis Cartier even created the world’s first wristwatch for him in 1901 so that he could tell time while keeping both hands on the controls of his dirigible.
For his part, Baldwin became determined to move beyond hot-air balloons to build the world’s finest dirigible. His idea was to top Santos-Dumont’s feat with even more dramatic flights in the United States—ideally before huge crowds of paying spectators. Baldwin financed the scheme with funds from two wealthy backers in California. Based on his balloon work, he had already perfected a formula to make the varnished silk for the gasbag. All he lacked was an engine light and reliable enough to power the machine.
As Baldwin would tell the story later, Curtiss’s motor suddenly appeared before him like an auspicious omen. One day, in 1904, while Baldwin was building his dirigible on a ranch in California, a young man rode by on a new “Hercules” motorcycle—Curtiss’s brand name at the time. Baldwin was instantly struck by the idea that the compact motorcycle engine was exactly what he needed to propel his new airship. He chased down the rider to learn where it had come from and immediately wired an order for an identical, two-cylinder motorcycle engine to the G. H. Curtiss Manufacturing Company in Hammondsport, New York.
In 1904, Curtiss’s business was booming. He had only a handful of employees operating out of a cramped wooden factory building, but bicycles were selling briskly and the expansion into a line of motorcycles was nothing short of a sensation. Motorcycle orders were coming in so fast from around the country that customers faced a three-month backlog even with a stepped-up production schedule that included fifteen-hour days at the shop for many workers.
Around this time, Curtiss’s wife Lena joined him at work, attending to the burgeoning paperwork, doing the bookkeeping, and helping in any way she could. The shop didn’t have a typewriter but once or twice a week, Monroe Wheeler, a prominent local lawyer, let Curtiss or Lena come by to use his. A year earlier, the couple had lost their infant son to congenital heart failure. With Curtiss so busy at the shop, and with both of them deeply saddened by the loss, Lena’s help at work made sense all around. The two seemed
It makes sense that Thomas Baldwin would first bring together Curtiss and the Wrights. We think of the dawn of aviation as belonging to the enshrined airplane pioneers but, in the early years of the twentieth century, it was Baldwin and a handful of others who owned the skies. The vexing work of getting airborne, after all, wasmostly shunned by the establishment. Travel in the air—such as it was with a colorful array of balloons, dirigibles, and boldly envisioned (and mostly impractical) heavier-than-air flying machines—was left largely to an extraordinary collection of outsiders, including cranks, charlatans, wealthy eccentrics, and showmen like Baldwin.
A balloonist and former tightrope walker in a traveling circus, “Captain” Baldwin—the title was a show-business honorific he gave himself—was already world-renowned when he burst into Curtiss’s life in 1904. The avuncular Baldwin, brimming with worldly experience, would become an important influence on Curtiss, and would draw him into the world of aviation.
Like many others interested in flight at the turn of the century, Baldwin was galvanized by Santos-Dumont’s flight around the Eiffel Tower. Aside from the impressive nature of the feat, Santos-Dumont, heir to a large, Brazilian coffee fortune, led an enticing life of glamour at the height of the Belle Époque in Paris, setting new trends in fashion and dining nightly at a regular table at the swank restaurant Maxim’s. When Santos-Dumont’s balloons and airships would get caught in the trees, friends such as the Rothschilds, would send up champagne lunches for him to enjoy during repairs. Louis Cartier even created the world’s first wristwatch for him in 1901 so that he could tell time while keeping both hands on the controls of his dirigible.
For his part, Baldwin became determined to move beyond hot-air balloons to build the world’s finest dirigible. His idea was to top Santos-Dumont’s feat with even more dramatic flights in the United States—ideally before huge crowds of paying spectators. Baldwin financed the scheme with funds from two wealthy backers in California. Based on his balloon work, he had already perfected a formula to make the varnished silk for the gasbag. All he lacked was an engine light and reliable enough to power the machine.
As Baldwin would tell the story later, Curtiss’s motor suddenly appeared before him like an auspicious omen. One day, in 1904, while Baldwin was building his dirigible on a ranch in California, a young man rode by on a new “Hercules” motorcycle—Curtiss’s brand name at the time. Baldwin was instantly struck by the idea that the compact motorcycle engine was exactly what he needed to propel his new airship. He chased down the rider to learn where it had come from and immediately wired an order for an identical, two-cylinder motorcycle engine to the G. H. Curtiss Manufacturing Company in Hammondsport, New York.
In 1904, Curtiss’s business was booming. He had only a handful of employees operating out of a cramped wooden factory building, but bicycles were selling briskly and the expansion into a line of motorcycles was nothing short of a sensation. Motorcycle orders were coming in so fast from around the country that customers faced a three-month backlog even with a stepped-up production schedule that included fifteen-hour days at the shop for many workers.
Around this time, Curtiss’s wife Lena joined him at work, attending to the burgeoning paperwork, doing the bookkeeping, and helping in any way she could. The shop didn’t have a typewriter but once or twice a week, Monroe Wheeler, a prominent local lawyer, let Curtiss or Lena come by to use his. A year earlier, the couple had lost their infant son to congenital heart failure. With Curtiss so busy at the shop, and with both of them deeply saddened by the loss, Lena’s help at work made sense all around. The two seemed
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