Photo illustration by Lucy Quintanilla // Alamy (Holman); iStock (background)
Photo illustration by Lucy Quintanilla // Alamy (Holman); iStock (background)

The Blind Traveler: How James Holman Felt His Way Around the World to Become History's Most Prolific Explorer

Photo illustration by Lucy Quintanilla // Alamy (Holman); iStock (background)
Photo illustration by Lucy Quintanilla // Alamy (Holman); iStock (background)

Nobody aboard could see what had happened. It was midnight, and the HMS Saunders-Hill—a merchant vessel anchored along a sleepy bend of the River Thames—shuddered violently. Crewmen clambered from their beds and grasped at tilting walls. Cries filled the briny air. In the darkness, it was difficult to make sense of what had happened.

James Holman, one of the passengers who had rushed to the deck, expected to find the Saunders-Hill wrecked to splinters. Instead he felt the boat—the whole boat—lurch from its anchorage and drift into the middle of the Thames.

The anchor chain had snapped. An errant coal ship, Holman would learn, had collided with the Saunders-Hill, sending the schooner's rigging—the cat’s cradle of ropes, cables, and chains strung from the masts—bobbing in the current.

The good news was that the heaving ship remained afloat. Holman, a former sailor in the Royal Navy, clutched a railing and inched his way toward the helm to assist the captain.

The captain was not there.

Still robed in his white nightgown, Holman grabbed the wheel and started to steer the Saunders-Hill himself. In the distance, the captain—who was attending to an emergency elsewhere—barked directions to turn port and starboard. The boat steadied, the wake settled, and Holman navigated the damaged ship to a nearby harbor for repairs.

When the skipper of the Saunders-Hill returned to the helm, his jaw dropped. He had caught glimpses of Holman's white nightgown from across the deck and assumed the person guiding the boat was his wife.

Instead, he discovered a 36-year-old blind man.

 
 

“The Blind Traveler,” as James Holman was known, had recently finished writing his first book: The Narrative of a Journey, Undertaken in the Years 1819, 1820, & 1821, Through France, Italy, Savoy, Switzerland, Parts of Germany Bordering on the Rhine, Holland, and the Netherlands; Comprising INCIDENTS That occurred to the author, who has long suffered under a total deprivation of sight; With various points of Information collected on his Tour.

The windy title said it all: For nearly two years, Holman, a native of England, had journeyed across Europe alone and blind. His account became a bestseller and critical success. The British Critic praised Holman’s first book as “a specimen of how much might be done by an active and energetic spirit.”

English Royal Navy lieutenant and writer, James Holman.
Hulton Archive // Getty Images

"Energetic" is an understatement. Holman was a hurricane of audacity, goodwill, and charm. He meandered into each foreign country with no itinerary, no grasp of the language, and no prior relationships with anyone who lived there, and then proceeded to explore thoroughly. Many times he entered a village as a pitied stranger and left as an admired gentleman.

After gallivanting through Europe, Holman boarded the HMS Saunders-Hill in 1822 and aimed his sails for St. Petersburg, Russia—the first stop on his attempt to circle the globe. Holman had a loose idea of his circumnavigation route: spend winter in western Russia, traverse Siberia the following spring, pass through Mongolia, sneak into China, hop on a whaling ship set for Hawaii, and improvise onward.

The plan was ambitious, if not crazy. “In the early 1820s there was no such thing as an amateur, independent circumnavigator,” writes Holman’s biographer, Jason Roberts, in A Sense of the World. “There were people whose careers had carried them around the world—sailors, merchants, diplomats, missionaries, and a handful of naturalists—but no one had yet succeeded in doing so solely for the experience.” Travel was a practical matter, not something you did for fun.

It made even less sense to start in Russia. Foreigners of all stripes were regarded with suspicion there and risked deportation. With success uncertain, Holman concealed his trip's true purpose and fibbed to anybody who inquired about it. He was merely in Russia to visit a friend, he'd say. “I was always particularly cautious in divulging my real plans,” Holman wrote in Travels Through Russia.

The adventure didn’t start smoothly. The HMS Saunders-Hill nearly sunk in the Thames and was later briefly detained off the Russian coast by a band of inebriated customs officers who demanded brandy in exchange for a passport stamp. “I trust that these unpleasant traits of Russian character will be softened down on a more intimate acquaintance,” Holman wrote.

Saint Petersburg, Russia.
Saint Petersburg, Russia, the first stop on Holman's attempt to circle the globe.
iStock

Impressions improved in St. Petersburg, where ambassadors and diplomats invited him to dine on fish pies, reindeer tongue, and “a peculiar kind of pancake, named waffle, which is in the form of an oblong square, made in a mould.” He embarked for Moscow the next spring, enduring a seven-week carriage-ride along a rocky, unfinished road ringed by thickets of fir trees.

In the Russian capital, Holman threw himself into the city with his customary zeal.

James Holman was a blind man who loved to go sightseeing. He visited art museums, toured cathedrals, and hiked mountains. He was an acute observer. According to Roberts, he could discern the social status of a passerby just by listening to their footsteps. (The clip-clop of upper crust footwear had a distinctly patrician timbre.) As his friend William Jerden wrote in the book Men I Have Known, “He had eyes in his mouth, eyes in his nose, eyes in his ears, and eyes in his mind, never blinking, but ready on all occasions to perform his services with remarkable precision and efficiency."

Holman would physically touch practically anything to gain a better understanding of his surroundings. He’d glide his hands over brick walls, sculptures, and, on occasion, people. “This is what the contemporary travel writer may have to do,” Anatole Broyard wrote of Holman in The New York Times. “He may have to squeeze places, until they yield something, anything.”

But Holman’s habit of literally feeling his way through Russia sometimes landed him in trouble. The security guards watching the Kremlin’s Treasury Room—home to the czar’s thrones, jewels, and crowns—fumed when Holman plopped down onto Boris Godonov’s old throne. Days later, Holman shamelessly climbed into the Tsar Cannon, a legendary 17.5-foot-long wide-barreled mortar. “I much astonished the sergeant who accompanied us, by coolly taking off my coat, and creeping to the bottom of it,” he wrote.

Tsar Cannon.
The Tsar Cannon.
Saul Loeb/AFP // Getty Images

Holman’s antics in Moscow didn’t last long. Siberia loomed before him, and he needed every sunbeam to survive the 3500-mile journey. He hired a driver to steer a wagon, and stockpiled medicine, tea, sugar, six bottles of brandy, six bottles of French wine, some cups, bags of coinage, and one teapot.

This leg of the trip didn't start smoothly either. Soon after they left, Holman and his driver became lost and, in the heat of bickering about directions, realized they had no way to communicate. The road, potholed and planked with fallen trees, turned their springless cart into an instrument of torture. “No position within the carriage was tenable,” Holman complained, “and the shocks it gave my brain so excessive, that it felt every instant ready to burst out of its tenement.”

Thankfully, happier conditions lay ahead. In the city of Vladimer, the local citizenry chauffeured Holman to a cathedral to see a “fine painting of St. Vladimer.” In the province of Nizhny Novgorod, the Prince of Georgia invited him to a stately dinner and a guided tour of a local monastery, where the monks played a “very grave game of nine-pins.”

Bogorodsk
Holman (in the cart) passes through Bogorodsk, Russia.
British Public Library, Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

Burrowing deeper into Russia, greetings gave way to glares. In Kazan, a policeman tailed him. In Malmyzh, an official accosted him and insisted he stay for an “interview.” (Believing “it was impossible a blind person could be travelling in the way I appeared to travel,” officials suspected Holman of espionage.)

To be fair, it was easy to confuse Holman for a secret agent or a madman. Holman knew it. “When my intention first began to transpire at Moscow, every one made it his business to demonstrate the madness and absurdity of attempting so dangerous, uninteresting, and disagreeable a journey,” he wrote. “[T]he name of Siberia ... seemed connected in their minds only with sentiments of horror.”

For good reason. Siberia was an immense outdoor prison. Beginning in the 17th century, criminals, POWs, and political enemies were exiled to desolation and doomed to work (sometimes for the rest of their lives) in salt and silver mines. Holman passed these prisoners on his travels: chain gangs of men or women, handcuffed in pairs, solemnly marching a dusty road.

Even for a free man traveling by cart, the trip was miserable. After cresting the Ural Mountains, the team plodded through the boggy grasslands of the Baraba Steppe. The air was mosquito soup. “[T]he most noxious and disagreeable tract of country in Siberia,” Holman called it. It was there his driver got an eye infection, leaving the duo with only one functioning eye between them.

In September 1823, Holman arrived in the Siberian city of Irkutsk, where locals celebrated his arrival with dinners and dances. A friendship blossomed between Holman and the Governor General of Eastern Siberia, Aleksandr Stapnovich Lavinski, to whom Holman spilled his secret.

“I therefore presumed to communicate to him, what I had done to no other person before, an outline of the plan I had decided upon for my future proceedings, and which was no less than to complete the tour of the world,” he wrote.

Irkutsk City Center.
Holman met trouble in Irkutsk, Russia.
iStock

Weeks later, a Russian military courier came to Irkutsk. The Emperor had sent him. He had orders to see the so-called Blind Traveler with his own eyes.

 
 

James Holman was not born blind. Raised near an apothecary in Exeter, England, Holman enjoyed a healthy childhood and enlisted with the Royal Navy at age 12. (One of the first ships he sailed, the HMS Cambrian, was supposed to hunt privateers but accidentally exchanged more gunfire with a lighthouse than it did with hostile vessels.)

For seven years, Holman bounced between ports and lived on open seas with little complaint. That is, until age 19, when the third lieutenant felt an odd throbbing in his feet.

The pain was a classic sign of rheumatism, a woefully vague seafaring sickness that Holman chose to ignore—until the agony intensified. His ankles ballooned to a size that made it impossible to slip boots on, and the ship’s doctor, at a loss for real remedies, likely prescribed the teenage sailor little more than wine and rest.

Holman’s health swung on a pendulum. He got better. Then worse. Better. Worse. On rough seas, the pitching ship was enough to make his bones scream. In Nova Scotia, a doctor who believed that blisters could alleviate the young man's symptoms likely treated him by exposing his skin to the glowing tip of a hot metal poker.

It didn't work. Desperate for a solution, Holman visited the hot springs and spas of Bath, a fashionable resort for convalescents, and dipped himself into steamy waters. Day by day, his joint pain subsided.

Bath, England.
Bath, England.
iStock

The cause of what happened next remains a mystery. As the pain left Holman's joints, it surged inside his eyeballs. Holman’s sight clouded. Then it vanished.

Panicked, the 25-year-old consulted doctors and quacks alike. Dozens of people held out the promise that he might regain his sight, but no solution turned up, and months of false guarantees and misplaced hope made Holman miserable. “The suspense which I suffered, during the period when my medical friends were uncertain of the issue, appeared to me a greater misery than the final knowledge of the calamity itself,” he wrote.

For the rest of Holman's life, the pangs in his bones came and went. But his sight never returned. And seven years after going blind, when Holman's joints wailed again, a doctor suggested a warmer climate might do his body good. Why not visit the Mediterranean? With little to lose, Holman gave the doctor's idea a try. On his 32nd birthday, October 15, 1819, he boarded a ship at Dover, England and sailed for France.

The trip would forever change him.

 
 

Holman's first adventure began with abandonment. After spending four drizzly days sardined in a carriage—time he spent nursing a bottle of wine and munching on cow tongue—the coach halted in Bordeaux, France. As the other passengers scurried into the downpour, nobody helped Holman out. “What could I do?” he wrote. “Had I jumped out, I should not have known what step to have taken next.”

So Holman sat in the carriage alone, waited, and listened.

Raindrops. The tumble of a nearby river. Mud-sogged footsteps. Distant conversation grew into a babble of “loud and unintelligible gibberish.” Suddenly, Holman felt a strange sensation as the carriage lulled to and fro in an “irregular kind of motion.”

Holman didn't know that his fellow passengers had boarded a ferry and left him alone in the carriage, which had been thrust onto a raft. He was being towed down the Dordogne River with their luggage. “They had, in fact, been using him for ballast,” Roberts writes.

Conditions improved once Holman asserted himself as something other than a human sandbag. In Montpellier, a noblewoman welcomed him into her mansion. In Marseilles, he skinny-dipped in the ocean. In Nice, he harvested grapes on a vineyard estate. Holman’s spirits brightened. On beautiful days, he'd jump out of the carriage he was riding in and tie a leash to it so he could walk down the road without wandering into a ditch. At first, other passengers thought he was a loon. But soon fellow travelers flocked around him as though he were a blind Pied Piper.

It wasn't the warmer climate that improved his attitude. It was the novelty of life on the road. "He was compelled to keep traveling because that was the only thing that distracted him from his pain," Jason Roberts tells Mental Floss. "He was undergoing extreme pain and transmuting that pain into experience." With no concrete destination in mind, he roamed farther.

Holman was an adept navigator. Instead of surveying sidewalks with a long sweep of a cane, he carried a metal-tipped walking stick that he repeatedly tapped on the ground. Like a dolphin, he maneuvered via echolocation and listened to the thuds and clinks of his walking stick ricochet off his surroundings.

In Rome, he climbed Trajan’s Pillar, Palatine Hill, the Tarpeian Rock, and Monte Testaccio in one day. The guide he hired failed to keep up. Holman even tried to scale the top of St. Peter’s Basilica. (Guards denied him the ascent—not because of his blindness, it should be noted, but because of his Britishness: The last time a Briton had climbed to the Holy See's summit, the Union Jack was unfurled and set aflutter.)

On one cloudless night, Holman climbed Mount Vesuvius and stood at the edge of the lower caldera, feeling the magma rumble under his boots. When somebody asked if he needed help, Holman declined by saying he could “see things better with my feet.”

A cloud of ash hangs over Vesuvius.
Two years after James Holman climbed Mount Vesuvius, it erupted.
Keystone // Getty Images

The gadabout moved onward. In fact, in Naples, Holman bumped into an old friend who, to his surprise, had also suffered a sensory loss. (His unnamed buddy had gone deaf.) After catching up, the two men decided to wander Europe together and progressed 115 miles to Rome walking arm in arm.

“[I]t may be regarded as a curious incident in our traveling connexion,—that I should want sight, and he hearing,” Holman wrote. “[T]he circumstance is somewhat droll, and afforded considerable amusement to those whom we travelled with, so that we were not unfrequently exposed to a jest on the subject, which we generally participated in, and sometimes contributed to improve.”

It was like a 19th century buddy-cop adventure movie. Holman used his ears and voice to negotiate with innkeepers and carriage drivers, while his friend used his eyes to read receipts and contracts and describe the passing scenery (mountains, architecture, and women). By the time the two departed modern Italy, Holman had traveled so much that he needed a new passport, “the old one having been filled up at every point with signs and countersigns,” he said.

He continued to Switzerland, Germany, and the Netherlands before returning alone to Britain in 1821.

James Holman, who had left England an invalid, returned home an explorer.

 
 

Three years later, Holman’s first attempt to circle the globe was frozen in southeastern Siberia by a Feldjäger. Members of the czar’s official corps of couriers, Feldjägers were tasked with transporting messages—and, in some cases, suspicious individuals—in and out of the Motherland. They had menacing reputations. On his travels through Russia, writer Marquis de Custine said that a Feldjäger's smile was “ferocious by its very immobility.”

Feldjäger Kolovin found Holman in Irkutsk and delivered his message: You’re coming with me.

Holman in the Snow.
The deeper James Holman went into Siberia, the more he was hassled.
British Library, Wikimedia Commons

Holman was despondent, writing that “The intelligence I had received acted almost as an electric shock upon me." He begged the Governor-General to allow him to stay—the Mongolian border was within reach—but the request was denied.

“I did not conceive that they could suspect me of any motives or conduct obnoxious to their feelings,” Holman wrote with bafflement. “[Y]et it appeared singular, that I should be regarded of sufficient importance to have a lieutenant of the corps of feld-jagers sent a distance of four thousands miles to attend my movements and watch over me.”

On January 18, 1824, Holman reluctantly boarded a sled with Feldjäger Kolovin and glided west over the frozen Angara River toward Moscow. Dreams of China faded behind him as the four horses tugging the sled galloped at dangerous speeds. When one horse collapsed 50 miles into their journey, the Feldjäger left it to die on the roadside. Holman asked who would pay for the wheezing animal. The Feldjäger's response: You do.

The trip was an odyssey of near-death experiences. One day, the sled nearly careened off a cliff and, a few hours later, almost pulverized a peasant’s cart. The Feldjäger caned his driver with the steel sheath of his sword for the accidents. Yet he insisted they keep a breakneck pace. Put simply, everybody got acquainted with the taste of Siberian snow. When the group arrived in Moscow, a Kalmyk slave who had accompanied the crew removed his boots only to discover that his right big toe had fallen off. His feet were so numb from the journey, he never noticed.

In Moscow, authorities held Holman prisoner. They locked him in a hotel and forbade him from writing to friends or speaking English with visitors. The master of police assigned a spy to sit in Holman’s room and monitor his movements. After Holman was cleared, the Feldjäger dumped him off at the Russian border.

The Blind Traveler clutched his walking stick and aimed westward. He would have to try again.

 
 

The reason for Holman's deportation is unclear. Russian officials were acting cagy or condescending: Either they refused to believe that a sightless man could travel such distances—was he a spy faking blindness?—or they believed Holman was a risk to his own well-being.

Whatever the reason, it all swings to the same stereotype: Disability was supposed to mean immobility.

Mark Twain expressed a similar sentiment in The Innocents Abroad. “If you want dwarfs—I mean just a few dwarfs for a curiosity—go to Genoa ...” he wrote. “But if you would see a fair average style of assorted cripples, go to Naples, or travel through the Roman States. But if you would see the very heart and home of cripples and human monsters, both, go straight to Constantinople.”

While Twain’s choice of words may chafe modern ears, they illustrate a pernicious trope that Holman constantly faced: People with disabilities were considered a “fixed site." A blind man simply wasn't supposed to be wandering around alone. (And as literary historian Eitan Bar-Yosef writes in the Victorian Review, it's an odd attitude considering the amount of traveling people with disabilities have made throughout history. Back during the Roman Empire, it wasn’t unusual to see convalescents flocking to the steamy waters of Bath, England. Beginning in the mid-1860s, many disabled Europeans took pilgrimages to Lourdes, France, to visit the healing grotto where the Virgin Mary was believed to have visited Saint Bernadette Soubirous.)

Pilgrims visiting the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes in Lourdes, France.
Pilgrims visiting the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes in Lourdes, France.
Thierry Llansades, Flickr // CC BY NC-ND 2.0

And when Holman's travel books began to fly off the shelves, that attitude supplied the venom that fueled his critics. In fact, some argued that because Holman was blind, his accomplishments were not accomplishments at all. Their reasoning: If a blind man could travel thousands of miles alone, then anybody could. Move along, they told readers, nothing to be impressed about here.

“Who will then say that Siberia is a wild, inhospitable, or impassible country, when even the blind can traverse it with safety?” wondered John D. Cochrane, a traveler who, with tints of jealousy, had also journeyed across Russia (and would soon disappear in the jungles of South America, never to emerge). Other critics questioned why Holman bothered to travel at all, as if the joys of rambling were reserved only for those with operating optic nerves.

Holman brushed it all off. He insisted that everybody was blind, in a way: “Does every traveller see all that he describes?” he wrote. “And is not every traveller obliged to depend upon others for a great proportion of the information he collects?”

Holman was not one to romanticize his blindness, but he did believe it gave him advantages—especially as an author. Unlike most travel writers, whose descriptions largely depended on their own flighty impressions, Holman had to compensate for his lack of vision by talking to locals and other vagabonds. Like an investigative reporter or an anthropologist, Holman steeped himself in a culture and collected a wide range of views and experiences, gathering information that lone travel writers might have missed.

Holman had little choice but to pay greater attention to his surroundings. Where a sighted person might quickly charge up a mountain trail, Holman had to advance cautiously, focusing on details that sighted people might not think twice about: ankle-busting roots, the sound of dirt crumbling beneath his shoes, the rasp of pebbles sliding down a nearby precipice. To navigate, Holman had to listen to the blanket of silence unique to the loneliest mountaintops, had to deliberately smell the perfume of alpine forests. These sensations came together to paint scenes in the mind's eye. Sherlock Holmes nailed it when he said, "The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes." Holman couldn't see, but he observed them.

"We use vision as a means of simplifying the world. We look at a wall and go, 'Oh, a brick wall!'" Jason Roberts, Holman's biographer, tells Mental Floss. "But if you're blind, and you're touching those bricks, every one of those bricks announces its individuality." In this way, haptic perception—that is, our sense of touch—can be far more complicated than visual information. "Imagine a room of chairs," Roberts says. "If you're a sighted person, somebody could move them around without you ever noticing. But a blind person? They notice. They notice the individual chair."

In other words, Holman may have been robbed of his sight, but he responded by becoming a noticing machine.

“The picturesque in nature, it is true, is shut out from me,” Holman said. “[B]ut perhaps this very circumstance affords a stronger zest to curiosity, which is thus impelled to a more close and searching examination of details than would be considered necessary to a traveller who might satisfy himself by the superficial view, and rest content with the first impressions conveyed through the eye. Deprived of that organ of information, I am compelled to adopt a more rigid and less suspicious course of inquiry, and to investigate analytically, by a train of patient examination, suggestions, and deductions, which other travellers dismiss at first sight.”

Not to be dismissed himself, Holman did not wait long to begin his second bid to circumnavigate the planet.

 
 

Wood boards creaked, crockery clanged, and chests skidded from wall to wall as the HMS Eden pitched over foamy seas. It was August 1827, and Holman’s newest floating home was barreling into a squall. Destination: Africa.

Once again, Holman told friends that the trip was for a health-boost. He knew the explanation was a stretch. “That a man should visit Sierra Leone for the benefit of his health, seems to be … unreasonable,” he wrote. Malaria and dysentery were frequent visitors on such trips. He understood that death was possible.

Indeed, when the ship made a brief pit stop in Africa, the crew was greeted by a man named Mr. Lewis. The transplanted Englishman warned the sailors of insect-borne diseases and boasted that he had discovered an “infallible method of keeping off the fever, namely by the use of brandy and water and cigars.”

Within a week, Mr. Lewis was dead.

After a three-month voyage, the HMS Eden dropped anchor in a bay of black mud. They had arrived at the island of Fernando Pó—today called Bioko—22 miles off the southern coast of Cameroon. Within minutes of dropping anchor, canoes circled the ship. Natives grasping barbed spears and slings eyed the Europeans suspiciously. Peaceful relations were established only after the crew cautiously bartered iron in exchange for yams, palm-wine, fish, and monkey skins.

An illustration of Fernando Po, now known as a Bioko.
An illustration of Fernando Po, now known as a Bioko.
The British Library, Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

Holman formed a special connection with indigenous peoples. At one point, while on land, he extended his hand to a native and was led deep into the bush. When he emerged, Holman had written the first dictionary translating some of their language to English. (Some selections: “Topy” for wine, “Epehaunah” for a purse made of sheep scrotum, and “Booyah” for mouth.)

The Eden, however, didn't drop anchor at Fernando Pó for linguistics research—the vessel was here to chase slave ships. The British Empire, which had abolished the Atlantic slave trade in 1808, regularly ordered Royal Navy ships to patrol the African coast. At the height of the mission, about one sixth of the Royal Navy's fleet was cruising west African waters.

Fernando Pó seemed an ideal place to establish camp. The volcanic island stood sentry to a large river that the ship's captain, Fitzwilliam Owen, knew was a favored route of slave traders. Holman harbored confusing feelings about slavery. On the one hand, he was an apologist who believed slavery had the potential to yield “some prospect of improvement in the moral and physical circumstances of the negro.” Yet, on the other hand, the way it was practiced disgusted him. “The sight of the poor Africans, taken from their homes by force, condemned to banishment, and exposed for sale, like herds of cattle, in the marketplace of a foreign country, is dismal and humiliating.”

Holman would join a slave-ship hunt on one mission, helping chase three slave schooners up Nigeria’s Calabar River. Later, the Eden would capture three slave ships and save more than 330 human beings.

A Royal Navy Ship catches a slave ship. Holman would join such an expedition on his second attempt around the world.
A Royal Navy Ship catches a slave ship. Holman would join such an expedition on his second attempt around the world.
Arthur H. Clark, Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

The Eden's position at Fernando Pó came with a cost, however. As expected, malaria sent scores of men to their sick beds—and death beds. Holman almost joined them. “Although so many persons were dying around me, I still maintained my cheerful spirits,” he said, “to which circumstance I attribute the restoration of my health, which was now daily improving.” By mission’s end, more than 90 percent of the crew would die. Holman was among 12 lucky survivors.

After his stint in Africa, a flurry of adventuring followed so full and varied it's difficult to distill (Holman's own account ran to several volumes), but here are some high points.

From Africa, Holman slunk onto a Dutch vessel and sailed the Atlantic to Rio de Janeiro. Pneumonia greeted him in the Americas, but again he refused to let illness stop adventure. When offered the chance to tour the gold mines of Gongo Soco in the Brazilian rainforest, Holman abandoned his bed in favor of a mule.

For weeks, a frail Holman straggled through a humid tropical fug while sitting atop a donkey (which he ministered to by pouring Cachaça—a rummy analgesic booze—down its ears and throat). He rarely dismounted. Or bathed. Larvae burrowed into his skin. His incompetent guides forgot to bring food, with the exception of a single chicken. Ever the optimist, Holman said the trip helped “quicken the stagnant blood and stimulate the nerves.”

Holman looped to Rio and backtracked to Africa—this time, South Africa. He filled his time at sea with routine: eating breakfast, drinking tea, listening to a volunteer read to him, wandering the ship, lassoing sailors into conversation, drinking tea, eating dinner, drinking tea (he was British), more reading. On fair nights he’d climb above deck, lie down, and sleep to the sound of ruffling sails.

In South Africa, Holman learned how to ride a galloping horse, which he guided by listening to the drumbeat of hooves. He plunged into the African forest, forded the Great Fish River, and met a Gaika chief who, in exchange for rum, offered visitors private time with his 12 wives. (Holman appears to have demurred.)

Later, back at sea, Holman crossed paths with a British diplomat named Dr. Robert Lyall who’d been accused of sorcery in Madagascar and was now on the run. Lyall advised Holman to avoid the country. Naturally, Holman couldn't resist doing something he was told not to do and visited Madagascar. He left unscathed.

Elephants eating greenery in Sri Lanka.
Holman joined a elephant hunting expedition in Sri Lanka, then called Ceylon.
iStock

From there, the adventurer island-hopped to Ceylon (modern Sri Lanka), where he joined an elephant hunt. Traditionally, hunters captured elephants by driving the animals up a hill and sending a quiver of arrows into their feet, moving in for the kill once the elephant lost balance. Holman’s crew was less sophisticated: They brought guns. (They even gave a firearm to Holman, who, despite taking part in target practice, wisely kept his finger off the trigger.) Holman described the “extremely dangerous” road as “infested” with elephants. At one point, he barely escaped a stampede.

From Ceylon, he sailed to India, past the islands of Pressurin and Junk-Ceylon, into Penang, and through the straits of Malacca where his vessel dodged pirates. In the China Sea, he skirted around islands with “uncouth names [that] would not be very agreeable to the ears of those who do not understand them.” His chest fluttered with excitement. Ever since his ouster from Russia, he had dreamed of the Far East. “My heart beat with tumultuous delight at the thought of having at length planted my foot upon the Chinese territory.”

The Chinese were not so delighted. They had strict rules regarding foreigners and confined Holman to a tiny riverbank community, a hong that housed Englishmen and other foreign “barbarians.” The local children mocked the English-speakers, hurling stones and verbal insults at the so-called “foreign devils.” Holman brushed off the hostilities by smoking opium (it gave him a headache) and going shopping. He bought a bamboo hat and had his mind blown by a … giant punch bowl. “I could not encircle it with my arms,” he wrote in amazement.

Back at sea, Holman needled the Straits of Banca, eluded Malay Pirates, and heard sailors holler "Land, Ho!" in Australia.

Sydney greeted him with fanfare. As the Sydney Morning Herald recounted: “On Sunday week Lieutenant Holman, the blind traveller, was seen on horseback with a party of gentlemen quite at ease, and riding as if possessed with every faculty; on coming to a corner of a street, the word was given to him, and he turned the animal in a sharp trot with the utmost confidence, to the no small astonishment of the spectators.”

In Australia, Holman joined a Lewis-and-Clark-like expedition to find passage to a promising but uncharted spit of land on the continent’s southeastern lip. The adventure was “much more romantic and perilous than we had any idea of when we started on our expedition,” he recalled. The crew—which included Holman, a convict, two aboriginal guides, and two free Australians—crept over crags, past the yips of wild dogs, and through swamps and marshes. When their rations ran low, they ate squirrel and opossum. At one point, their horses went missing.

Jervis Bay, Australia.
Jervis Bay, Australia.
iStock

Holman loved every minute.

After Australia, he spirited across the Pacific, around Cape Horn, and uneventfully voyaged homeward. In 1832, Holman, now 45, landed in Britain. He had traveled the world.

The account of his circumnavigation could not, and did not, fit into one book. It took four. Combined, the volumes of A Voyage Round the World, Including Travels in Africa, Asia, Australasia, America, etc., etc., from MDCCCXXVII to MDCCCXXXII are nearly 2000 pages long. Not only the record of an extraordinary journey, the books read like Protozoan forms of modern anthropology. “If I have thrown a single ray of light, where light had not fallen before, I shall be satisfied,” Holman wrote.

It would not be his last adventure. Holman would travel the globe once more, zigzagging for 10 years across Ireland, the Mediterranean Sea, Greek islands, the Holy Land, North Africa, Syrian cities, Slavic countries, and nearly every European city he had missed on his first tour. He went out of his way to visit new places, rarely retracing his steps.

History has bestowed the title of "World's Greatest Traveler" to many people: Marco Polo, Xuanzang, Ibn Battuta, James Cook, and Rabban Bar Sauma, to name a few. But Holman beat them all. By his death at 70 in 1857, the blind man had walked, climbed, ridden, hiked, and sailed a total distance equal to traveling to the moon. In terms of mileage and the number of cultures he encountered, Holman died as the most well-traveled explorer in world history.

A map of James Holman's travels.
Sarah Turbin

Yet despite enjoying fame across borders, Holman would be relegated to history's footnotes. The manuscript describing his final giant journey would go missing, and, by the 20th century, his name would be scrubbed from the canon of great explorers.

Nearly 150 years after Holman's death, the writer Jason Roberts visited his grave in London's mossy Highgate Cemetery. He discovered the site buried under a pile of wood. The cemetery staff were using the plot of the world's most prolific explorer as a storage area.

 
 

James Holman's legacy was revived in the Sausalito Public Library. In 2001, Roberts was roaming the library stacks when a book with a bold turquoise spine entitled Eccentric Travellers caught his attention. Inside he discovered a chapter on James Holman. Hungry to learn more, Roberts wandered to the biography section to read more about this sightless wanderer. But nothing was there. Turns out, Eccentric Travellers was the only detailed reference to Holman's life written during the 20th century.

A literary treasure hunt ensued. Roberts flew to London hoping to uncover clues about Holman's life. But with the exception of the Blind Traveler's published books, he mainly found dead ends. Archival evidence of Holman's time on earth was scant. Europe's libraries and archives, which have little choice but to constantly weed dead weight from their collections, had year by year discarded documents regarding Holman's life. At the archives of Windsor Castle, for example—where Holman resided as a member of the Naval Knights of Windsor, a group of military invalids—the archivist showed Roberts a half-empty cardboard box containing all that remained of the Naval Knights program. One hundred years of history fit comfortably into a single container.

Roberts realized the last vestiges of Holman's adventures all stood on the chopping block. "If I had waited even two more years, they would have been lost," he says.

With the help of research assistants, he slowly pieced together Holman's story. Serendipity was a frequent contributor. While searching newspaper archives, it dawned on his team to stop looking for "James Holman" and start searching for his sobriquet: "The Blind Traveler." At the British Library, Roberts mistakenly stepped into the wrong research terminal and by happenstance discovered Holman's legal documents. The search continued for five years.

But the more Roberts learned about Holman, the more compelled he felt to not give up. The echoes of September 11 motivated him as well. Roberts believed the attacks had prompted people to become uncharacteristically apprehensive, to close themselves off to different cultures and unfamiliar people. Perhaps Holman could be an antidote: Here was the story of a man who trusted strangers in a way unbridled by cynicism, suspicion, or fear. Holman was not naïve—he had experienced horrors—but nevertheless, wherever he traveled, he carried the belief that humans everywhere shared a common goodness. You just had to tap into it.

"The idea of somebody going to these foreign countries alone, not knowing a word of the language, having almost no money, and going to Africa and idly taking the hand of a native to be taken into the interior ... that was a model I felt like we needed emotionally as a nation," Roberts says. "Holman was an inspiration not just in the sense of overcoming obstacles, but in literally transmuting pain and embracing chaos. He's a reminder that we need to take not a leap of faith, but a very long walk of faith into new realms."

Holman was living proof that, sometimes, the greatest form of bravery is a faithful optimism in others.

James Holman
James Holman
Jason Roberts Collection

The ensuing book, A Sense of the World, would indeed reinvigorate interest in Holman's legacy. (Holman's resting place at Highgate Cemetery, for instance, is not only clear and clean, it's now a stop on tours.) But Roberts was most heartened to learn how the blind community has adopted Holman as part of their heritage: In June 2017, the LightHouse for the Blind and Visually Impaired, a non-profit based in San Francisco, awarded their first "James Holman Prize For Blind Ambition," a $25,000 prize to blind or partially sighted individuals with big dreams. This year's inaugural winners include a kayaker who will develop a guidance system enabling him to paddle solo across Turkey's Bosphorus Strait; a former political prisoner in Uganda who wants to train other blind people in the art of beekeeping; and, fittingly, a member of the British Royal Navy who will host her own traveling cooking show, an Anthony-Bourdain-meets-Julia-Child program designed to break cultural barriers and teach baking techniques to the visually impaired.

And the canon of sightless explorers is getting longer, too. Miles Hilton has run across the Gobi Desert, flown a plane from London to Sydney, and become a motivational speaker. The mountaineer Erik Weihenmayer has climbed the highest points on all seven continents, including Mount Everest. Caroline Casey, founder of Kanchi, a non-profit dedicated to challenging stereotypes regarding disabilities, rode an elephant by herself across 600 miles of India.

Holman would have approved. In 1835, after he successfully wrapped around the globe, he pondered his next move, writing, "I have traversed so many lands, and ploughed so many seas that ... I hardly know, were I once more to venture upon the waters, to what point of the compass I should direct my course."

That uncertainty was a running theme during James Holman's life: He rarely knew where he'd be heading next. And perhaps that was the point.

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Henry Guttmann, Getty Images
14 Facts About Mathew Brady
Henry Guttmann, Getty Images
Henry Guttmann, Getty Images

When you think of the Civil War, the images you think of are most likely the work of Mathew Brady and his associates. One of the most successful early photographers in American history, Brady was responsible for bringing images of the Civil War to a nation split in two—a project that would ultimately be his undoing. Here are some camera-ready facts about Mathew Brady.

1. HIS EARLY LIFE MIGHT BE AN INTENTIONAL MYSTERY.

Most details of Brady’s early life are unknown. He was born in either 1822 or 1823 to Andrew and Julia Brady, who were Irish. On pre-war census records and 1863 draft forms Brady stated that he was born in Ireland, but some historians speculate he changed his birthplace to Johnsburg, New York, after he became famous due to anti-Irish sentiment.

Brady had no children, and though he is believed to have married a woman named Julia Handy in 1851, there is no official record of the marriage.

2. HE TOOK PHOTOGRAPHY CLASSES FROM THE INVENTOR OF MORSE CODE.

When he was 16 or 17, Brady followed artist William Page to New York City after Page had given him some drawing lessons. But that potential career was derailed when he got work as a clerk in the A.T. Stewart department store [PDF] and began manufacturing leather (and sometimes paper) cases for local photographers, including Samuel F.B. Morse, the inventor of Morse Code.

Morse, who had learned the early photographic method of creating Daguerreotypes from Parisian inventor Louis Daguerre in 1839, brought the method back to the United States and opened a studio in 1840. Brady was one of his early students.

3. HE SET UP SHOP IN NEW YORK AND BECAME THE GO-TO PHOTOGRAPHER.

Brady eventually took what he learned from Morse and opened a daguerreotype portrait studio at the corner of Broadway and Fulton Street in New York in 1844, earning the nickname “Brady of Broadway.” His renown grew due to a mix of his knack for enticing celebrities to sit for his camera—James Knox Polk and a young Henry James (with his father, Henry James Sr.) both sat for him—as well as a flair for the dramatic: In 1856, he placed an ad in the New York Daily Tribune urging readers to sit for a portrait that warned, “You cannot tell how soon it may be too late.”

His rapidly-expanding operation forced him to open a branch of his studio at 625 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C., in 1849, and then move his New York studio uptown to 785 Broadway in 1860.

4. HE ACHIEVED WORLDWIDE FAME.

In 1850, Brady published The Gallery of Illustrious Americans, a collection of lithographs based on his daguerreotypes of a dozen famous Americans (he had intended to do 24, but due to costs, that never happened). The volume, and a feature profile [PDF] in the inaugural 1851 issue of the Photographic Art-Journal that described Brady as the “fountain-head” of a new artistic movement, made him a celebrity even outside of America. “We are not aware that any man has devoted himself to [the Daguerreotype art] with so much earnestness, or expended upon its development so much time and expense," the profile opined. "He has merited the eminence he has acquired; for, from the time he first began to devote himself to it, he has adhered to his early purpose with the firmest resolution, and the most unyielding tenacity.” Later that year, at the Crystal Palace Exhibition in London, Brady was awarded one of three gold medals for his daguerreotypes.

5. HE PHOTOGRAPHED EVERY PRESIDENT FROM JOHN QUINCY ADAMS TO WILLIAM MCKINLEY ... WITH ONE EXCEPTION.

The one that got away was William Henry Harrison—he died only a month after his inauguration in 1841.

6. ONE OF HIS PORTRAITS INTRODUCED HONEST ABE TO THE COUNTRY.

When Abraham Lincoln campaigned for president in 1860, he was dismissed as an odd-looking country bumpkin. But Brady’s stately portrait of the candidate, snapped after he addressed a Republican audience at Cooper Union in New York, effectively solidified Lincoln as a legitimate candidate in the minds of the American populace. (After he was elected, Lincoln supposedly told a friend, “Brady and the Cooper Union speech made me president.”) It was one of the first times such widespread campaign photography was used to support a presidential candidate.

7. HIS STUDIO’S WORK ENDED UP ON TWO VERSIONS OF THE $5 BILL.

A researcher holding one of America's most priceless negatives, the glass plate made by famous civil war photographer Mathew Brady of Abraham Lincoln in 1865 just before he was assassinated.
Three Lions, Getty Images

On February 9, 1864, Lincoln sat for a portrait session with Anthony Berger, the manager of Brady’s Washington studio. The session yielded both images of Lincoln that would go on the modern iterations of the $5 bill.

The first, from a three-quarter length portrait featuring Lincoln seated and facing right, was used on the bill design from 1914 to 2000. When U.S. currency was redesigned that year, government officials chose another image Berger took at Brady’s studio of Lincoln. This time, the president is seen facing left with his head turned more to the left.

According to Lincoln historian Lloyd Ostendorf, when the president was sitting for portraits, “Whenever Lincoln posed, a dark melancholy settled over his features. He put on what Mrs. Lincoln called his ‘photographer’s face.’ There is no camera study which shows him laughing, for such an attitude, unfortunately, was impossible when long exposures were required.”

8. OTHER PEOPLE ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR SOME OF HIS BEST-KNOWN WORK.

At the outbreak of the Civil War in 1861, Brady decided to use his many employees and his own money to attempt to make a complete photographic record of the conflict, dispatching 20 photographers to capture images in different war zones. Alexander Gardner and Timothy H. O’Sullivan were both in the field for Brady. Both of them eventually quit because Brady didn’t give individual credit.

Brady likely did take photos himself on battlefields like Bull Run and Gettysburg (although not necessarily during the actual battle). The photographer later boasted, “I had men in all parts of the army, like a rich newspaper.”

9. HE HAD BAD EYESIGHT.

Brady's eyes had plagued him since childhood—in his youth, he was reportedly nearly blind, and he wore thick, blue-tinted glasses as an adult. Brady's real reason for relying less and less on his own expertise might have been because of his failing eyesight, which had started to deteriorate in the 1850s.

10. HE HELPED REVOLUTIONIZE COMBAT PHOTOGRAPHY.

War photographer Mathew Brady's buggy was converted into a mobile darkroom and travelling studio, or, Whatizzit Wagon, during the American Civil War.
Mathew B Brady, Getty Images

The group of Brady photographers that scoured the American north and south to capture images of the Civil War traveled in what became known as “Whatizzit Wagons,” which were horse-drawn wagons filled with chemicals and mobile darkrooms so they could get close to battles and develop photographs as quickly as possible.

Brady’s 1862 New York gallery exhibit, "The Dead of Antietam,” featured then-unseen photographs of some of the 23,000 victims of the war’s bloodiest day, which shocked American society. “Brady has done something to bring home to us the terrible reality and earnestness of war," a New York Times reviewer wrote. "If he has not brought bodies and laid them in our door-yards and along the streets, he has done something very like it.”

11. HE USED A FREEBIE TO CONVINCE GENERALS TO LET HIM PHOTOGRAPH THE WAR.

Brady and his associates couldn't just wander out onto the battlefield with cameras—the photographer needed to obtain permission. So he set up a portrait session with Winfield Scott, the Union general in charge of the Army. The story goes that as he photographed the general—who was posed shirtless as a Roman warrior—Brady laid out his plan to send his fleet of photographers to tell the visual story of the war unlike any previous attempts in history. Then the photographer gifted the general some ducks. Scott was finally convinced, and he approved Brady’s plan in a letter to General Irvin McDowell. (Scott's Roman warrior portrait is, unfortunately, now lost.)

12. HE WAS BLAMED FOR UNION BATTLE LOSSES.

Brady’s first foray into documenting the Civil War was the First Battle of Bull Run. Though he had approved of Brady's plan, General McDowell did not appreciate the photographers' presence during the battle.

Brady himself was supposedly near the front lines when the fighting began, and quickly became separated from his companions. During the battle, he was forced to take shelter in nearby woods, and slept there overnight on a bag of oats. He eventually met back up with the Army and made his way to Washington, where rumors swelled that his equipment caused a panic that was responsible for the Union’s defeat at the battle. “Some pretend, indeed, that it was the mysterious and formidable-looking instrument that produced the panic!” one observer noted. “The runaways, it is said, mistook it for the great steam gun discharging 500 balls a minute, and took to their heels when they got within its focus!”

13. HE DIDN’T JUST PHOTOGRAPH THE UNION SIDE.

Before, after, and occasionally during the Civil War, Brady and Co. also photographed members of the Confederate side, such as Jefferson Davis, P. G. T. Beauregard, Stonewall Jackson, Albert Pike, James Longstreet, James Henry Hammond, and Robert E. Lee after he returned to Richmond following his surrender at Appomattox Court House. “It was supposed that after his defeat it would be preposterous to ask him to sit,” Brady said later. “I thought that to be the time for the historical picture.”

14. HIS CIVIL WAR PHOTOS ALSO MADE HIM POOR.

Union troops with a field gun during the American Civil War.
Mathew Brady, Hulton Archive/Getty Images

“My wife and my most conservative friends had looked unfavorably upon this departure from commercial business to pictorial war correspondence,” Brady told an interviewer in 1891. Their instincts were right.

Brady invested nearly $100,000 of his own money in the Civil War project in hopes that the government would buy his photo record of the war after it was all said and done. But once the Union prevailed, a public reeling from years of grueling conflict showed no interest in Brady's grim photos.

After the financial panic of 1873 he declared bankruptcy, and he lost his New York studio. The War Department eventually bought over 6000 negatives from Brady’s collection—which are now housed in the National Archives—for only $2840 total.

Despite being responsible for some of the most iconic images of the era, Brady never regained his financial footing, and he died alone in New York Presbyterian Hospital in 1896 after being hit by a streetcar.

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General Mills
10 Winning Facts about Wheaties
General Mills
General Mills

Famous for its vivid orange boxes featuring star athletes and its classic "breakfast of champions" tagline, Wheaties might be the only cereal that's better known for its packaging than its taste. The whole wheat cereal has been around since the 1920s, becoming an icon not just of the breakfast aisle, but the sports and advertising worlds, too. Here are 10 winning facts about it.

1. IT WAS INVENTED BY ACCIDENT.

The Washburn Crosby Company wasn't initially in the cereal business. At the time, the Minnesota-based company—which became General Mills in 1928—primarily sold flour. But in 1921, the story goes, a dietitian in Minneapolis spilled bran gruel on a hot stove. The bran hardened into crispy, delicious flakes, and a new cereal was born. In 1924, the Washburn Crosby Company began selling a version of the flakes as a boxed cereal it called Washburn's Gold Medal Whole Wheat Flakes. A year later, after a company-wide contest, the company changed the name to Wheaties.

2. ITS JINGLE FEATURED A SINGING UNDERTAKER AND A COURT BAILIFF.

Wheaties sales were slow at first, but the Washburn Crosby Company already had a built-in advertising platform: It owned the Minneapolis radio station WCCO. Starting on December 24, 1926, the station began airing a jingle for the cereal sung by a barbershop quartet called the Wheaties Quartet. The foursome sang "Have You Tried Wheaties" live over the radio every week, earning $15 (about $200 today) per performance. In addition to their weekly singing gig, the men of the Wheaties Quartet all also had day jobs: One was an undertaker, one was a court bailiff, one worked in the grain industry, and one worked in printing. The ad campaign eventually went national, helping boost Wheaties sales across the country and becoming an advertising legend.

3. WHEATIES HAS BEEN TIED TO SPORTS SINCE ALMOST THE BEGINNING.

Carl Lewis signs a Wheaties box with his image on it for a young boy.
Track and field Olympic medalist Carl Lewis
Stephen Chernin, Getty Images

Wheaties has aligned itself with the sports world since its early days. In 1927, Wheaties bought ad space at Minneapolis's Nicollet Park, home to a minor league baseball team called the Millers, and in 1933, the cereal brand started sponsoring the team's game-day radio broadcasts on WCCO. Eventually, Wheaties baseball broadcasts expanded to 95 different radio stations, covering teams all over the country and further cementing its association with the sport. Since then, generations of endorsements from athletes of all stripes have helped sell consumers on the idea that eating Wheaties can make them strong and successful just like their favorite players. The branding association has been so successful that appearing on a Wheaties box has itself become a symbol of athletic achievement.

4. WHEATIES HELPED KICK-START RONALD REAGAN'S ACTING CAREER.

In the 1930s, a young sports broadcaster named Ronald Reagan was working at a radio station in Des Moines, Iowa, narrating Wheaties-sponsored Chicago Cubs and White Sox games. As part of this job, Reagan went to California to visit the Cubs' spring training camp in 1937. While he was there, he also did a screen test at Warner Bros. The studio ended up offering him a seven-year contract, and later that year, he appeared in his first starring role as a radio commentator in Love Is On The Air.

5. ATHLETES' PHOTOS DIDN'T ALWAYS APPEAR ON THE FRONT OF BOXES.

Three Wheaties boxes featuring Michael Phelps
Justin Sullivan, Getty Images

Although a Wheaties box wouldn't seem complete without an athlete's photo on it today, the cereal didn't always feature athletes front and center. In the early years, the boxes had photos of athletes like baseball legend Lou Gehrig (the first celebrity to be featured, in 1934) on the back or side panels of boxes. Athletes didn't start to appear on the front of the box until 1958, when the cereal featured Olympic pole vaulter Bob Richards.

6. THE FIRST WOMAN ON A WHEATIES BOX WAS A PILOT.

Former Track and Field Olympian Jackie Joyner-Kersey stands with a poster of her new Wheaties box after it was unveiled in 2004.
Former Track and Field Olympian Jackie Joyner-Kersey stands with a poster of her new Wheaties box after it was unveiled in 2004.
Stephen Chernin, Getty Images

Olympic gymnast Mary Lou Retton became the first woman to appear on the front of a Wheaties box in 1984, but women did appear elsewhere on the box in the brand's early years. The first was pioneering aviator and stunt pilot Elinor Smith. Smith, whose picture graced the back of the box in 1934, set numerous world aviation records for endurance and altitude in the 1920s and 1930s.

7. IT USED TO HAVE A MASCOT.

Though we now associate Wheaties with athletes rather than an animal mascot, the cereal did have the latter during the 1950s. In an attempt to appeal to children, Wheaties adopted a puppet lion named Champy (short for "Champion") as the brand's mascot. Champy and his puppet friends sang about the benefits of Wheaties in commercials that ran during The Mickey Mouse Club, and kids could order their own Champy hand puppets for 50 cents (less than $5 today) if they mailed in Wheaties box tops.

8. MICHAEL JORDAN IS THE WHEATIES KING.

Of all the athletes who have graced the cover of a Wheaties box, basketball superstar Michael Jordan takes the cake for most appearances. He's been featured on the box 18 times, both alone and with the Chicago Bulls. He also served as a spokesperson for the cereal, appearing in numerous Wheaties commercials in the '80s and '90s.

9. FANS ONCE GOT THE CHANCE TO PICK A WHEATIES STAR.

MMA star Anthony Pettis on the front of a Wheaties box.
Mike Mozart, Flickr // CC BY 2.0

The public hasn't often gotten a chance to weigh in on who will appear on the Wheaties box. But in 2014, Wheaties customers got to decide for the first time which athlete would be featured nationally. Called the Wheaties NEXT Challenge, the contest allowed people to vote for the next Wheaties Champion by logging their workouts on an app platform called MapMyFitness. Every workout of 30 minutes or more counted as one vote. Participants could choose between Paralympic sprinter Blake Leeper, motocross rider Ryan Dungey, mixed-martial-artist Anthony Pettis, lacrosse player Rob Pannell, or soccer player Christen Press. Pettis won, becoming the first MMA fighter to appear on the box in early 2015.

10. THERE WERE SEVERAL SPINOFFS THAT DIDN'T CATCH ON.

Three different Wheaties boxes featuring Tiger Woods sitting together on a table
Tiger Woods's Wheaties covers, 1998
Getty Images

Faced with declining sales, Wheaties introduced several spinoff cereals during the 1990s and early 2000s, including Honey Frosted Wheaties, Crispy Wheaties 'n Raisins, and Wheaties Energy Crunch. None of them sold very well, and they were all discontinued after a few years. The brand kept trying to expand its offerings, though. In 2009, General Mills introduced Wheaties Fuel, a version of the cereal it claimed was more tailored to men's dietary needs. Wheaties Fuel had more vitamin E and—unlike the original—no folic acid, which is commonly associated with women's prenatal supplements. Men didn't love Wheaties Fuel, though, and it was eventually discontinued too. Now, only the original "breakfast of champions" remains.

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