A half-century before Jackie Robinson broke baseball’s color line in 1947, cyclist Marshall “Major” Taylor (1878-1932) was allowed to join the League of American Wheelmen, which had previously banned Black members. Like Robinson, Taylor became famous. He competed in many grueling races, winning dozens of them, and was cheered by fans from Europe to Australia—all while regularly contending with racism. Frederick Noland, a visual storyteller whose work has appeared in The New Yorker, among other publications, captures Taylor’s extraordinary life in the graphic biography Major Taylor: The World’s Fastest Man (Drawn & Quarterly, Sept. 8). Our starred review applauds the book as a “a rousing tribute to an athlete whose star has dimmed over the generations but deserves to shine again.” Noland lives—and rides his bicycle—in Oakland, California. We spoke by phone, and our conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

When did you first hear of Marshall Taylor?

Probably around 2011 or 2012. I live near Lake Merritt [in Oakland], and I was doing some laps around the lake and started getting drafted by these guys—drafting is when you ride right behind somebody for aerodynamic purposes. And I saw they were all wearing “Major Motion” jerseys, and I was like, Who are these people? I looked them up, and there were a number of Major Taylor clubs nationwide. And then it was off to the races.

Were there authors who inspired you in working on the book?

The main source was The World’s Fastest Man by Michael Kranish, because he really goes back to the source material and pulls out things that no one else did. And if I can point to one person who guided me in how to compress time for a graphic novel, Mimi Pond [author and illustrator of Do Admit: The Mitford Sisters and Me] is great at making these inserts that move the story along well. I borrowed very heavily from that style. I know her, so I just told her, “Hey, I’m stealing this [laughs].”

Taylor seemed like a genuinely humble, generous, and principled man. He behaved like a gentleman, he shared his winnings with other racers, and he turned down a lucrative contract because he didn’t want to ride on Sundays. What could today’s athletes learn from him?

The way he was in the world is kind of lost. There’s so much put into mythologizing, becoming a legend in your own time. I was careful not to refer to him in such terms because he would’ve found this to be very idolatrous. He was a very observant Christian, and he never wanted to be worshiped in that way. To set an example of rectitude and fairness —I think that’s what he would want for people. And that’s just lacking generally in our culture.

You call yourself an “avid but unremarkable cyclist.” Can you elaborate?

I’ve got asthma. I smoked for 20 years; I don’t anymore. Physically, I’m not a big guy, but I’m not a small guy—I’m not built for hills, you know? I really enjoy it and I’m great bombing a hill, but for climbing it or being in the pack, I’m very rarely going to be leading.

Did working on the book inspire you to ride more?

You would think it would have [laughs]. And certainly I would’ve liked to. But five years of working on the book, I ended up riding way less and putting on a lot of weight. But I’ve actually been biking in the last six months since I delivered the book. I’ve carved the weight off, so now I’m very happily back on the road.

John McMurtrie is the nonfiction editor.