There’s a moment when you hear about someone breaking a speed record that your mind reflexively paints a picture of high-tech machinery, perhaps something aerodynamic and wind-tunnel tested. And then you realize—no, we’re talking about Victorian-era bicycles, those charmingly off-kilter penny farthings with a front wheel roughly the size of a bistro table and all the safety features of a unicyclist’s daydream. This, precisely, is what makes Lizanne Wilmot’s recent Guinness World Record accomplishments so deliciously peculiar.

Racing Into the History Books (On a History Book)

As UPI reports, Wilmot, a Canadian athlete with a penchant for the impractical, took her penny farthing out for a spin at the Tasmanian Christmas Carnivals in Burnie, Australia. Not content with gentle pedaling, she managed to break not one but two world records: the fastest speed on a penny farthing (female) and the fastest 1 kilometer on a penny farthing (female). UPI writes that Wilmot covered the 1 km distance in 52.75 seconds—while Guinness World Records places the time at 1 minute, 52.750 seconds. There’s a notable discrepancy here—double-checked details from both outlets suggest the latter is much more likely (and perhaps a stray decimal crept in during the UPI version), as completing a kilometer in under a minute would approach the velocity of elite track cyclists on modern racing machines.

Regardless of the precise stopwatch result, this remains a speedy feat for what is essentially an extremely well-balanced hat rack on wheels. Wilmot’s top speed was clocked at 25.92 mph (or 26 mph even, according to Guinness), a remarkable clip not just “fast for a relic,” but genuinely brisk when compared to the modern average speed of 14 mph for recreational cyclists.

These numbers alone would be enough to raise an eyebrow. But the real intrigue, as detailed by Guinness World Records, lies in the context. Riding on a penny farthing isn’t a simple matter of hopping on and spinning your legs. The machine itself is a bizarre artifact of engineering optimism, perhaps best described as “a giraffe with handlebars.” Mounting one involves a kind of high-stakes leap of faith; dismounting is something you plan in advance—and preferably not at speed.

Competitive Nostalgia (and Headwinds)

Wilmot, it turns out, is no stranger to these anachronistic marvels. Both outlets note she previously held the title for the greatest distance ridden in one hour on a penny farthing (female), a record now with British rider Melissa Eisdell. Guinness World Records describes how this latest foray in Tasmania, then, seems equal parts comeback and personal vendetta against the limitations of late-19th-century transport design.

Guinness highlights that Wilmot’s successful attempts required both permission from organizers and a willingness to cope with unpredictable Australian weather—her races were split over two days due to inclement conditions. She battled the sort of gusty headwinds and turbulence familiar to people who have bicycled by large bodies of water or, apparently, anywhere in Tasmania. But, as Wilmot is quoted, “short, explosive, high cadence” efforts are her forte—traits that, when applied to a penny farthing, border on the surreal.

Why Penny Farthings, Anyway?

It’s easy to look at this story as an isolated oddity—a modern athlete choosing to compete on what amounts to a wheeled time machine. But isn’t there something strangely appealing about the whole pursuit? To ride a penny farthing at speed isn’t just hard; it’s almost absurd. There is no technological advantage to be gained, no sponsorships from carbon fiber manufacturers waiting in the wings. The reward, aside from potential bruises, is the sheer delight in making a clunky, precarious symbol of the past work a little bit better than anyone expected.

And, as the Guinness report playfully points out, Wilmot didn’t just nudge past the old record for the 1 km event; she was a full 30 seconds faster than the previous holder, Julie Woodward. That kind of leap isn’t a fluke—it suggests relentless training, a dash of obsession, and a willingness to see just how far outdated technology can be pushed.

Victorians Would Be Impressed (Or Mystified)

In anyone else’s hands, the penny farthing might remain a museum piece—a lovely but fundamentally unsafe reminder of where not to place the pedals. In Wilmot’s, it becomes a vehicle for competitive nostalgia and boundary-testing, a rolling rebuttal to the idea that progress is always linear.

There’s poetry here: a modern woman chasing records on a bicycle designed before the lightbulb was common, on a windswept Australian track at the edge of a new year. Is it about reclaiming lost titles? About proving that the limits of weird old machines are still, reassuringly, just waiting to be exceeded?

I can’t help but wonder, as Wilmot mends her records and bruises: are we all, in some way, looking for our own penny farthing? Or is it simply that the world is still just quirky enough that, every so often, a Canadian can sprint through the annals of history in a top hat’s worth of time—leaving the rest of us grateful, bemused, and quietly cheering her on?