Illinois. Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, New Jersey, New York, New Jersey, New York, New Jersey.
No, there is not a typo here. These are all the state boundaries I recently
crossed on my bicycle. Departing from
St. Paul on the AMTRAK train to downtown Chicago on August 30, 2024, my
objective was to ride across this region to eventually join my 50th
high school reunion, itself a cerebral journey back in time, immersed in the
memories of high school and growing up in Mountain Lakes, New Jersey, oh so
long ago.
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| Ready to board Amtrak for Chicago Bye Becky! |
The path there was not direct, following the Adventure Cycling Chicago to New York route zig-zagging across these states. My goal was to ride to the tip of Manhattan, the Battery, a place where the Hudson and East Rivers converge, a place hosting the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. Indeed, riding as I did from west to east was, in and of itself, a journey back in time, seeing gradually older structures still preserved, marking the American westward expansion in the late 1700s. I appreciate history, and the journey was cerebral in that respect.
So, what of the “detours?” Permit me to briefly narrate the journey.
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| Selfie!!! |
I departed downtown Chicago on August 31, a crystal-clear Saturday morning, skipping the weekday traffic that is typically chaotic while finding my way southeast along the variety of bicycle paths, in some measure with help from two other cyclists guiding me through the labyrinth of roads toward Calumet. Several rail trails later soon took me to the very fringes of the greater Chicago metropolitan area and into northwestern Indiana. The rural roads stair-stepping across the agrarian landscape were flat, paved, and generally relatively narrow but with no traffic. Many might suggest this landscape to be boring. Still, I found it to be quite the opposite, reminding me of the Netherlands, where fencerows partitioned farm fields and where large groves of trees shielded the farmstead and barns, appearing castle-like in the flat, open prairie or farm fields. As some farmsteads were likely a few hundred years old, I imagined these trees planted by the pioneers as windbreaks, now mature into a stately realm full of birdsong and deer.
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| Don't leave bike unattended! |
Central Indiana and western Ohio were laced with a network of railroads, all competing for the farm trade and now mostly abandoned. Those abandoned railroads meant rail trails that crisscrossed all these states, all of them paved, a tunnel of trees with the occasional “window” into the open farm fields or the urban back doors.
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| Love a tunnel of trees! |
Soon after, Dayton and Columbus, Ohio, were shocks to my rural sensibilities, but luckily, they were traversed via rail trails or dedicated bikeways. The generally flat farming landscape gave way to a more rolling terrain of the Allegheny foothills in eastern Ohio, through the northern sliver of West Virginia to western Pennsylvania and Pittsburgh.
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| Morning descent into Wheeling |
A gentler terrain eastward with stretches of valley riding was interrupted by the long, narrow parallel ridges of the Appalachian Mountains, delightfully scenic canyons but whose ridges I had to cross more than a few times. These areas were easily the toughest stretch of the journey, involving short but very steep climbs where my granny gear was just not enough, requiring a few walks up the hills. The “engineers” of old preferred the straight-up design rather than switchbacks! Oof!
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| Crossing Clarion River, PA |
Long valleys, eastern PA
The journey took me to the very scenic Delaware Water Gap, where the Delaware River cuts through the steep mountains on its journey to the Atlantic, separating Pennsylvania, New York, and New Jersey, whose boundaries all meet at Port Jervis, marked by a small monument in a cemetery. The New Jersey/New York boundary area is marked by rolling hills and valleys, with much climbing and descending toward the Hudson River in Stony Point. From there, the route follows the Hudson on marked bike routes into the urban jungle of New York City and Brooklyn.
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| Rockton Mtn Pass - highest on trip |
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| No explanation needed |
After a day off the bike walking 11 miles touring New York with a friend, I finished the journey in a sentimental way, taking the ferry back across the Hudson River to Hoboken (a pleasant waterfront town) where I caught the Erie Lackawanna railroad to Mountain Lakes, New Jersey, my hometown, repeating a journey that my father used to make into New York when I was a kid – I finally got to see what he saw. I joined my 50th high school reunion classmates for their first event on Thursday afternoon in a favorite park, arriving on my bicycle from the quaint train station.
Train to Mountain Lakes
So, enough of the travelogue. What of these dozen detours?
Detour 1,Day 2: Pedal Problems
Nearly to the end of the first riding day, some 48 miles or so into the rural reaches of the Chicago metro area, and following a quick lunch in the town of Crown Point, my pedal started to feel wonky and suddenly just fell apart, leaving only the center spindle connected to my bike. This has happened to me once before, so I knew I had to find a bike shop. Google Maps can sometimes be your friend in these detour situations, so I punched "bike shops" into the search bar and found JMOTO Speedshop with pictures of bicycles on the website. Miraculously, it was a "bike shop" only a few blocks away, and so I peddled as best I could there, only to find what appeared to be a small, old garage, its door open, with an old pedal bike in front, and a bunch of motorcycles inside. A bit reluctantly, I called to Joe Morris, the proprietor inside, and mentioned my issue, thinking he might have some parts. He came out, and together, we were trying to figure out a fix since he had no pedals – his shop painted motorcycles, and it turns out he is quite an artist.
Soon, we were joined by one of his customers on a big Harley,
and the three of us were standing about trying to figure it out. The customer looked at his phone and
discovered a Trek dealer back about 7.5 miles from whence I came in
Schererville. It was Saturday afternoon, and the shop was still open, so I decided that was the best option. Thanking them profusely for their friendly
attempts, I hustled as best I could with one working pedal the 7.5 miles back
to the bike shop, still open, whose team set me up with a new set of pedals.
Work in the shop seemed to stop as the staff were interested in my
bicycle and my journey. Thanking them, I
pedaled back the seven miles to Crown Point to continue my journey. However, I made
two stops of relief – the first at the bike shop, where I again thanked Joe for his help (“share me on your social media is the best.”) and then, of
course, I stopped at a tiny waffle shop with a healthy dollop of ice cream
before pedaling the rest of the way to Dinwiddie, the end of an unexpected 75-mile
day with a 15-mile detour.
Detour 2, Day 3: Hoosier Valley Railroad Museum
I might be stretching the concept of a “detour” here, but North Judson is a tiny town in central Indiana where multiple separate competing railroads converged, its heyday as a terminal now long past and largely abandoned. But I am a railroad fan, and North Judson has the fine Hoosier Valley Railroad Museum in the old depot, with a working vintage railroad taking a short round trip, whose $10 ticket price included a scoop of homemade ice cream from a local Mom. How can one not accept this offer on a warm, sunny Labor Day? I was off the bike and on a train - that is a detour!
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| On board, but why so serious? |
Continuing that day, I did approach and ignored another “road closed” sign in the small town of Monterey. The purpose? To watch the town’s Labor Day Bed Races on their Main Street! Americana!
Detour 3, Day 5: ROAD CLOSED AHEAD
The Cardinal Greenway Trail,
a 62-mile fully paved rail trail in Indiana, is simply splendid. While I was already on several rail trails, this one was stellar for its condition, greenery, and tunnel-like canopy interspersed with open space views of the prairie and farmland. It was easy to simply cruise this trail, lost in thought, even almost in a trance as the miles flew by until, in the distance, the trail was blocked. As I
glided closer, dread interrupted my zen experience with a ROAD-CLOSED sign. This is always a bit frustrating
for a cyclist. What does that really
mean? Closed to cars? Bicycles? Is it passable by walking? And exactly how far ahead? One stops, gazes, wonders and
deliberates. Do I? Or don’t I march
ahead and risk having to backtrack an unknown number of miles?
I chose to find an alternate route, stair-stepping through narrow, scenic rural farm roads, zig-zagging along section lines. In this case, with almost no traffic, this was not a bad alternative. It cost me only a few miles of detour to eventually reconnect with the trail and the town of Richmond, whose main street included a separated modern cycleway gliding past dusty, empty, yet hopeful storefronts. Americana!
Detour 4, Day 6: Wright Bicycle Shop, Dayton
In Dayton, Ohio, as a bicyclist, one must see the Wright Brothers bicycle shop before passing through. Not a working shop, this was a National
Historic Monument, a small storefront that housed the Wright Brothers bicycle (and printing) enterprise. The business was relatively short-lived as they began to tinker with ways to control
a glider. The adjacent National AviationHeritage Area celebrates the birthplace of aviation in the United States. And no spare pedals in this shop!
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| It was the Wright kind of detour! |
Detour 5, Day 7: Adam and the Waterfall
After the best night’s sleep of the trip and a wonderful breakfast at Tudor's Biscuit World, a hyper-local old-time hash-slinging greasy spoon with, of course, fabulous biscuits, I rode out of Xenia, Ohio, on the Prairie Grass Trail, quite satisfied. Ahead was another cyclist with gear on his bike, the first (and only) I had seen the entire trip heading east. Adam, a 34-year-old ex-Marine on disability, was taking a trip to Pittsburgh as the first stage in a tour around the country.
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| Adam keeping up! |
Happy with 40 miles per day, he was fairly new to touring and needed to get used to touring again, and to get in shape. So, we rode about 10 miles, talking along the way. Growing up in Xenia, he mentioned a waterfall in the area that he used to visit as a kid, but he could not remember where along this route it was. We stopped in the next town of Cedarville, where the caretaker of the trailhead “station” was tending to some flowers. We asked him about a waterfall, and he said there was a waterfall in the nearby Cedar Cliff Falls county park. I decided that a relationship had been formed, it was a beautiful day, and I could spare some time to witness Adam rekindling his memory. We rode about a mile out of town and found the park, which did not have a waterfall but a trickle, as the area was under a severe drought. And it was also not a true waterfall, which Adam was not aware of, but the ruins of the old Harbison Mill that closed in 1917, with remnants of the millrace in the adjacent woods. With a full river, the waterfall is quite something for otherwise flat Ohio.
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| Trickle falls but a great dive platform |
Adam needed a break, so we parted ways, but I appreciated the glow of his memory of kids jumping off the top of the falls into the deep pool below. And I would have never seen this spectacle without a voluntary detour.
Detour 6, Day 8: Vaughn
Lunch can be a detour if you make it one. Urban navigation was required departing Columbus, Ohio, where, after 40 miles from downtown, I could break free of the urban grip and get back into the more peaceful countryside. I connected with the TJ
Evans Trail into Granville, followed by Newark, an enchanting town with a central square hosting the courthouse. I decided a stop for lunch was in
order. Only a picnic with my fare, McDonalds, or a coffee shop on the square offered any possibility. The choice was clear. I parked my bike alongside the sidewalk fronting the coffeeshop seating area and walked in to order my chicken salad sandwich. As I was heading for the exit to sit outside,
a customer called out to me, asking about my bike. He motioned me to sit down, whereupon Vaughn,
a newly retired art professor from Texas who recently relocated to Newark, was
telling me his story. A formerly avid bicyclist,
he sold his collection of 14 bikes before moving up to find his new place
for retirement (a physical and emotional "sense of place"). We
probably chatted for an hour, and he came to examine my bicycle (as many
had). He seemed inspired by my story of
various travels, including this tour. He
mentioned before I left that there was a fabulous ice cream shop in Zanesville,
Ohio, precisely where I was headed.
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| Vaughn in Newark |
Eighteen days later, I received a text from Vaughn, with photographs he had taken in the Dolly Sods Wilderness, a mecca for mountain bikers, where he wrote “I’m very motivated to get on my bike and start riding a little more seriously. Thank you for the motivation!”
Yet he also motivated me.
I arrived in Zanesville, hot and tired, and located Tom’s Ice Cream Bowl right away. It is indeed a step into the past – 70 years
old. I was served at an old-time counter
by a kid in a bow tie and white shirt; the place also popular for burgers,
malts and the like. A sweet detour!
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| The sign said stop, so I did . . . for ice cream! |
Detour 7, Day 10-11: Pittsburgh and Bike Heaven
My motel was high up on the mountain that day, and a cool
front had moved through, shrouding the valley of Bridgeport below. I needed gloves on my long, early morning
descent into Bridgeport, the eastern Ohio town across the Ohio River from
Wheeling, West Virginia; both cities are crammed into a narrow gorge along the
riverfront. The old Wheeling Suspension Bridge, opened in 1849 and closed to cars, was my exit path from Ohio to West Virginia, a beautiful structure reminiscent of the Brooklyn Bridge, the longest suspension bridge in the country at the time, and part of the early national "highway" known as the Cumberland Pike.
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| The Wheeling Suspension Bridge |
While crossing the bridge, I noted my first historical detour of the day—the LST325 docked by the Wheeling waterfront park. Curious, I took a tour of this craft, the only LST (Landing Ship Tanks) still operational and touring the country. It was an amazing and wonderous craft, large, heavy, bulky yet functionally strategic during D-Day and Normandy.
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| Aboard the LST325 in Wheeling, W VA |
After an 80+ mile day, I was making my way into Pittsburgh and again ran into a closed road detour requiring me to navigate local roads. Using Google maps, I found a route and followed it, but it is helpful to know that Pittsburgh lies at river level, and you enter the City from the high bluffs surrounding it. So I dropped onto the route and descended a steep hill, only to meet a barricade across the road. Google had routed me onto a dead-end, a very old and overgrown road no longer in service. This, of course, required that I backtrack (walking) up this steep hill. I later learned that Pittsburgh hosts the steepest hill in the country, and runs an annual ride covering the 10 steepest hills in the City. Eventually, I did find my way to perhaps the best accommodation of the trip, the Traveler’s RestHotel, a former hostel converted to a bed and breakfast with a few rooms, catering to bicyclists in the south side industrial area of the city filled with Ukranian references.
The following morning, over breakfast, the Owner kept mentioning a place called BicycleHeaven, a shop and museum on two large floors, a must-see for bicyclists.
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| Pays to have good advertising! |
Intrigued, I headed northwest out of downtown into a gritty industrial area to a rather non-descript old warehouse structure, and a single steel door with an artful sign "facade" above advertising its existence. I sat on a picnic bench outside as the shop was not yet open. Soon, a man came by, saw me with my loaded bike, and somewhat gruffly asked if I needed emergency help. I said no, just there to see the place. He told me he would open soon and left behind this door.
What was this place hidden behind this obscure door? Upon entry, one is immediately diminished, completely overcome with a colorful visual clutter of bicycles and parts everywhere – floor, walls and ceilings. Antique bikes, collector’s items, and parts artfully displayed on walls with decorative lighting and sound effects.
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| Is this place real? |
Crowded with bikes, handmade signs indicating vintage, it reminded me of my late friend Don Brummond, a fount of knowledge and keeper of parts who might not have been able to extract himself from this place with any money left. He would have had an explanation for everything in this expanse, even the Volvo bike made of plastic and PeeWee Herman’s bike used on his TV show. The Owner, after selling me a T-shirt and accepting my donation to support the museum, said he likely would not have the hard-to-find chain ring combination on my 24-year-old bicycle, saying, “Too new!”
I was lucky I found my way out so I could enjoy downtown
Pittsburgh and the magic confluence of three rivers. Pittsburgh is a place to explore further.
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| Three Rivers Confluence, Pittsburgh |
Detour 8, Day 13: Clearfield Community Museum
Another of three 5000’+ climbing days permitted a lunch
break at a Subway in Clearfield, Pennsylvania. I chatted with the older couple (hmmm, maybe my age?) who were interested in my trip, and they suggested I visit their community museum. I looked it up and decided extending my lunch
hour might be worth it. The GriceClearfield Community Museum is unlike any community museum I have ever visited. They are typically filled with local historical memorabilia, often dusty and rarely
seen. I was greeted by an eager volunteer, a vast collection of antique automobiles and wildlife trophies, and perhaps
a few dusty pieces of memorabilia. But
who could tell in the glare of abundant chrome.
I channeled my friend Paul Gronhovd, an exquisite vintage automobile restorer. Let’s call my visit - this detour - visual dessert!
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| Trophy cars and trophy bucks! |
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| Caddy! |
Detour 9, Day 14: Two Glasses of Wine
By now, you are probably thinking my definition of a detour has been stretched significantly. Let’s just say my imagination is quite resilient; my next detour is after I remove myself from the bike seat for the evening.
My dear friend from pre-high school days, Kathryn Siebert (and her dog Stella), and I agreed to meet in Lewisburg while on her way out to New Jersey for our reunion after visiting Becky at our home. As both of us are from good German stock, we had planned this for quite a while. Fourteen days and 942 miles into the trip and the highest climb, I arrived in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, within 1 hour of Kathryn’s arrival. Having only an evening to visit, we walked around the Bucknell University campus and found a restaurant with outdoor seating, allowing us to have Stella alongside. Now Stella has the uncanny habit of attracting various oohs and ahhs from passersby and did not disappoint on this evening. Two ladies, roughly our age, walked by intent on a meal at our restaurant, from which a conversation started with Stella. Curious about our separate travels, they suggested we should celebrate our interim reunion, and do have we no wine? We did not realize that this restaurant served no alcohol as it was “BYOB” (bring your own bottle).
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| Wine ladies! And my dear friend Kathy |
Carrying two bottles, one white and one red, just for the two of them, they offered us each a generous glass and ordered the waiter, who knew them well, to fetch glasses. And so, strangers' kindness whetted our appetite for wine this evening to celebrate. We thanked them profusely when we departed and likely gave Stella a doggie version of a high-five for her prowess in attracting desirable attention! The following morning, we each returned to the road, she toward Vermont and me farther east, to meet again soon in New Jersey.
Detour 10, Day 16: Kunkletown Road Closed – Bridge Out
The terrain was becoming more rolling, with long ridge runs, long valley runs, and plenty of ups and downs. And so it was that my morning ran through several scenic vistas, resulting around midday in a long descent down Silver Spring Blvd, turning onto Kunkletown Rd in the valley, and into a Road Closed - Bridge Out, sign AGAIN! I paused at this sign.
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| Sign says it all! But, what does "local traffic" really mean? |
The ride down to this point was long, and I did not relish the thought of returning back up the hill. However, just as I was grousing and considering my way forward, another cyclist emerged from Kunkletown Road. I called to him and asked about the conditions ahead, and to my great relief, he said the bridge was indeed out, but bikes could get around it. Relieved, and by now a bit hungry, I proceeded along this valley road and came upon a quaint old General Store in the village of Kunkletown, where a picnic table outside hosted another bicyclist. I asked if I could join him, and he agreed, giving solid recommendations for the food inside.
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| Old guys talking bikes over lunch |
Indeed, it is an actual deli/market with a family making sandwiches, including my favorite biking sandwich – a BLT. I returned to the table, and chatted with this local rider who daily takes his ebike out on these rural roads over about 10 different routes. We were soon joined by another fellow interested in the bikes, who was restoring the old post office building across the street and formerly worked in a Boston bicycle shop. We had a great conversation about all manner of biking delights, my travels, and the variety of ailments that come to men of our age from riding.
And soon, I was on my way to Stroudsburg and the Delaware
Water Gap.
Detour 11, Day 17: Road Closed AGAIN!
I was excited to revisit the Delaware Water Gap. As a child, I recall the explanation my father used to give when we crossed the gap heading west on I-80. I do not recall visiting the Gap as an adult, and all the maps showed an intriguing path along the New Jersey side of the river—the Old Mine Road.
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| Old Mine Road, Delaware Water Gap |
I stayed overnight in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, and the following morning was cool, a bit foggy and overcast. I needed to cross the Delaware River via a narrow walk-only path alongside the long and very busy Interstate 80 bridge and then wind around the far side to the Old Mine Road that runs parallel and close to the Delaware River and the extensive Worthington StateForest. The road quickly escapes the noise of the highway and dips into the forest in one section as a one-way only due to the steep mountainside. As this was a Sunday, there was barely any traffic, and the road rolled beautifully along the riverside with the morning sun trying to peek through the clouds and the canopy, eventually winning that battle. All was good until a sign several miles along indicated “Road Closed 4 Miles Ahead” but open to a campground. I stopped. This was a disaster. My bike route map indicated the road existed with no limitations. Google indicated the road was “Closed winters,” which was still far off. To backtrack across the I-80 bridge would put me on a very busy US Highway 209 in Pennsylvania toward Port Jervis.
Casting an eye ahead, I decided riding the 4 miles to see
the situation was worth it. And so, I rode on with a quickened pace, enjoying
the woods though worried about the route ahead.
The four miles passed quickly and ended at a gate across the road, with
simply a “Road Closed” sign affixed. Again studying my options, I did see what appeared to be really fresh asphalt. As this was 1) not winter, 2) obviously a
passable, freshly paved road, 3) likely a matter of personal safety avoiding
an alternate route, and 4) a Sunday morning, I walked around the gate with my
bike and took off.
In these situations where you know you are trespassing on
public land, I was peddling fairly quickly, trying to get to a likely gate on
the “other side” of this long road, presumably at the town of Millbrook Village
Historic Site (“is it a real village?”). All I could think of was a script to
say to an officer if I ran into one (“not on Sunday morning. Really?”),
something about “no other safe route for a cyclist; I’m not staying, just
passing through; I had no idea, my map says it is open; but it’s not winter yet.” Between these thoughts and the quick pace on
beautiful asphalt, I almost took no notice of the river or the bear cub that
ran alongside me (a safe distance up the bank).
It was simply one of the most beautiful stretches of road on this trip.
Finally, I reached the other gate and gingerly crossed it
into freedom, into Millbrook Village, basically an artists-in-residence community that was empty this Sunday morning. I stopped to snack in the shade
of a building and then took off on the road that I understood from my bike map to be the correct route. It wasn’t. It turned into gravel and headed back down
southward to the river. Realizing I must
have made an error, I had to backtrack up this gravel road, taking a different
cut until I reached the correct route, or so I thought, one that climbed a bit
and then made a steep drop to a “tee.” My map was clear in stating I should take a right at this intersection, which I did, and soon was confronted with another barricade across the road, and the "road" beyond was pocked with trees, ruts, and debris, indicating it was not only closed but unlived as a means of travel. By this time, I felt I was cursed, so I backtracked to the last intersection and reasoned that the few cars that did pass me had to go somewhere and that somewhere must have been “left” instead of “right.” There was a sign for Dingman's Ferry (a private ferry crossing) that
would cross back over the Delaware, so I decided this was the route out of my
maze of detours. So I went left and
gradually descended back down toward the river. I soon approached the turn-off for the Ferry but was met yet again with a road-closed sign. The only option was to continue on the road, which I soon realized was the correct route of the Old Mine Road. My bike map thus had three key
errors to report to its maker.
I eventually landed at Port Jervis, a bit tired, but I had to
at least stop and see the Tri-States Monument marking the coincident boundaries of
Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York. I also had to take a lunch stop for another BLT in a local café before climbing a long way up out of the Gap toward Goshen,
New York.
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| TriState Monument |
Detour 12, Day 19: The Battery
This was the day I had long anticipated, riding from the small Hudson River town of Piermont the 33 miles into New York City and BatteryPark at the very tip of Manhattan. I always appreciated this spot growing up – it is the oldest part of New York where it is still possible to imagine the early Dutch settlers negotiating $24 to steal the place from the native population, or the American colonists defending the rivers when looking across the East River toward Brooklyn, imagining the challenge Washington had in protecting New York from the British in Kipps Bay. There was magic here. It started out cloudy, but as I approached the George Washington Bridge to cross the Hudson back into New York, the sun seemed to light the way across this magnificent structure.
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| Crossing the Hudson on the Geo Washington Bridge I was moving, cars were not! |
From there, I was able to ride the Hudson River Greenway all the way to the Battery. I was excited, sensing the end of the trip drawing near, navigating the circuitous path, crossing streets, and dodging other cyclists with more knowledge than me of the pathway. But it was safe, except at some crossings where I would stop, and other bicyclists routinely ran red lights.
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| Hudson River Greenway Trail |
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| Lower Manhattan canyonland |
The pathway got wider and separated, well-marked as it glided past the mid- and lower-town Manhattan skyscrapers lining the Hudson frontage, all gleaming in the sun. I was getting closer, excited to see the Statue of Liberty across the bay, imagining asking someone to take my ceremonial picture. And finally, I arrived.
I arrived to a throng of tourists and segregated narrow
pathways trying to keep the bike path open, still clogged with tourists
awaiting passage on the ferry to Ellis Island. It was a madhouse, but I pushed
forward through Battery Park, eventually dismounting and walking toward the
Battery rampart. . .
CLOSED. UNDER CONSTRUCTION
The entire battery rampart was blocked by 8’ tall plywood barriers with construction equipment on the opposite side working away, with no view of Lady Liberty. The ferry boats, with a narrow mooring area and lines of tourists, offered no clear view. I strolled to Fort Clinton, thinking it would be open to a view. No such luck. The Battery I dreamed of was plywood instead of stone, chaos instead of peace, nothing that I could connect with my memories of the place. I was dejected, completely demoralized and a bit exhausted from my fast-paced ride to get here. I bought a cup of mango slices from a street vendor and sat at a park bench, grumpy and sulking.
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| Fort Clinton |
I realized that this situation was not going to change, my mood likely not to improve, so I might as well get on with it and find my way through the canyon that is Manhattan toward the Brooklyn Bridge. Another goal on this trip was to cross this historic bridge that I never crossed before, and then conquer Brooklyn on my way to my hotel. I stood up from my bench and started to walk my bike toward the street, with crowds still everywhere. I was startled by two older ladies (OK, they were a bit older than me, and it’s a bit rare for strangers to actually talk in NYC) who paused, looked at me, and one of them asked “are you traveling across the country”
“No, ma’am, halfway.
I just rode in from Chicago.”
With visible excitement on her face, her eyes smiling in
recollection, she recited memories of her trip across the United States by
bicycle in 1976, an event called Bikecentennial
that involved several groups of cyclists crossing the United States from
Astoria, Oregon to Yorktown, Virginia; an event that was the formative incubator
for Adventure Cycling, the very organization that mapped my route. She talked about how much they liked to ride, and without losing the twinkle in her eyes or the smile on her wistful face, she suddenly said, “My husband passed away last fall. He was hit by a truck while riding his
bicycle and was killed.”
Shocked at this revelation, I said, “Oh my gosh, I am so
sorry for your loss. How awful,” while immediately recalling my friends’
close call with a truck in Canada a mere two years earlier.
“It’s OK,” she said, still smiling, and she looked me
straight in the eye and said, “he died doing what he loved, and that is what
matters most. I am OK with that.”
Left speechless, they wished me good luck and soon disappeared into the crowd. I was stunned, but just as suddenly, my grumpiness vanished. I felt stupid for feeling sorry for myself, that my dream of the Battery reunion had not gone as planned.
Hell with it! I WAS ALIVE IN NEW YORK ON A BEAUTIFUL DAY – EMBRACE IT! I wanted to hug her, but perhaps, like an angel, she was gone, no picture, no evidence, just a fleeting memory.
I mounted my bike and carefully navigated my way through the
crazy streets of lower Manhattan, across the beautiful, historic Brooklyn Bridge, buoyant in this
moment for having completed the journey.
Brooklyn Bridge Bike Lane
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| Heading to the reunion from Hoboken. Goodbye NYC |
