In Chapter Five, I recount the bus trips I took in 1979, using my faulty memory as well as snippets from the journal that I kept at the time, to relate the adventures.
But they were a mere precursor to the hitchhiking trips I made in 1980 and 1981, the longest one a six week affair which again took me across America, details of which I will split up into a number of future chapters.
For this chapter, however, I want to touch on the bike trip I took in 1980, a multi stop excursion in October of that year. Interestingly, while I was engaged in this trip, my mother's pregnancy was winding down. I had moved out that year; I guess the trauma of losing their oldest created the urge to replace me.
Any way, this was also the fall when the Philadelphia Phillies won the World Series. I was living in Willow Grove, at my first home away from home at the time. I actually lived at two other Willow Grove addresses in my young adulthood.
One was with a good friend of mine, one of my core friends at the time, in an apartment above a realtor on York Road. Since it was upstairs, we often left the door open for our friends so they could come right up, without waiting for someone to descend the steps and open the door.
The apartment had four rooms, a front room painted gold, then the kitchen which, oddly featured red painted appliances, and two bedrooms, adorned with blue and green paint, respectively. In the first few months we were there, strange men would occasionally come up the steps, then stop when they saw our group assembled in the front room, and finally turn around and hurry back down the steps. As it turned out, the previous tenants called their establishment the Four Seasons, and these gentlemen, unaware of a relocation, were stopping by for some stress release.
While there were a few comments made to the young ladies of our group about providing happy endings for this already established clientele, we maintained the inherited colors of the rooms, but did not retain the customers.
The other apartment was just up the street, in a small complex of about 10 or 12 units. We had to climb a black iron staircase to get into our apartment which could become a bit slippery when the weather became cold or icy or both. I was riding my bike to work back then, which meant that I had to carry it up and down the three levels of metal steps. I lived there with two young ladies, although at separate times. I can't recall the exact order, but I believe the two girls lived together first, then I with one of them, then I with the other. This pattern of living with women was fairly constant in those years, although for the most part they were only friends.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, that's right, bike trips.
So, again, I was riding my bike all year round, through the seasons, so I was in fairly good shape. In better shape than my bike as it turned out, but more on that later.
I left Willow Grove just as the regular season for baseball was in its last weeks. The Phillies were battling the Montreal Expos for first place during that time.
My first stop was Kutztown College where my friend Mike went to college. We had spent many a weekend visiting Mike. That was during the time when grain parties were popular. Gallons of unsweetened kool aid mixed with a pint of 190 proof grain alcohol. The danger, of course, is that you don't taste the alcohol which means you drink more than you should until suddenly you are drunk.
I believe I only stayed a night or two with Mike, then headed off to Bloomsburg College.
Just to remind you, in 1980 there were no cell phones with GPS. I had written down the directions on a piece of paper before I left, but to be honest, I was mostly taking the routes I would have driven if going by car. So, from Willow Grove, I headed up 611 to County Line Road, both relatively fast moving two lane roads, then north on 309, an expressway but with a substantial shoulder, then west on route 222.
Similarly, from Kutztown to Bloomsburg, I went back the way I came to 309, then north. If driving, one would use the PA turnpike, going through mountains in tunnels, but bikes are not allowed on the pike so I went over the mountains. Talk about a workout. Constant pedaling in low gears, back and forth as the road meandered up the mountain, then an almost orgasmic feeling at the top, the relief coursing through your body as you crest the peak, followed by an exhilarating 50 plus MPH descent on two wheels, the wind drying out your eyes, whipping your hair (my hair was rather long then).
It was overcast most of the day which made for nice riding, not too hot. I remember climbing a very large hill on 309 just outside of Tamaqua, Pa, then stopping for dinner at a McDonalds. I knew I was rather far from Bloomsburg, but needed some fuel. Unfortunately, the weather turned rainy as I continued up 309 after eating, to the point that when I reached Hazletown, I was soaked and uncomfortable, deciding to stop and seek out a laundromat. After drying my clothes, the weather seemed to be clearing, so off I went.
Big mistake.
At some point, as the sun began to set despite the fact that I was still dozens of miles from Bloom, I made a decision that seemed reasonable at the time, but was clearly a historic mistake, although, strangely, worked out fairly well.
I encountered an entrance ramp to Interstate 80, rode up the ramp and began biking on the shoulder as cars and trucks, big trucks, whooshed past me at 60+ miles per hour. When the rain picked up even more furiously, I knew I was in trouble as I somewhat water planed along the interstate, being pushed around by the wind and the wake of the semis, and struggling to see through my rain drop speckled glasses, in the dark because by then the sun was long gone out of view.
When it became clear (or actually well past when it became clear) that I was not going to reach Bloom that night, I had the brilliant idea to spend the night under an overpass.
Now, I don't know how many overpasses you have seen up close, but there are two types that I know of. The more basic type features an incline, usually made of concrete, that runs from street level right up to the overpass. Like a dead end.
But the other type, more rare, ends in a ledge which juts out from below the overpass, providing a sheltered area to rest. Somewhere past Conyngham, I found such an overpass. I "parked" my bike at the foot of the incline, climbed up into the relative dry and quiet of the ledge, and did my best to shut out the noise of the traffic in search of a little sleep.
In the years after that, I often spotted that overpass as I whizzed by in a car. A few times I pointed it out to whomever was riding with me, usually to a surprised smile or even a smirk of slight disbelief, depending on who was with me on that particular trip.
The next morning dawned clear and sunny. I slid down the embankment, mounted my bike, and rode a few exits to Bloomsburg. Now, it being 6 AM or so, I thought it best not to go right to my friends' off campus apartment, instead stopping at McDonalds for breakfast. Still, when I finally rolled into Bloom and knocked on their door, it couldn't have been later than 7 in the morning.
After waiting a pregnant moment, Terry answered the door, looked at me, looked at my bike, let out a kind of snort and laugh, gave me a hug, and helped me stash my bike in their apartment. When Laura straggled out of her room a few minutes later, I was greeted in a similar fashion.
I stayed with the girls for the weekend, plus a few days. As that was the last series of the baseball season, we watched the Philllies clinch the division at a watch party. My recollection is that Mike Schmidt hit a game winning homer.
Five years later, when I finally returned to college, I lived at that very same off campus apartment for my Junior and first half of my senior year. The Maroon and Gold Apartments.
I had begun experiencing some issues with my bike on this leg, spokes popping. Still, I was determined to start out for my next destination, so I bid farewell to my friends, confirmed my route and off I went to Scranton University where one of my very best of friends went to college.
I had visited Jim at Scranton many times during his 4 years there. In fact, I often traveled there with a car load of friends as the parties were awesome. Taylor Street, I believe. Anyway, in this case I pretty much rode straight up route 11, and while the bike was riding less smoothly than it should have, I made it without incident.
At this point, the division series against the Houston Astros was starting, as back then, there were only two divisions in baseball. It was a remarkable series, one of the best in history according to some baseball historians. After winning the first game (it was best 3 out of 5), the Phils lost game two in extra innings, lost game three in extra innings, won game four in extra innings, then trailed 5 to 2 in game 5 against ostensibly, the greatest pitcher in baseball history, Nolan Ryan. The Phils however, scratched together a couple of soft singles, then Ryan walked in a run. The Astros changed pitchers, but the rally was on. The Phils scored 5 runs total to take a 7 to 5 lead, but their ace reliever, Tug McGraw blew the save and off they went to extra innings again, fourth time in 5 games. The Phils put two doubles together to take the lead in the 10th then held on to win the game and earn the right to play in the World Series.
Not that we needed an excuse to party, but sharing those games with Jim, his roommates, and all the people who wandered in and out of the house over the course of that series was epic.
Kansas City had upset the Yankees (I believe) so they would be our opponent for the series, and we all felt very positive about our chances.
I had been doing a lot of riding while I was there, and soon discovered that the bike was done. Enough spokes had broken off that the rear wheel would not turn anymore. Since I had just purchased that bike that year (from a Pep Boys store, don't ask me why they sold bikes), I thought it must be some type of defect. As it turned out, the rear axle was slightly bent, so the constant rotations of the wheel had exacerbated the issue, causing undue stress to radiate into the spokes, or at least that was how it was explained to me.
Not to be deterred, I decided to visit my cousin in New York City. I don't think I had planned to ride my bike there, but then again, using common sense to make choices as to how I traveled was not one of my strong points. However, since my bike was out of commission, I chose to hitchhike to the Big Apple.
The most direct route was straight across Interstate 80 to I-95 then across the George Washington Bridge. I don't recall how many rides it took, or even any of the nice people who stopped for me. But I do know that once I was dropped on Manhattan Island, upper Manhattan Island, I decided to walk to my cousin's apartment in Greenwich Village. As I reflect on this choice, to walk, perhaps 100 blocks, it seems rather silly considering all the strangers I had ridden with in cars during the past summer, but walk I did.
When I arrived at Denise's apartment, she was a bit taken aback, as being the days of no cell phones, I did not forewarn her that I was coming to visit. But she was happy to see me and I, her.
I stayed a few nights, the first few games of the Series. Back then, the World Series featured a 2-3-2 format, in this case, two home games in Philadelphia, 3 games in Kansas City, then the final two in Philly. The Phils won both games at home, then lost the next two on the road. I am not sure when I returned to the road, but Denise would not let me hitchhike back to Scranton, instead buying a bus ticket for me and then making sure I got on the bus, waving as we pulled out of the terminal.
Once back in Scranton, we watched the final few games, the Phils winning the third game in KC, then game 6 at home. Again, the games were riveting, especially game 5 in which the Phils scored two runs in the ninth against a very strong KC closer to turn a 3-2 deficit into a 4-3 victory.
The party that night was incredible, moving to a number of locations and lasting well into the early hours of the morning. Remember, this was the first World Series for the Philadelphia Phillies in its storied history, storied, in part, because of their penchant for not winning. It was also part of a spectacular run for Philly sports teams, the Flyers winning two cups 5-6 years previous, the Sixers winning the NBA title in 1983, and all 4 of the sports teams having multiple playoff seasons, the ultimate year being 1980 when all four went to their respective sports finals, although only the Phils won a championship.
At this point, it was late October, my bike was not road worthy, and I obviously did not have a vehicle to return home. Despite the invite to stay, I decided to hitchhike home, with my rear wheel, leaving the rest of my bike in Scranton. The wheel turned out to be a useful prop, breaking the ice, so to speak, and helping me get rides. Once the wheel was replaced, I returned to Scranton, with a borrowed car, and drove my bike home in the trunk, eventually visiting my parents to see their new baby, my new brother who was born the day before the Phillies won the World Series.
No comments:
Post a Comment