 THE ATLANTIC COAST: 29 June – 15 July 2002
Overview:
After riding with a group to Washington, D.C., the author takes off on his own to experience the 137th anniversary of Gettysburg at the Pennsylvania battlefield. He then spends the 4th of July at the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. The solo trip winds through the north woods of New Hampshire and Maine, into Quebec and on through the almost constant rain of the Canadian Maritimes. There is an emotional stop in his place of birth in Vermont and an even more wrenching visit with his dementia-stricken mother in a Connecticut nursing home. The ride home, by freeway and ferry boat, covers much of the Atlantic Coastline. Beginning at a secluded cabin on Nova Scotia's Cape Breton Island, and making historical stops at Campobello, Plymouth, Newport, Kitty Hawk and Charleston, the author meets a wide range of travelers and at one point becomes a tourist attraction himself. It is a very personal journey.
Excerpt from The Atlantic Coast:
July 4, 2002: Mist covers the ground when I step outside; even the clouds are tired. I can already tell that I'm in for another hot day. The t-shirt that I hung out last night is still damp from the early morning humidity. I leave before it gets any warmer; at least the damp t-shirt will keep me cool for a few miles.
There is almost no traffic as I head north on Route 7, but progress is slow through the small towns that cherish their stoplights as if they were jeweled pendants. Main Street in Unadilla is lined with old homes that were probably on their third coat of paint before the first World Series was played. I like the sense of history — especially early on the 4th of July.
I'm only an hour from Cooperstown, and I cannot imagine a better day to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame. Baseball has fallen from its preeminence, but it was woven through the fabric of my life as a child. We played all summer on neighborhood sandlots. We collected cards, knew all the players, and followed them all season. We had heroes. Players back then seemed larger than life. Maybe they were, or maybe it was because we were young, but I prefer to think that times were different. Compared to the white water of football, baseball is a deep, placid pool. Its beauty lies in its history, and the characters that played it revealed its character.
Cooperstown is as neat as the infield at Fenway Park. The Hall of Fame is nestled quietly among other buildings. It fits in seamlessly. I was looking for something grander and almost missed it. There is an open parking place right on the street. I wonder if the other Halls are this accessible.
Upon entry two statues greet me: Babe Ruth and Ted Williams. If only two men were to be picked to personify baseball, it would be this pair; one from the Yankees and one from the Red Sox. The Red Sox have Boston across the chest of their road uniforms but they belong to all of New England. As a kid growing up in Vermont, my hopes would rise and fall with them. My father would come home and ask “How'd the Red Sox do?” followed closely by “How'd Williams do?” The Red Sox always chased the Yankees (and the Indians and the White Sox) in those years but Williams chased no one. He was the best. My father spoke his name respectfully. Grown men can have heroes too; I know from experience.
Rounding a corner I am stopped in my tracks by a sculpture outside the window. I instantly recognize Johnny Podres and Roy Campanella. Podres is in follow through and Campy has the ball in his mitt. A stone path that has to be 60' 6” in length connects them. It is 1955.
Every fall, with the Red Sox out of the World Series picture and the Yankees going again as if were their birthright, I'd become a Brooklyn Dodger fan, hoping against hope that the Yankees would lose. The Dodgers could never quite get there, losing to the Yankees in '49, '52 and '53 despite having that wonderful cast of characters (Robinson, Reese, Snider, Campanella, Hodges, Furillo, Erskine). They were truly America's Team, long before other franchises in other sports used that term as an advertising gimmick.
The world (outside of the Bronx) pulled for ‘Da Bums.' In 1955 they did it! Podres beat the Yanks twice (earning the inaugural series MVP award) and all was finally right with the world. I feel every minute of it looking at that sculpture. This alone is worth the trip. The gloves, bats, balls, seats, scorecards and recordings are great but this sculpture is triumph frozen in time, and at this moment a tiny part of it is mine.
Jackie Robinson's letter to Horace Stoneham, informing him of his decision to retire rather than accept a trade to the arch-rival Giants is here. It's a class letter from a class man and it is truly from another time. It speaks volumes about the changes in the game and those who play it. I see Nolan Ryan's plaque, and note that his cap is from the Texas Rangers instead of the Houston Astros. I'm reminded of the foolish owner who declared Ryan washed-up. But, above everything else, this is a place of peace, built from the dreamy heat of a million afternoons where grown men played a child's game in the bright sunshine.
Leaving Cooperstown I hit the highway and soon find myself stopped in Springfield Center, New York by a 4th of July parade. I noticed the staging area in a field as I rode in but had no idea what was going on. I thought it was a BBQ or something. The street has been blocked and the parade is about to start.
The two cars ahead of me make a U-Turn and head off looking for an alternate route. I just pull over on a lawn and decide to sit and watch. The parade starts, the bands play, the beauty queens wave and the crowd lustily cheers each group of firemen that march by. After a while I find myself looking down the street for the end of the parade. It seems eternal, as if more bands and firemen are emerging from the earth itself.
I wrestle with the idea of heading back the way I came and finding another route. Finally I mount up. Heading back out of town I notice that the staging area has emptied out. I swing down the road just in time to situate myself behind a golf cart with a sign on its back announcing “The End.” I decide to follow it. Just ahead of the golf cart are a group of horsemen. I try to keep my pipes quiet and dodge the road apples as we enter the main street. I am, for all intents and purposes, in the parade.
A young girl points at me and shouts “Best in Show.” I smile and wave. A group of bikers lining the curb stare at me in disbelief. I smile and wave. I am pulling a true Easy Rider stunt. I notice that the parade is heading into a park and that police and spectators block the road where I want to go. I ease my bike slowly into the crowd, smiling and waving. The crowd parts and I soon find myself heading out of town, looking at the line of cars that were trapped on the other end of the parade route. I smile and wave.
By the time I pass through Jamestown and Saratoga Springs the heat has begun to rival yesterday in intensity. In fact the pavement is so hot in Saratoga Springs that my back tire fails to grab in the middle of an intersection and I have to right myself with a stomp of my boot and quick twist of the handlebars. I wonder if any of the drivers stopped there appreciate this incredibly cool move. I also begin to wonder how far north I'll have to ride before the heat lets up.
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