Return Home

 Denise escorting me home

Prayer of thanksgiving for a safe return

Day 93 -99  My return home

    When I left the service at St. Helena’s Chapel the weather was cooler with overcast skies.  This is wonderful for cycling.  I headed northwest into the Berkshires Mountains.  It came as a surprise to me that western Mass. is so forested.  The GPS led me away from pavement and brought me along rugged logging roads. The frequent logging trucks were a source of great anxiety. 

     This route led me up a route which could not be cycled.  I pushed my bike up a curving road having no idea when (and if) I would ever reach the top.  After the first mile I stopped getting a GPS signal.  After the second mile the skies opened up with a torrential downpour which hit me before I could get out my rain gear.  After a third mile the road forked and my GPS was useless.  I decided to disregard the counsel of Robert Frost and take the road most travelled. 

    Sometime later, an SUV came rambling along with Pennsylvania plates.  Out hopped a lovely lady in strange attire and offered to help.  She was returning from a local Renaissance festival (which explained her peculiar outfit) and had also been led astray by her GPS.  She invited me to put my bike and gear into the car and we could seek civilization together.  Almost immediately, the rain stopped, we reached the top of the hill and the road had become paved.  Feeling that I was owed the coast downhill on this pavement, I really wanted to order her to stop and let me out.  I refrained from doing so because we had only driven a hundred yards such a request would sound crazy.  We had, however, an enjoyable conversation about how we have all lost our sense of direction due to an overdependence upon GPS.  She drove me another 10 miles and dropped me off when we found a  sign indicated the direction to Bernardston. 

     Tracy and Bill Murray were former parishioners from Nantucket who now live in Bernardston.  I met up with them and explored Shelburne Falls, a lovely town built along the banks of the Deerfield River near where it flows into the Connecticut.  The river has carved an interesting valley through the area which makes it very attractive for tubing and canoeing.  I was so grateful to catch up with them and wished I could have stayed longer.

     On Monday morning, I cycled to Amherst, and am grateful for the hospitality of Lukey Nuthman who was preparing for some upcoming solo major bike trips.   I am grateful for her hospitality and hope that I was able to offer some useful information in preparation for her trip.  I left her house and stopped by the home and museum of Emily Dickenson.  I can now see how the lovely rolling hills combined with the austere 19^th century congregational community; have combined to provide the background for her beautiful and mysterious poetry.

     On Tuesday, I on and stayed at the house of Clif and Arleen Read in Shutesbury.  They are avid cyclists and have followed much of the same route I have taken on this trip.  I wish I had consulted them before embarking; they have much wise counsel to offer.  It was a source of sadness that I arrived on the anniversary of the death of their son, Charlie who had succumbed to a severe epileptic seizure.  They have been able to use their love of cycling as a fund raising instrument for the Epilepsy Foundation.  They are members of the Quaker community and have adopted the linguistic habit of referring to each other as “Thee”- an intimate greeting (in contrast to the formal “you”).  Most English speakers have dropped the use of formal and informal pronouns and I fear our speech is impoverished because of this.

    Wednesday night was a short day and I only had to cycle 20 miles from Amherst to Belchertown (an unfortunate town name).  Jan and Richard Prager prepared a meat free meal which was so delicious that it inspires me to become a vegetarian. 

   On Thursday, I cycled on to Sturbridge and was hosted at the lovely lakeside home of Mark Farrell.  I was able to able to jump into the lake after a long day pedaling which was source of great joy.  The lake carries the unfortunate name “Lead mine Lake” leaving one with the impression that it contains toxins.  The water, however, was cool, clean and refreshing and I realize what a blessing such places are in New England. 

    My mother and sister, Catherine, had arranged to meet me for my penultimate night in Worcester, Mass.   It was so wonderful to be able to spend time with them after being separated from them for three months.  We rented an apartment for the night and I was able to fill them in on some of the places I had seen along the way.  By prior arrangement, they would be bringing my gear to Saugus and I would bike my last day unencumbered.

    The absence of the 60 pound cart made me feel as though I could fly.  The route from Worcester to Saugus is lovely with many farm stands along the way.  Designated bike routes are available for half of the trip.  This makes it possible to imagine that I was not cycling through a very densely populated region (for the first time since Chicago).  That day I had to cycle 60 miles (a great distance for me), but the absence of baggage and the gradual downhill run towards the sea made it a pleasure.  I was so looking forward to seeing Denise and the community at St. John’s, Saugus. 

     Ten miles before I reached my home, a loose strap became entangled in my rear gears and derailleur.  This caused me to yell coarse words to the elements.  I had to carry my bike to a parking lot of a Dunkin Donuts in Medford and began removing my rear wheel.

      Denise was able to follow my progress on her GPS and found it unseemly that with only 10 miles to go I had stopped for donuts.  The removal of the strap and re-aligning of the derailleur was a large production, and my pride would not allow me to call up Denise to pick me up.  I am so very grateful that yet another angel, Chris Legere, pulled into the parking lot and had the necessary tools and expertise to correct the problem.

     As I approached home, Denise continued to follow me on the GPS, and went out to meet me on the bike path when I was a mile away.  It was such a joy to finally pull into a driveway I had not seen for 3 months and to be greeted by Denise, her sister Valerie visiting from Milan, and Harry Coverston, a priest from Orlando who was filling in for me for part of my absence.

      The next morning I was able to sit with Denise in church, which I rarely get the opportunity to do.  Harry offered a prayer of Thanksgiving for my safe return and blessed Denise and me in that this was our 41^st wedding anniversary.  Harry offered a beautiful prayer marking my return

     “Gracious G-d, we offer you our gratitude that you have granted our Brother, John, a welcome return home.

     We thank you that he has been preserved from all harm and, encircled by your holy angels, traveled safely across this land to his journey’s end.  And we thank you for your abiding presence with Denise, his wife, his family, and this community during his absence.

    May his coming home bring new gifts, new life, new hope.  We thank your that which all who return home bring us.

·         A sense of freshness

·         A reminder that there is a world out there beyond the one we kow

·         And the assurance that life goes on, life is good, and tha tour connection to you, O G-d, can neer be broken no matter how far we roam.

Amen

     There are other reflections that I will be adding to this blog later, but I wanted to thank all those people who have demonstrated kindness, love and prayers for me during this pilgrimage.  I have developed the habit of reflecting regularly on the meditation offered by Vivek Murthy, the U.S. Surgeon General

“…think about the people who have loved you over the years, the people who have been there for you during difficult times, who have supported you without judging you, and who stood by your side even when it was hard.  Think about the people who have celebrated of moments of greatest joy with you, the people who say your successes as theirs, the people who derived such pleasure and fulfillment from seeing you happy.  Feel their love flowing through you, lifting you up, brightening your mood, and filling your heart.  And know that that love is always there, even if they are not physically with you, because you carry that love in your heart.  And know that you are and always will be worthy of that love.  It came to you because you deserved it.”

Matt Albert in Pittsfield whipping up a stew

 

Day 92 Pittsfield back to Lenox and on to Bernardston, Massachusetts

 

Day 92 Pittsfield back to Lenox and on to Bernardston, Massachusetts

 

    After some time in the chapel I arose and got on my bike and continued on to the house of Matt Albert who was preparing dinner for me.  Although the ride from that rural chapel to downtown Pittsfield is only 7 miles, as a child the city existed beyond the horizon of my imagination.  Sidewalks and places of commerce were not part of my childhood experience.

.

    Matt is an expert on bike wheels.  It is a testimony to my ignorance that I did not think that there was much to know about bike wheels.  When I described the collapse of my rear wheel in Washington State, he immediately looked on line to examine the specifications of the wheel.  When read the diameter of the spokes and how many where connected to the rim, he concluded “of course it fell apart.  It was cheaply constructed.”  He described with some detail a recent two day course of wheel building at the cost of 2,000 dollars (800 for instruction and 1,200 for the materials), I began to realize that bicycle wheels are, in fact, a work of art which can either be lovingly crafted or carelessly stamped out of an assembly line.  It is hard to believe that one can have a delightful evening discussing the subtle nuance of bike wheels, but Matt has an infectious enthusiasm for the subject.

 

     I woke up on Sunday morning and felt compelled to backtrack 7 miles and attend worship in Lenox that morning.  It was an uphill climb to get to the chapel, but it was strangely invigorating to see the familiar farms and breathe in the familiar smells once again.

 

     When I arrived at the chapel to worship for the first time in over 50 years, I was disappointed to see that someone was already in my pew.  Though I knew it would be inappropriate to point this out, I chose another spot- where once upon a time, the woman with the dead fox around her neck sat.

 

     After a moment of silence, the celebrant rose to offer the liturgical greeting, and it took my breath away.  I remembered my father vested and standing in that spot.  He was in his early 30’s then, and it is hard to believe that he was once so young.  When I last sat in that place, I believed that adults knew how things worked.   Periodically, I would ponder how they knew the answer to life’s question such as: when to get up in the morning and when to go to bed? How do we decide what to wear each day? what do you prepare for dinner?,  when is it permissible to open presents on Christmas morning?, when can we go swimming?, when is it permissible to ignore rules?  How do you know if you’re sick enough to miss school? How long does it take to grow up?

 

     To the extent I thought about it all, I thought that there must a master book of answers to question much like inside the lid of board games.  It is always a source of comfort to know that there is someone close by who appeared to know the rules.

 

     It was unsettling to consider that as my father stood there as a very young man, he was every bit as confused and uncertain as I have been most of my life.  Like me, he made up rules and presented them as if they were commandments carved on tablets.  He would but on the persona of confidence and proclaim, “It is thus!”  I know wonder how he coped with uncertainty and internal conflict.  Adults become experts in hiding such things from children.

 

      The priest preached an excellent sermon Jesus calming of the sea, though his lovely words were eclipsed by the delightful periodic gurgles of a toddler in the back of the church.  I was brought back to a time when my younger sister was brought in the church at that age.  One thing I always enjoyed as a child is watching adults feeling conflicted about whether to smile at delightful interruptions or to stick with doing things “decently and in order”. 

 

      When we went forward for communion, we sang the hymn “Just as I am”.  I have never been particularly fond of that hymn.  The melodramatic minor key has always struck me as emotionally manipulative.  On that morning, however, it reduced me to tears:

 

Just as I am, though tossed about

With many a conflict, many a doubt

Fightings and fears within without

O Lamb of God, I come, I come

 

     After brief conversations with members of the congregation (most of whom had not yet been born when I last attended) I climbed on my bike and, in spite of the rain being forecasted, I began cycling to Bernardston, to visit Bill and Tracy Murray.

Days 89-91 Weedsport, N.Y. to Pittsfield, Mass.

 

Days 89-91

Weedsport, N.Y. to Pittsfield, Mass.

      I left Weedsport intending to visit my cousin, Andy Beach, for the first time in many years. As I was cycling towards Delta Lake State Park where he keeps a camper for much of the summer, received a text that his wife, Michelle, has just tested positive for Covid. Though I was very disappointed, this unexpected turn of events allowed to get caught up on my schedule. My sister and mother are scheduled to meet me in Worcester, Mass. on Friday, August 18th and I needed to speed up to make it there on time.

      As mentioned in a previous post, I called Denise who agreed to meet me in Amsterdam, N.Y. and to spend a day exploring that section of the trail. This thrilled me and encouraged me to pedal faster so as to be there when she arrived. The bike trail is particularly attractive in approaching Amsterdam. The surface is improved and the rider can view the rolling hills as the trail hugs the banks of the Mohawk River.

      After exploring the area for a day, Denise offered me and my bike a ride to Lee, Mass on her way back to Saugus. It just so happened that this saved me a 1,500 foot climb up the Berkshire Mountains. She dropped me off in town and I headed north to Pittsfield, Mass. I was planning to bike through the outskirts of Lenox, where I spent a good bit of my childhood and still holds a special place in my heart.

     If you inform the GPS that you are cycling between points you are directed away from all paved roads. This is not always desirable. In this instance, it took me along the gravel road which passes through the October Mountain State Forest which would do significant damage to automobiles. The hills were steep and the terrain more treacherous than anything I had experienced in South Dakota. There had been heavy rain the previous night which made it necessary to push my bike through a mile of heavy mud. The mosquitoes were ferocious and delighted in attacking someone whose hands are occupied with a rebellious bicycle. Though the scenery was beautiful, I was not in a state to appreciate it.

      After eight miles, the road became paved and the forest gave way to small farms. I had reached New Lenox Road which was the street where I had lived as a young child. The point where the pavement ended was very familiar to me. As a child I was given a bicycle and free rein to explore wherever my curiosity led me. Although my curiosity was great, it was not enough to push me into the forest. The forest appeared to be a hostile place. I now know my hesitation was well founded

     When I reached the familiar pavement, I was transported back in time. The farms and houses of my childhood were still there. The unique smell of the vegetation triggered powerful memories. The road continued over a bridge crossing the Housatonic River. I remembered nearly 60 years ago when that bridge had been completed and was named after a local boy who had been killed in Viet Nam. The naming ceremony contained a real 21 gun salute which made a profound impact on me.

     I peddled half a mile further and reached St. Helena’s Chapel, the small, rural Episcopal Church where my father had served in the 60’s. It was a Saturday afternoon, and I was surprised that the door was unlocked. Upon entering I was able to locate the pew I had once sat as a child. The smell of dust, books, bricks, wood stain, flooded my brain. On that quiet Saturday afternoon, I could hear the birds outside sounding just as they had in the distant past.

     Sitting in the pew, I drank in my surroundings and memories of forgotten events returned to me. When I had last sat in that spot, everyone I had ever known was still alive. I remembered some of the people who had once occupied that place. I remember this as a place where even adults became quiet. In my universe, adults were always speaking and I felt that every one of them had something of great importance to say, though I generally found their sentiments incomprehensible. I remembered the woman sitting in front of me who throughout the winter would wear a coat with a collar made of fox. The fox’s head was still attached as she sat he looked at me look with his glass eyes. This both fascinated and repulsed me. I found myself wanting to pet it, but suspected that would be considered inappropriate.

     When I last sat in that place, I was blissfully ignorant of the fact that adults could sometimes be cruel. It was clear to me that children could be cruel (generally demonstrated the millisecond an adult left the room), but the gentle conspiracy of kindness agreed to by adults protected me and my peers from seeing the destruction wrought by fearful and powerful men. Hitler, Stalin, and Pol Pot were names I had not learned. MLK was still alive, students had not been killed at Kent State, and the Pentagon Papers had not been released. It was not considered important that elementary school children know the word “impeach”.

     A large part of this conspiracy of kindness was carried out by those who worshipped every Sunday at St. Helena’s Chapel. These adults who were so strangely quiet in church were delightfully noisy at other times. They created a space which welcomed me and other children. I remember some who clearly found it awkward to talk with children. This created a more level playing field, because I found it difficult to talk with adults.

     When the Trappist monk, Thomas Merton, was hospitalized with a serious illness, he fell in love with his nurse. He wrote this poem to express the awkwardness and power of this love:

Love is not itself

Until it knows it is frail

And can go wrong

It does not run

Like a well-oiled machine…

Love runs best

When it seems to break down…

     None of the people gathered in that church ever stated that they loved me. I certainly never stated that I loved them. It was the gentle (and sometimes very peculiar) souls that gathered in that place touched me as I sat alone in that chapel.

     I was reminded of the wonderful passage written by Frederick Buechner in his book “The Sacred Journey” about the great figures of his childhood:

“…How they do live, the giants of our childhood, and how well they manage to take even death in their stride because although death can put an end to them right enough, it can never put an end to our relationship with them. Wherever or however else they may have come to life since, it is beyond a doubt that they still live in us. Memory is more than a looking back to a time that is no longer; it is a looking out into another kind of time altogether where everything that ever was continues not just to be, but to grow and change with the life that is in it still. The people we loved. The people who loved us. The people who, for good or ill, taught us things. Dead and gone though they may be, as we come to understand them in new ways, it is as though they come to understand us-through them we come to understand ourselves-in new ways too. Who knows what the “communion of saints” means, but surely it means more than just that ware all of us haunted by ghosts because they are not ghosts, these people we once knew, not just echoes of voices that have years since ceased to speak, but saints in the sense that through them something of the power and richness of lift itself not only touched us once long ago, but continues to touch us. They have their own business to get on with now, I assume-“increasing in knowledge and love of Thee” says the Book of Common Prayer, and moving “from strength to strength” which sounds like business enough for anybody-and one imagines all of us on this shore fading for them as they journey ahead toward whatever ne shore may await them; but is as if they carry something of us on their way as we assuredly carry something of them on ours. That is perhaps why to think of them is a matter not only of remembering them as they used to be but of seeing and hearing them as in some sense they are now. If they had things to say to us then, they have things to say to us now too, nor are they by any means always things we expect or the same things.”

     I know now that horrible things were happening in the world as I lived in that place in blissful ignorance. I am, however, grateful their conspiracy delayed the day when I would eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

     I climbed back on my bicycle to continue to ride to Pittsfield, where Matt Albert was preparing dinner for me. The silence of the ride allowed me to digest the thoughts and feelings welling up inside of me.

Day 88 Lyons to Weedsport

 

Day 88 Lyons to Weedsport

     Monday was as nasty as Sunday had been beautiful.  The air was heavy with an oppressive humidity.  I had originally planned to camp today, but I received these ominous alerts about violent thunderstorms.  After an extensive argument in my head (I do not need others to have an argument, I can do it all myself), I decided to splurge on a motel room. 

     Ten minutes after I pulled my bike and cart into the room, the skies opened up and poured out one of the most intense rainstorm I have ever seen.  We received 3 inches of rain in an hour accompanied by deafening thunder.  The solidity of the walls, and dryness of the bed became a source of great comfort.  I pulled out my phone and discovered that there were tornado warnings throughout the region.

     An hour later, the rain stopped, the sky cleared, and air cooled.  There were several large trees across the street which had been knocked down, but our building was unharmed.   On the walkway outside of our motel room my two neighbors pulled out some chairs along with their fiddle and flute.  They began to play a haunting Irish tune which seemed fitting for the atmosphere after the deluge.

     The musicians introduced themselves as Chris O’Brien and John Kennedy-two members of the band “Kennedy’s Kichen” I invite you to look at their website.

     John is also an economics professor who has spoke about how current economic policies have exacerbated our growing socio economic divide.  The retrieved a bottle of whisky from their room and we toasted the end of the storm and the healing and inspirational power of music.  We stayed there outside of our room well into the night.  It was evening very well spent.

Meeting with Denise in Amsterdam!

 

     I remember reading the account of a 16^th century explorer who sailed across the Atlantic.  He wrote that after weeks of travel, it was a source of enormous joy and relief to see birds for the first time.  This indicated to him that land was not far off.

     I felt like this when Denise came out visit me near Amsterdam, New York.  It is the first time in over a month that I have been able to see her and we explored that beautiful region together.  We stayed at a lovely bed and breakfast in hills overlooking the city.  It was so wonderful to spend time with her and I am so much looking forward to arriving at home next week.

Day 86 Brockport to Rochester

 Susan B. Anthony and Frederick Douglas in Deep conversation

Coleridge Gill, my gracious host in Rochester

Day 86 Brockport to Rochester

     On Saturday morning all of the cyclists broke camp, half headed east and half headed west.  I peddled east towards Rochester and on a day which was unseasonably cool.  I am grateful that I have avoided much of the horrible weather which has plagued many in the country.  There are small towns containing pubs looking out over the canal.  Between the towns are several wooded areas in which you can observe deer and rabbits peering from among the trees.

     I spent Saturday night with Coleridge Gill in Rochester.  Coleridge is a retired banker whose great passions are cross country skiing, bicycling, and canoeing.  He worked in the bank for 30 years to pay the bills and to enable to participate in his real vocation.  He boasted that if you are over 40 have learned to ski in Rochester; you have taken lessons from him.  He spoke with great fondness of his cross country ski trips in Quebec, Austria, and Switzerland.  He recounted the 100 km marathon two day ski trip from Lachute, Quebec to Ottawa.  To get credit for completion, the pack carrying your gear must weigh at least 15 kilograms.  Upon rising in the morning, your pack is weighed again and if it underweight rocks are added to make up the difference. He described the campsite located at the midpoint where you strip off your sweaty clothes, climb into a sleeping bag, and arise before dawn to complete the trip in sub-zero temperatures.  He recounted his bicycle trips deep into the bush in Saguenay-Lac St. Jean region of Quebec.  He has also canoed deep into the waterways of Algonquin Park in Northern Ontario.

     He shared his frustration over his current physical limitations, but continues to derive inspiration from the places he has been able to visit by human means of locomotion.  After he grilled some hamburgers for us to have for dinner, he drove me around the city.  Rochester is a beautiful city with many gracious homes which serve as a reminder of a day when many captains of industry made the city their own.  The mansions have largely been remodeled into apartments, but still evoke a sense of grandeur.

    We visited the house of Susan B. Anthony and the neighboring park which featured a statue of her and Frederick Douglas having a conversation on a park bench (very much like the statue of John Lennon sitting on a park bench in Havana-inviting passersby to stop and have a conversation). 

     In the morning I went to the local Lutheran Church which warmly welcomed and me and invited me to a lunch they were serving.  I declined telling them that I had to get to Lyons that evening.

The Evening in Brockport

 Camping amidst the yachts

A beer with Jacob Cohenb

Day 85 Oakfield-Brockport

 

Day 85 Oakfield-Brockport

     With my repaired tire and a bag filled with fresh baked goodies and freshly picked fruit, I started biking to the Erie Canal Bike Trail.   This beautiful trail crosses the state from Buffalo to Albany along the tow path of the canal.  It connects with the recently completed bike trail from the Canadian Border to New York City.

      Once a major transportation route, the canal is now used almost exclusively for recreational travel for both yachts and bikes.  At every town and every one of the 35 locks they welcome campers as well as the boats which tie up for the night.  There are warm showers, restaurants, and pleasant company to be found along the way. 

    I reached the bike trail at the town of Holley and started heading east.  The day was sunny and cooler and I was grateful to find a cluster of tents pitched by cyclists and began to set up camp.  There is a lockmaster who greets the cyclists and boats and supplies information about local services.  My conversation with him was frequently interrupted as he had to cycle the locks to allow the crafts to pass through.  He informed me that during Covid these attractive, unmonitored campsites were a magnet for many in the state who had lost their homes.  It is intended for someone to spend one night and then to be on their way.  In the summer of 2021 an entire village of tents popped up housing those who had been evicted from rental properties in central New York.  This gave the yachters a glimpse into how pandemic affected the lives of those who are most economically vulnerable.

     Among the cyclists camping there was Jacob Cohen who arrived about the same time as me.  He was heading west as I was heading east and we were able to share notes about the delights and frustrations we could expect the following day.  After our tents were pitched we went to one of the pubs in the banks of canal for a beer and discussed what we had learned about our trip.  After graduating with a degree in music at Cornell where he was the concert master, he has begun law school at the University of Michigan.  He is particularly interested in the legal aspects of promoting orchestral performances.  For the past several years he has been the U.S. development officer for the Academy of St. Martin’s in the field.  In between these commitments, he contemplates his future during trans-continental bike trips (this is his second such trip).  He prefers to cycle alone because it gives him a chance to contemplate why he is doing the things that he is doing.  He is also looking for possible future venues for the Academy in the future.

     The canal trail alternates between wooded and agricultural regions.  The small towns along the way have developed their waterfront to be attractive and hospitable to travelers.  There are also frequent historical markers along the way describing the role this canal has had in the development of this region and the entire continent.  In Brockport I met cyclists from Poland, Germany, and Ireland who were able to see a part of the country that citizens often miss.  There are also many sail boats travelling from Chicago and Toronto to the Bahamas.  It is necessary for them to lower their masts and raise their dagger board for the duration of the canal and re-assemble then when they reach the Hudson River. 

The Seneca Nation

 The sign encountered when entering the Seneca Nation.  

The fields of Barley which cover much of the Seneca Nation.

Rooted in Love

 Biking picking up me and my wounded bicycle

Mike admiring the crops

Jan with her baked goods

Day 84 East Aurora to Oakfield, New York

 

Day 84 East Aurora to Oakfield, New York

     It was such a nice visit with Pete and Jane.  Pete offered to give me a lift to my next stop, but I feel it would make me slothful.  I have fallen into a rhythm of having a strawberry milkshake every day for lunch.  I have discovered that this is inadvisable if I am not working it off by pedaling.

     The farms and the villages in western New York are beautiful.  I began cycling towards the Erie Canal Bike Trail.  I am grateful that Jan Goodenbery and Mike Vickner have agreed to host me at their farm “Rooted in Love”.  This involved heading north and passing through the Seneca reservation with its lovely barley fields and frequent marijuana dispensaries.

     I was making pretty good time cycling through the relatively flat and sparsely populated part of the state.  Three miles before their house my rear tire became punctured.  I telephoned Jan and told her that I was going to be delayed.  She responded “I’m sorry, sweetie.  I shall send Mike to pick you up.”  Fifteen minutes later, a van pulled up along the highway and a bearded gentleman with a straw hat hopped out.  He put my bike and cart in the van and handed me a beer to sip on while he delivered some flowers.

   Jan and Mike run an organic flower garden and farm which they have named “Rooted in Love”.  Much of their summer is spent preparing for the twice weekly local farmers market where they sell flowers, fresh vegetables and baked goods.  They also have a long tradition of hosting strangers like me.  I arrived around 7 p.m. while Jan was clipping the flowers in this beautiful garden which extended from their house.   I asked if I could help in any way, and she handed me a pair of clippers.  We then spent a very pleasant two hours on that cool August evening with the fire flies lighting up the space in which we were working.  They have a dachshund named Penny who took immense joy in being with us as we gathered the flowers.

     When we finished, we had a wonderful stew which Mike had prepared earlier that day using some of the chickens they have raised.  I felt very sleep and asked to go to bed.  I felt badly when I discovered in the morning that Jan had worked until after midnight putting the flowers into attractive bouquets.  She began work again at 5:30 in the morning making cookies and cinnamon rolls which they also sell at the market.  When I got out of bed in the morning, the entire house smelled of baking.  It was a wonderful experience.

I helped them to get their things into the van and they gave me some of the freshly baked cookies and fresh fruit for my trip. 

     After their departure, I sat down on their front porch to change my tire.  Changing a tire on the front porch of the farm house surrounded by beautiful flowers can be a contemplative and calming task.  Changing a tire on the side of busy highway with the sun beating down on you is hell.

     Jan and Mike have welcomed many guests into their home over the past few years.  Though they work hard for long hours, they enjoy conversations with the various people who float through.  Their kindness and generosity gave me much to think about as I cycled to Erie Canal with my functional wheel.

Day 83 Hamburg New York-East Aurora, New York

 

Day 83 Hamburg New York-East Aurora, New York

     I am grateful for the hospitality of Eileen and Gordon.  They have a lovely large house with a peaceful garden.  They made their washing machine available, and I felt more civilized having clean clothes.  Their back yard was a wonderful place to do some tune ups on my bicycle.

     I left on Tuesday afternoon and cycled eastward to East Aurora (which, strangely, is west of Aurora)  to see Jane Robbins and Pete Westphal.  Jane retired from being the Dean of the School of Information Studies and Pete had worked for Amtrak and knows everything about transportation systems.  Like Eileen and Gordon, they had left sunny Tallahassee to make a new life in Western New York State (bucking the trend of rust belters heading south). 

    Western New York has lovely rolling hills and idyllic small farms.  Evidently the soil is not favorable to larger farming operations, which means that there are fewer intrusions by huge agribusinesses.  East Aurora itself is an elegant community which has attracted intellectuals and artisans for over a century.  It grew considerably in the early 20^th century as a result of the Roycroft Community-a utopian community started by Elbert Hubbard.  Hubbard was a pacifist who spoke of the possibility of a universal socialism.  He raised money to travel to England to give a series of lectures promoting his views.  Sadly, he never made it because he sailed on the Lusitania.

     Peter and I chatted for some time about the wonderful network of rail lines throughout the state during the first half the 20^th centuries.  Many of these have been converted to bicycle trails which has made the region very accessible. 

Ann Arbor, Michigan to Western New York State Day 82-82

 

Ann Arbor, Michigan to Western New York State Day 82-82

     I have fallen a bit behind schedule so rented a car for a day to bring me from Ann Arbor to Buffalo.  I keep forgetting how big New York State is.  Buffalo is twice as far from New York City as it is from Detroit.  Culturally, geographically, and politically Buffalo is part of the Midwest.

    I visited Drs Eileen Groth and Gordon Lyon in Hamburg, New York.  I had known them while at Florida State and they moved north at the same time Denise and I did. Gordon works for the New York Supreme Court and Eileen is a professor of European History at the State University of New York in Fredonia.  In the aftermath of the tragic death of their son, Eileen has been working on a book on The Religious Life in the Gusen Concentration Camp she shared with me an article expressing some of these observations taken from the Journal of Church History and Religious Culture.  In the first sentence she writes of the struggle to resist dehumanization and maintain a sense of identity and dignity is a crucial force in the lives of survivors.

     She now teaches the course in holocaust studies and is working as a volunteer to glean from fragments of documents those who perished in the camps.  We went out to dinner in a local pub and I have been left pondering how our personal, individual tragedies might create within us greater compassion.

    Later that night I pondered psalm 51 “Create in me a clean heart, and renew an upright spirit within me.”  I fear that the remainder of this year and next year will be a time of great social turbulence and polarization.  I am seeking my resist the dehumanization of this time and maintain a sense of identity and dignity.

Day 78-81 South Bend to Ann Arbor, Michigan

 

Day 78-81 South Bend to Ann Arbor, Michigan

      The ride from Valparaiso to South Bend took considerably longer than I had anticipated.  My GPS informed me that cycling these 60 miles should take about 6 hours.  It took me over 10 hours.  I have to come to terms with the fact that insofar as I am pulling a heavy trailer and I am not the greatest athlete,  I have to double the projected time if I am able to keep to any sort of schedule.  I arrived in South Bend at 10 p.m. and had to navigate 90 minutes in the dark.   I have lost my bike light along the way and I believed that I would always be in bed by the time it got dark. Navigating through a strange, poorly lit, and busy city in the dark was very stressful.

    In the morning I continued to Ann Arbor, Michigan and was grateful to re-connect with Tish Shapiro, and high school classmate of mine.  One of the upside of facebook (there are many down sides) is that it puts connects us with many people from our past.  I am very grateful for her hospitality and meeting her dog, Ava.  She was given the name because of her uncanny resemblance to the actress, Ava Gardner.

     This is the second time on my journey when I have been able to visit someone I had not seen in over 40 years.  It is a very revealing thing to compare notes on your recollection of a shared history.  I am very grateful for her kindness and hospitality.

Some Indiana Surf

 

Day 76-77 Chicago to Valparaiso, Indiana

 

Day 76-77 Chicago to Valparaiso, Indiana

     Although hot, it was a beautiful bike ride from Chicago to Valparaiso.  I decided to break the trip into two days and spend the night in Lansing, Illinois.  It was my intention to camp, but when I rested a half hour before the campsite, the oppressive heat combined with the cloud of mosquitoes attracted to me inspired me to get a hotel room.

     The extreme humidity caused my room door to swell and it did not close properly when I went to bed.  At approximately 2 a.m. someone walked into the room stating “There you are!”  I jumped out of bed and shouted “This is not your room.  You must leave now!”  He did not leave but approached me which made me extremely anxious.  “Don’t freak out” he said, “It’s me.”  I repeated my demand that he leave the room, but he came even closer and touched my arm.  “You must leave the room now!!!”  He asked me “Why do you keep saying that?”  This is an epistemological question for which I was not prepared.   I was pondering if I was socially required to answer the question when his cell phone rang.  He picked up, listened to the voice on the other end, hung up and left.  In the hour it took me to get back to sleep I was pondering if I should have thrown in my lot with the heat and mosquitoes. 

    Although much of the urban development along the southern shore of Lake Michigan has experienced the collapse of industry and subsequent depression, Valparaiso is a surprisingly lovely town.  I am grateful that Minna Harlan, a former parishioner from Switzerland was willing to host me for what turned out to be two nights.

     Minna had recently retired from JP Morgan Bank (the company for which she also worked in Geneva) and is extremely active in her retirement.  I am very grateful for her kind hospitality and her willingness to listen.  It appears that she, also, had a strange man wander into her apartment the very same night as my nocturnal interchange.  He had fallen asleep on her couch and woke her up when she heard him sneeze.  I have since been checking out the corners of rooms to see what other surprises are lurking there.

     She has two parallel lives; one with her German speaking parents and siblings in Hamburg and the other with her English speaking descendants in Indiana.   She seems to navigate these two environments with ease and takes joy in the occasional moments when they intersect.  There had been some more changes with my planned route, so she graciously allowed me to spend a second night there while I planned my next two weeks.

     While there, we spent an afternoon visiting Indiana Dunes National Park as well as the State park adjacent to it.  It was a beautiful place to for a hike on the sandy trails and to climb hills larger than I thought possible in Indiana.  I had lived in Central Indiana for two years as a child and never realized that there were beaches in the state which warned of dangerous undertow.  It is place of great natural beauty of a type that surprised and delighted me.  In cycling from Valparaiso to South Bend I was struck by some of the beautiful architecture of farm houses I passed.  These were miles apart from each other and most contained huge porches offering a view across their farms.  The weather was cooler, the bike paths were welcoming, and I was able to cover 60 miles that day (which is a big deal for me). 

Day 70-75 Chicago

 Berths in the U-boat with a Torpedo in the center.

Bike Trail leaving Chicago.  It is so lovely that one could overlook the fact that it was 90 degrees.

Day 70-75 Chicago

    It was a delight to meet up with my son, Jeremy, and to enjoy the hospitality of Tom Crittenden, who is now the interim priest at Grace Church Hinsdale.  It was also a relief to get off of my bicycle for a few days.

     The transition from rural to urban on a bicycle is striking.  Cycling through South Dakota and Nebraska one observes people valiantly and adjusting the environment.  In the west, it is necessary to demonstrate strength, creativity, loyalty, generosity, and humility to survive in an often hostile place.  In an urban setting you find that our large brains have made it possible to stop adjusting the environment and to force the environment to adjust to us.  In the city, transportation is more accommodating of vehicles.  They are well paved and offer few obstacles to wheeled transport.   They are also very crowded.  One can live out one’s days in a climate controlled environment oblivious to weather.  In the city, you experience the outside world only on sidewalk cafes and manicured parks.  In the city, we try to conquer those natural forces which cause anxiety and discomfort.  In the process, we have convinced ourselves that we are in control of the world and our lives.

     Kurt Vonnegut in his brilliant and disturbing novel “Galapagos” writes about the danger of our “big brains” which can so manipulate the external world that we begin to think of it as our servant rather than our creator.  This is can be seen in the city.

      I was, however, grateful for our ability to live in a climate controlled environment at that particular time because the heat wave which has been bouncing around the country had just settled into Chicago.  The triple digit temperatures caused me to conclude that this would be a good time to visit museums.  Jeremy and I visited the wonderful Museum of Natural History (which I had last visited when I was 14) as well as the Museum of Science and Industry.

     What was of particular interest in this second museum was the actual German U Boat which had been brought to Chicago.  There was a fascinating video of how it was towed from storage of the coast of New England down the St. Lawrence Seaway and to Chicago.  It was hauled across the highway from Lake Michigan to the plot of land adjacent to Museum.  The highway was closed for 24 hours to make this possible and I was particularly impressed with a sign donated by a local sign maker “Caution, Submarine Crossing”.  A building was constructed around the submarine to protect it from the elements and the public is invited to tour the vessel. 

     This Submarine (a U505) is the only submarine which had been captured over the course of World War II.  On the tour the guide was able to graphically describe what it was like to serve on such a ship.  There were 55 men, and 30 beds which required they all sleep in ships.  Fresh water was scarce so washing was not possible.  Only the cook and the captain were allowed to wash their hands every day.  With a little imagination, one can evoke the odor which would grow over the course of the journey.  When confronted with depth charges which threatened the vessel, the men would all squeeze into the bow of the craft and submerge quickly.  It was necessary remain absolutely silent as the terror and the stench overwhelmed you.  The lights were turned out and one could hear over the overhead speakers the sound of approaching depth charges.  When all was lost, the vessel surfaced and surrendered.  None of the crew perished and the surrender likely saved their lives.  70 per cent of all U-boat sailors did not survive the war.

     The most striking image was of the torpedoes stored between the bunks.  It evoked the line by Woody Allen’s take on the book of Isaiah “The day will come when the lion will lie down with lamb.  However, neither will get much sleep.”

    Jeremy flew back to Toronto and I continued my cycling transition from an urban back to a rural landscape.  Within an hour of cycling out of the city I encountered rolling hills, shady woods, and corn fields.  Although the temperature was in the ‘90s, the bike paths were shaded and lovely.  I left around noon and cycled to Lansing, Illino