Arriving in Worcester

 It was a joy to be met by my sister and mother in Worcester

Traveling from Amherst to Worcester

 Crossing the Connecticut River near Sunset

Cycling along the banks of the Deerfield River

Clif and Arlene offering a blessing as I departed Shutesbury

 With Mark Farrell at his lakeside cabin in Sturbridge

Bike Path to Sturbridge

Final Week and Epilogue

    The physical act of writing my observations is like trying to catch fish with my bare hands.  We are changed by the people we encounter and the things we have seen.  The nature and extent of this change is rarely immediately clear.  Trying to put into words how I have been shaped by this experience is a slippery endeavor.  It is hard work to compose a truthful narrative of our lives.  Often, we delegate the task to pundits and social commentators who have never met us.  It is necessary, however, to look at our own lives unflinchingly to discern that which is good, beautiful, and true. 

One reason I have procrastinated is that I am lazy and tend to avoid the hard work required for meaningful introspection.  I am often tormented by the Greek maxim that “an unexamined life is not worth living.”  A more pressing reason, however, is that we continue to changed by our conversations and experiences long after we walk away from these encounters.  The people we have met teach us something for the rest of our lives.  We can, at best, offer a poorly focused snapshot of this particular moment.

       In the last week of my bike pilgrimage I cycled the length of Massachusetts.  I had not realized the size and diversity to be found in the commonwealth.  When I cycled from Lee to Pittsfield (a mere 12 miles) I saw people from across the entire socio-economic spectrum.  One can see the affluence of those who have second (or third or fourth) homes in Lenox. They are attracted to the natural beauty, cool summers, and dependable winter skiing.  It is possible to live in such homes and be shielded from the anxiety, struggles, and unpleasantness which poverty often entails.  There are small cattle farms which have become economically difficult to maintain and have added to the economic insecurity of the region.  The city of Pittsfield has lost 20 per cent of its population in the 30 years since its largest employer (General Electric) pulled out of the region.  In my conversation with Matt Albert, I discovered that the decline would be larger had it not been for the fact that many people from the Boston area on disability have been attracted by lower housing cost.  The proximity of Pittsfield to Lenox has been a source of growing resentment between the winners and losers of current economic trends. 

     Cycling East of Pittsfield towards Bernardston, allowed me to see that there is a significant lumber industry in the state.  Though I was resentful that my GPS led me up steep gravel roads away from any glimpse population center, it did give me an opportunity to see that there are many beautiful and remote places in the state.  I was surprised that there are many places in Massachusetts which are beyond the reach of cell phone signal.  This had not happened since I left Wyoming a month earlier.  I was so very grateful that yet another angel, Pat Malloy, picked me up in the forest and drove me to where the roads were paved and cell phone service was available.  I have come to realize throughout this trip that the world is filled people who are seeking to perform acts of kindness and love. 

     She drove me to the paved road and I began to feel more confident, but was still without a signal. The road led me to a rural pub outside of Ashfield, which gave me access to the internet.  There was only one other patron in the pub, and I was grateful for the human companionship.  The bartender was talkative and asked how I happened to find such a remote location.  When I told her my story, she went to the back to retrieve the owner.  He asked several probing questions, took my picture to put on the bulletin board, and gave a beer on the house.  The only customer (a new grandmother named Barbie) joined in the conversation and shared her pizza with me.

    I asked the owner his business was doing in the aftermath of Covid.   The pandemic had been hard, but he thinks that he will be able to stay in business.  He relies on the patronage of skiers which keeps him afloat during the warm months.  I asked him why he remained open if he lost money all summer.  He smiled and told me “on the off chance that someone like you would come in.”  Though I knew that this was a joke, it did warm my heart.

     Bill and Tracey Murray, friends from Nantucket, met me in Shelburne, Mass.   We walked around that beautiful village festooned with flowers.  The Deerfield and Connecticut Rivers join close to the town center.  We watched dozy tubers float down the river, which made me want to jump in to join them.  While crossing the “Bridge of Flowers” crossing the Deerfield River Tracey, standing behind me discretely took a video of me to send to Denise.  

     I was surprised to see such diverse natural beauty in a state I had always considered urban.  After experiencing the soothing power of the falls, they kindly loaded my bike and trailer into their car (the second time someone had transported me and my stuff that day) and we went to their lovely home in forested area outside of Bernardston, near the Vermont border.  They kindly offered to do my laundry (which sorely needed washing) and we spent the evening telling stories, drinking their wine, and eating a lovely dinner.  Sometimes I forget how precious these delights can be.

     In the morning, I cycled down to Amherst and spent a few hours walking around that town of scholars and artists.  I visited the home of Emily Dickinson and read some of her haunting poetry.  Some people spend large sums of money to sit in her library, where she had done much of her writing, to soak up her spirit.  The museum is grateful for their contributions.  Amherst is also the home of the poet, Robert Frost, as well as Noah Webster (of dictionary fame).  It is the home to five universities and many bookstores. 

     That night I was the guest of Lukey Nuthman who kindly welcomed me into her home.  She is planning a solo trip along some of the same routes I had taken, so we spent the evening pouring over maps.  She is the process of selling her lovely 19^th century home in the middle of beautiful garden and spend some time exploring the area by bike.  Her kindness and love of beautiful things touched me as I went on my way. 

    After leaving Amherst, I cycled to Shutesbury and was grateful to meet Clif and Arlene Read.  While cycling along a gravel road I came upon a black bear sitting along the side of the road.  It acknowledged my presence, but appeared neither alarmed nor interested.  I started to dig out my phone to take a picture, but something in his eyes convinced me that this was not a wise thing to do. 

    My GPS instructed me again to take a gravel road around a large lake.  I am beginning to realize that the GPS people do not always consider my well being when it is functioning as an oracle.  After pushing my bike 3 miles up a steep gravel road, encouraged only by the knowledge that I was approaching a warm shower, it began recalculated and counseled me to turn around and go 8 miles around to the other side of the lake.  I shouted, startling some local fishermen who became concerned.  I decided to ignore these directions for the next mile.

     Upon entering the village there is a sign printed “Welcome to Shutesbury; not to be confused with Shrewsbury.”  Evidently the similarity in the names is a source of some confusion and resentment to residents of this hamlet.  Clif and Arlene had bought a 100 acre parcel of land with 7 other families each of whom built a house.  This left a wooded area with trails and benches for contemplation to be shared by the community.  They are members of a Quaker community and used the pronoun “thee” to express familiarity and intimacy in speaking with each other.  Their environmental concerns have shaped their love of cycling as a form of recreation which does not leave a large carbon footprint.  Their teenage son, Charlie had died of an epileptic seizure two years earlier and the community had sponsored a bike-a-thon to raise money for The Epilepsy Society.  The night I spent with them was the anniversary of his death and we spent the evening talking about him. 

     In an autobiography of Abraham Lincoln I was struck by how Lincoln was able to conduct the Civil war while his own son, Willie was dying in the Whitehouse.  In 1862 he was composing the Emancipation Proclamation while Willie was gravely ill upstairs.  Upon his death, his aides tried to be a source of comfort while simultaneously keeping the president focused on the task of leading a country at war.  One aide, trying to be comforting, said “Mr. President, time heals all wounds.”  Lincoln turned to him and shouted “Time does NOT heal all wounds.  GOD does not heal all wounds.  God, in his terrible mercy, leaves some wounds open.  Out of such wounds springs compassion!”

     Sometimes, in the aftermath of unspeakable tragedy, we find our capacity for kindness, forgiveness, and acceptance enlarged.  At such a time, if a blessing is to be found anywhere, perhaps it can be found in an enlarged capacity for compassion.

     The Reads packed a lovely lunch for me to bring on my way and I started cycling towards Belchertown.  When I was eight years old, and living in Lenox, I met another boy from Belchertown.  I was thrilled that a town could have such a name the two of us would refer to it as “Burpville”.  It has loomed large in my imagination these past 60 years, though I had never had the opportunity to visit there.  I am grateful for the hospitality of Richard and Pat Prager, two retired teachers who welcomed me in their home.  In their retirement, they have cycled across the U.S. and Mexico.  They have recently become grandparents; the gravitational force of their grandchildren has kept them close to home recently.

    On Thursday, I cycled to Sturbridge and stayed with Mark Farrell in a house on the banks of Leadmine Pond (a beautiful lake with an unfortunate name).  When I arrived he mentioned that he was out of town to pick up his daughter and would not be in until late.  He did, however, invite me to jump into the lake for a swim.  I joined him and his daughter for pancakes early the next morning and we discussed how he was re-organizing his life after the recent death of his wife.  Renovating his summer cabin into a year round residence was part of his starting this new chapter of his life.  We chatted for some time about ways to order one’s life when external structures are destroyed.  I was touched with his kindness and his candor.

     On Friday morning, I cycled to Worcester.  My sister, mother, and I had arranged weeks before to meet there on the penultimate day of my trip.  It was the first time I had seen any of them in over three months and we enjoyed a meal of steaks from a Brazilian restaurant.   I shared with them the things I have seen along the way.  It had been raining that day.  In anticipation of our conversation, I found myself singing “A Hard Rain’s a gonna fall” as I peddled:

Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?

Who did you meet, my darling young one?

I met a young woman whose body was burning

I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love

I met another man who was wounded with hatred

And it’s hard, it’s hard, it’s hard, and it’s hard

It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

   On Saturday, my mother and sister took my baggage away and I was able to cycle the last 60 miles unencumbered.  The landscape gradually became more familiar. I felt exhilarated as I approached home.  Denise was following my travel on her GPS and rode out to meet me as I came within a few miles of our house.  Her sister, Valerie, was visiting from Italy and was able to capture our arrival on film as we came up the driveway.

     As I slept in my bed for the first time in three months, I pondered the many people I have met along the way.  Over 30 strangers had invited me into their homes, fed me, and told me their stories and listened to mine.  I was able to see another 30 friends for the first time in many years.  Six of the families I have met were still grieving the recent death of a child.  Their kindness, joy, courage, and sorrow have greatly changed me.  As I drifted off to sleep, I thought of the words of The Little Gidding by T.S. Elliot

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

Through the unknown, remembered gate

When the last of earth left to discover

Is that which was the beginning;

At the source of the longest river

The voice of the hidden waterfall

And the children in the apple-tree

Not known, because not looked for

But heard, half-heard in the stillness

Between two waves of the sea.

    In the Sunday service the next day, prayers of thanksgiving were offered for my safe arrival.  It was also Denise and my 41^st wedding anniversary.  The blessing offered for us on that day was an outward and visible sign of the blessing she has been to me all of these years.

      There are other reflections of a social and theological nature which I will post shortly after I look them over to see if they are likely to be comprehensible to others.  I do not know if anyone will be reading these words, but for reasons I cannot fully explain, I very much needed to write them.