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.