I feel compelled to inform you of a pernicious evil imposed upon the good people of the Northeast. Why they allow this travesty to continue is beyond my capability to understand. These horrible things are called Rotaries. Or Roundabouts. Or Traffic Circles.
Rotaries are an inherently dangerous traffic occurrence. Imagine this: You have three or more roads coming together into a circular road. The intent is to drive around the merry-go-round until you spot the road you wish to enter. Sounds simple in theory, right?
There are big signs posted at each entry point clarifying that by state law the traffic entering the circle MUST yield to traffic already in the rotary. Northeastern drivers studiously ignore these signs. If you are already in the circle, you must EXPECT that these morons are going to enter directly in front of you, usually without the common courtesy of slowing down even slightly in deference to the law they are breaking.
What is further beyond belief is that there are usually TWO lanes in the circle part of these evil traffic patterns. Think about it! Why on earth would you need an inner lane? Perhaps for those lost souls who have somehow gotten into this hellish environment and cannot find the courage to cut into the flow so they can escape.
In reality, what happens is the more bold (and stupid) drivers use this as the express lane, speeding around the little circle, their tires screeching, until they aggressively and dangerously cut back into the line and scream off onto the road they want.
I can only believe that way back in the oldest history of the Northeast, this idea was brought to reality by someone with a vested interest in a large chain of Auto Body Shops.
I left Brattleboro relatively early and headed east towards Keene, where I did a few errands. I consulted the maps I have to determine the best route to take to get to Middleboro, my destination for the day.
I spotted what looked like a good shortcut that would save me some time, not that I was in a hurry. Judging by the way that the road looked on the map and comparing it to other roads like it, I deemed it OK for travel in the camper. I started down Highway 32 and quickly learned that it may not have been the best choice. It was rather narrow and twisty with a speed limit of 40 MPH. But this was no real problem since I was truly not in a hurry. And it was only around 30 miles to the state highway I was headed for.
Well, then things got a wee bit worse. As soon as I passed over the border to Massachusetts, it suddenly turned into the highway from hell. The road had frost heaves, potholes, and horrible ruts that bounced and tossed the camper like it was a toy boat in the surf. I was forced to drive at 10 – 15 miles an hour, sometimes even slower. Even at that speed, the impacts of the road surface were bone chattering.
I kept my eye out for a place to turn around, but making a u-turn in the 35-foot camper and trailer can be dicey, and no viable options were available.
I found myself longing for the horrendous roads of Louisiana.
I finally made it through the worst of it and got to the town of Athol (which you must pronounce very carefully) and onto Highway 202. Ah, what a relief to be on a normal, potholed state highway! I continued east and turned onto Interstate 495, heading south towards Middleboro. I arrived far later than I’d planned, in part due to the war zone of Highway 32.
I set up camp near Middleboro, which is southwest of Boston. I chose this location due to its proximity to Cape Cod.
I hopped on the bike and headed off towards Providence, Rhode Island. I was intent on trying to look up an old friend whose last address was there. It ended up being a fruitless search, but an interesting ride. Rhode Island is such a small state (about 30 miles wide), that before you know it, you’re exiting into Connecticut. So I poked around the northeastern part of the state for a while, and headed back towards camp.
The next morning I was ready for a day on Cape Cod. It was close enough that I hopped on the bike fairly early and was on the Cape itself shortly after breakfast. I find it interesting that people refer to Cape Cod as the "Cape". Why not call it the "Cod"? Yep, we’re spending our summer vacation up on the Cod!
After passing over the Scagamore Bridge, which runs over the waterway separating Cape Cod from the mainland, I immediately got off Highway 6, which was filled with Morons driving in their moronic way. I still would like to start an organization called B.A.M.M.! Bikers Against Moron Motorists!
I got onto Highway 6A, which winds along the northern coast of the Cape. It passes through small towns like Sandwich, Barnstable, Yarmouth, and Brewster. Here’s an interesting observation about Cape Cod and most of New England. Every little village or town has numerous antique stores lining the roads the tourists drive on. It is the sheer number of antique stores that is amazing.
How can there possibly be that many antiques for sale? You’d think that there is a finite amount of old furniture, pictures, and what not in the world. If the stores actually sell some of this stuff, where do they get more stock to replace what has been sold? I believe there are hidden factories way back in the New England mountains where little gnomes make more antiques to replace what is sold in the stores. That way this mainstay of the New England economy can continue generating hard cash for the local communities.
Highway 6A winds along the northern coast of the arm of the Cape. The vegetation alongside the road is mainly scrub pine and oak. These are not towering trees, more like large shrubs. And they are pretty dense at times.
Eventually the road leads to the "elbow" of the Cape, where the road turns north along the Cape Cod National Sea Shore. The east side of the arm faces the Atlantic Ocean and the coastline is utterly beautiful. It is also crowded, even on a Monday.
I continue north to wards Provincetown. This little town has an interesting history. It is smack dab on the very northern tip of Cape Cod, surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean and Cape Cod Bay. It is actually the location where the Pilgrims first landed upon their arrival. They spent a while doing Pilgrim things here, then finally made their way across Cape Cod Bay to the mainland, where they landed at Plymouth Rock.
I’ll mention in passing that the Pilgrims, like many settlers in America, had interactions with the people who had already settled North America. These interactions over time came out to the advantage of the "new" settlers. I saw a heritage display explaining how the Pilgrims had landed at Provincetown and gone out on a few exploratory hikes. The text of the description mentioned that their appearance frightened a tribe of Native Americans who fled the area. The Pilgrims then "obtained" some corn and other food from the tribe’s village. Someone had struck out the word "obtained" and wrote "stole". This historical correction continued throughout the narrative. Interesting…
Provincetown is a very effective tourist trap. Shops of all sorts line "The Street", which is right at the harbor front. Parking was difficult, even on a Monday. I can just imagine what it is like on a weekend. But a parking lot attendant defending her full-to-the-brim lot waved me over and said "we always have room for a bike – watch the bar doesn’t hit you on the head on the way in!" I thank the stars for people who are kind to small pets, little children, and bikers.
Provincetown buildings are not very tall, usually 2 – 3 stories, so the Pilgrim Tower dominates the skyline. The folks who eventually settled (stole) Provincetown erected this 150-foot tall tower to commemorate the Pilgrim’s brief stop here.
The town has become a Mecca for the Gay community, and many live year round now. This influence has added a vital and rich diversity that has eventually been embraced by the locals.
I eventually found a place to have some lunch. The Mayflower Inn had a special of locally caught bluefish, oven seared and served with wild rice and cornbread. It was absolutely delicious!
I headed south back down the arm of the Cape. Arriving at the "elbow", I headed down Highway 28, which hugs the southern part of the Cape. This road passes through many small towns, like Chatham, Hyannis (the Kennedy’s place), and Falmouth, home of the Wood’s Hole Oceanographic Institute.
By late afternoon, the traffic had become unbearable. At each small town, there was a backup of cars that made the passage through the town last 10 – 15 minutes. I wasn’t in any hurry, but it was simply not that much fun to sit in traffic jam after traffic jam. Again I wondered what it must be like on a weekend!
I cut and run, heading up to Highway 6, which allowed me to leave the Cape by early evening. I stopped at Plymouth, and visited Plymouth Rock (they spell it Plimouth in many of the plaques). It is a very unassuming hunk of rock.
I then headed back to camp, barely beating out a stupendous thunderstorm. Actually it was a series of thunderstorms that kept my fellow campers and me on edge until well after midnight.
The next morning I de-camped and headed northwest, driving on the Massachusetts Turnpike for a good part of the drive. The number of Morons Per Mile was quite high, but I was able to stay in the right lane and let them fight it out among themselves.
I headed north on Interstate 91 towards the Amherst area, going a bit further north to Deerfield, where I camped for a couple nights. I chose to stop in this area because I had lived here for a year or so before emigrating finally to the Pacific Northwest.
That afternoon I hopped on the bike and roared down into Amherst. This area is positively College oriented. There are five colleges or universities in the immediate area (U Mass, Hampshire College, Amherst College, Smith College and Northampton College). The colleges all have a cooperative plan. If you are a registered student at any one of them, you can take classes at any of the others. Pretty cool!
I soon discovered that the students were just arriving for the fall term. The streets were crowded with students lugging their stuff up into dorms and apartments. Dads and Moms were walking the streets with their fledgling college students. What surprised me was how young all the students looked! Did I really look that young when I was their age?
I then headed out to the little town of Shutesbury, where we lived during our year here. To my surprise and pleasure, I found that in the 27 years since I left, this little town has not changed or grown at all.
I rode around the wonderful roads of western Massachusetts for the afternoon, ending up at Mt. Sugarloaf, which is just tall enough to have a great view of the Connecticut River Valley and the town of Amherst. I stayed for a while talking with some of the folks, and we were treated to a great sunset.
The next day I headed down into New York, past Albany and south to my brother Daniel’s house in the sleepy little town of Tillson, where I would be staying for a few days leading up to my niece’s wedding in New York City. Daniel is the father of the bride, so things around the house were slightly hectic with last minute preparations.
I set up camp in Daniel and Mary Ellen’s back yard. It was a great campground with the most wonderful Hosts you can possible imagine.
The next day while Daniel was at work and Mary Ellen was taking care of last-minute preparations, I hopped on the bike and went for a great ride. I first went up to the town of Woodstock, New York, and visited the Harley Davidson dealer. I simply had to get a Harley t-shirt from Woodstock Harley Davidson, right? No way could I miss that one!
I then headed south on Route 209, which winds along the edge of the Shawangunk Mountains. It was a really pretty road, and a great ride. I ended up at Route 17, the road that leads near the actual site of the Woodstock Festival back in 1969. This was one of my "important" destinations. I have not been back to this area since I attended Woodstock, 32 years ago. I was looking forward to seeing it.
As I rode up Route 17, I remembered the news coverage of the jammed roads and people parking and even camping on the highway median. I do not remember this on our drive up 32 years ago. Funny the things that do or do not stick in your mind.
Turning off Route 17 I headed down the road to Bethel, a very small town near the festival site. I still could not remember anything about our drive through here back then. As I headed closer, I came to a set of rolling hills. Bang! All of a sudden I had a clear and extremely vivid memory of this exact location!
I remember the roads were filled with people and slowly moving cars, mine among them. A few folks hopped onto the front fenders of my car, hitching a ride since we were moving at such a slow pace. They passed various burning, smoky objects into the car in return for the ride.
Then I saw a barn on the left side and the memory banks shot into overdrive. At this point back in August of 1969, the road had become so clogged that we could proceed no further. I somehow wedged the car between a bunch of other cars, the front fender actually touching the side of the barn. We left the car there and went on by foot. I stopped to see if the small scratch I caused with my car was still there. There was indeed a small dent, but I didn’t know for sure if I had caused it.
Not far down the road, around a bend, I suddenly see a curved hillside. This is the place! Today there were about 500,000 less people than 32 years ago, but it is clearly recognizable. There is the flat spot near the road where the stage was. Wow, what a sight!
There is a pullout where some folks erected a stone monument with the names of all the bands that played at the festival. There were several cars already in the small lot, and while I was there cars came and went, people taking snapshots of the monument and the hillside.
As I stood there reading the plaque and trying to get a decent picture of it, a small RV with California plates pulled in and parked next to my bike. It had rainbows, Grateful Dead stickers, and all kinds of other stuff plastered all over it. Out hopped a couple who were the epitome of elderly hippies. Long graying hair, tie-dyed clothing, and absolutely ecstatic faces!
They danced about to the sounds of Joni Mitchell’s "Woodstock" song coming from their camper. They stopped long enough to come over and gaze at the plaque on the small monument. We chatted for a few minutes and confirmed that this was the first time any of us had been back here since 1969. It was obviously a mystical experience for them. They went wandering into the natural amphitheater, ignoring the "No trespassing" signs.
A little while later, while I was sitting remembering all the things that happened that weekend so long ago, another car pulled into the lot. This was a high-end BMW with Connecticut plates. A very well-dressed couple got out. Even though they did not dance about or go wandering into the actual grass where the festival was held, I could somehow tell that they had also been here 32 years ago. And unlike the Hippie couple frolicking through the fields, their lives had changed significantly. And it had changed them, as well. They seemed too stiff and formal to even fully enjoy the experience of re-visiting this historic site.
I suppose that I am somewhere in between these two disparate couples. I have not retained all the wild-eyed idealism I had back in those days, yet I have retained the quirkiness and joy in life that we all experienced. I have been gainfully employed in relatively conventional occupations in the years hence, if you can call the software industry "conventional". But I have not allowed my working life to intrude too far into my non-working life. And I have striven to maintain my own individualism while practicing open-minded acceptance of everyone else’s individualism.
With these thoughts in mind, I hopped on the bike and left the two vastly different couples to their own private memories. I tooled back to Bethel and stopped at the Woodstock Festival Museum, which turned out to be small room in the back of a country store. It was filled with photographs and other memorabilia. This also brought back many memories. Woodstock changed us all, even those who did not attend the festival.
OK, now I was ready to push on. I headed up Route 17 to the town of Roscoe, and headed north into the Catskill Park on Route 206, which merged with Route 30. This turned out to be a most wonderful ride. The Catskill Mountains are stunningly beautiful, and this road went through a prime part of it, next to lakes and streams, lush tree-covered hills on both sides. It was a truly wonderful ride.
I hit Route 28 and headed east continuing through the Catskill Park. This was Friday just before Labor Day weekend, so there were a number of early arrivals for camping and other resort activities. Fortunately, they were mostly heading in the opposite direction. I made it back to Daniel and Marry Ellen’s campground before dinner. It is always a good idea to have a keen sense of timing!
The next morning Daniel and his family were heading down to New York City to complete the last preparations with the bride and groom for the wedding taking place Sunday night.
I packed up a suitcase, strapped it to the back of the bike, and prepared to leave the camper sitting at Daniel’s for a couple days. It was a bit traumatic to part company with the place that has been my home for nearly three months. I got over it, though.
I headed first for my brother Alexander’s house in Blooming Grove, New York. His daughter was having her third birthday party, so other family members where there as well, including my dear Mother and her hubby Ray. It was a fun time to get reunited with them all. The 3-year olds did the kinds of things you’d expect them to do.
After the cake and everything, I headed down to my sister’s house. Jennifer lives fairly close to New York City in Orangeburg, which is in Rockland County. I would be staying there so we could make the trip into the city the next day. That evening yet another brother showed up. Timothy and his wife Meredith came up from the Washington DC where they live. We had a great BBQ dinner on the deck of Jennifer’s house and talked the evening away.
The next morning I went for a ride to Nyack, the town I grew up in. I stopped and looked at the old family house, now in the hands of others who have of course changed it. But I could still see us all running around and causing non-stop turmoil that should have driven my mother stark raving crazy. I wonder to this day how she could have raised 6 boys and 1 girl the likes of us and survive, but she did.
I toured around town, seeing how many things had changed, and appreciating the things that remained from the "old" days. I eventually wound my way north on Route 9W, which hugs the Hudson River shore. It is a really pretty road once you get out of the little towns along the shoreline.
I ended up at West Point, site of the military academy. It was Sunday on Labor Day weekend, and therefore there were a whole bunch of families visiting their cadets. I tooled around, soaking in the sights and turned southward to get back to Jennifer’s. We had a wedding to go to!
The wedding was in New York City. It was taking place in an art gallery on the West Side of Manhattan. We were on the 12th and top floor of the building, with a wonderful view of the city and the Hudson River. It was set up really great, with a large room in the center and a wide walkway all the way around it. So you could wander around and get a 360-degree view of bustling Manhattan. I’d forgotten how vibrant and exciting New York City is. And we had a wonderful sunset over the Hudson River!
Daniel’s daughter Kristin was the beautiful bride. She and her new hubby Steve planned and carried off a wonderful ceremony and party. It was somewhat unconventional (this should come as no huge surprise since she is related to me), and a whole lot of fun for everyone.
And now I am ready to leave New York for the last part of my sabbatical. This is the point at which I must decide which direction to head. It is the classic fork in the road.
And I have decided to head southwest.
It has been a most difficult decision. I love the Northwest, and have a number of incredibly wonderful and irreplaceable friends in Seattle. I have been in the Pacific Northwest for 27 years. The thought of leaving this fine area I have grown to love is in some ways impossible to bear. Yet I have been pondering this difficult choice throughout the trip. And I feel that moving to Austin is the right thing for me to do.
So I first will be heading south to get back into the warmer weather.
I’ll keep you updated!