Originally written in 2009
by Paul Pakusch
by Paul Pakusch
I bike ride on average
about 4 times a week. One night, it was twilight when I set out. Since I didn't
have lights on my bike, I did not ride in the road after dark. I stayed on the
sidewalk.
Very often, I do not have a route in mind when I set out to ride my bike. Usually I head into the wind so I can pump hard the first half of my bike ride, then let the wind push me a little while I ride back. On this evening, I don't know where to go. The wind is coming out of the west, so I simply head west, into the wind.
As I ride along, I start to think about the route I used to take from home to school. My current home is about a mile from the house where I grew up, and by staying on this road, I will ride past the old neighborhood. I lived there for 17 years.
The route to school is slightly over a mile from my old home, so it is a little over two miles from where I live now. Even though I drive this route frequently today, it's not very often that I use the sidewalk next to the road. And that sidewalk is where I spent 8 years of my youth.
I ride past my old neighborhood. From the side street where I used to come out to the top of the prominent hill where my old school still sits, I once knew every single crack, hill and dip of that sidewalk. I stepped on a lot of cracks in those days; my poor mother's back!
As I ride along, on the right is the public school where I spent the second half of my kindergarten year. We moved into this neighborhood in February, 1967 when I was 6. The old donut shop next to it was there for a long time. Sometimes I stopped there on my way home from school. Now it is a pizzeria. I also remember the steak house that used to be in the same plaza. Other businesses have come and gone so many times I've lost track. Next to that is a bowling alley. I was in a league in my youth; my 15-pound bowling ball was torture to carry this far and back!
Next is the only major intersection I had to cross. If I took a right here, I'd be in the neighborhood where I once had a weekly paper route. After crossing the intersection, I look to the right and see the empty lot where a popular pizzeria and deli once stood. It burned down years ago. Weeds now grow through the cracks of its concrete foundation. On the left is a creek where a brick bank building once sat on the shore. Nothing but grass on that spot now, overshadowed by the plaza beyond that has expanded since then.
After a slight dip, the long climb up the hill begins. My modern 24-speed Trek eases up most of the way with little effort on this Fall evening. Back then, my 5-speed Stingray was a chore to pump up the hill. But the climb isn't constant. The sidewalk levels off here and there, and there is yet another dip to coast down before the ultimate and steepest climb begins. Oh, how I looked forward to flying down that hill at the end of the school day!
Here it is mostly residential. Most of the houses look pretty much the same as they did years ago, but with new paint jobs or siding. One very large piece of property has been broken down into several lots with new homes. Across the street, an old apple orchard still exists, but its trees are old and spindly.
After crossing a side street, I now reach the final, steep stretch. Most of the time I'd get off my Stingray here and walk it to the top. Occasionally, I'd pump hard, knowing that when I reached the driveway, I'd make a left turn and be able to enjoy a ride down a slight hill. This evening, my Trek makes the grade in no time flat, and next thing I know, I'm riding down that driveway. Past the old convent and into the church parking lot behind the school: The site of many recesses and phys ed ball games, sometimes with the boys playing "shirts" against "skins." I'm sure that's illegal for schools to do these days. And yeah, in choosing team members, I was one of those where they saved the best for last! LOL!
From the church parking lot we go behind the school building, where the younger kids' playground was. It was always pavement; the two swing sets, the slides, the monkey bars, the carousels caused many skinned knees! The lot is empty now as I ride through it, up to the iron grille where I used to lock my Stingray. The grille is still there! Bent, painted over many times and showing some rust, it's the same one!
I look across all the windows and pick out my old classrooms. This is a parochial school and I was here from first grade through eight grade. Grammar school and junior high. There was no "middle school."
From here I ride past the big windows of my old first grade classroom and reach the front parking lot, which back then was the bus loop. This is from where I got my biggest thrill as a bike rider to school back in those days, and I am about to relive the moment: The ride down the big hill!
I start building up speed as I intersect the sidewalk out front. I stop pumping and let gravity do the rest. Faster I go, the wind blowing across my body. It blew through my hair then, but I have a helmet now. I watch carefully for traffic coming out of the side street at the bottom of the steepest part; I have never forgotten the day that the brakes gave out on my Stingray and I was unable to stop the roll down the hill. I nearly collided with a school bus that had stopped there. The bus moved out of my way just as I reached the street. It could have been ugly. So tonight, I give the brakes a quick squeeze and make sure there is no traffic before I continue downhill.
It is well past sunset now as I continue the route back to my old neighborhood. Past the orchard, the creek, the bank, the deli's old foundation, across the intersection; I roll past the bowling alley, the restaurant, the pizzeria, and the public school. This time, I turn down the side street to the training grounds of my youth: Where I learned to ride a bike in the street for the first time.
I ride past the homes of schoolmates and friends I grew up with. A few of their parents still live here. I pause by the home where I grew up. I moved in there as a 6-year old and moved out the day I got married at age 23. The living room's two front windows are illuminated by the glow of a TV that sits in the same spot where our old Zenith console once sat. That TV's innards were tubes; color tubes! It had a loose connection in it somewhere that caused the picture to turn to snow a lot. Stomp your foot on the floor and the vibration would jolt the picture back again.
I look up to the dormer that was my old bedroom. When we moved into that house, the upstairs was unfinished. My dad, a carpenter, finished it. I was always proud of his carpentry. He was very good at what he did. Moving into that room was my 9th year birthday present. I wonder what the current owners have done with my "secret room." It was an attic that was only accessible by going through my closet and opening the sliding half-door. You had to crouch down to get through it. My "secret room" was my little hideaway. Years later as a tall teenager, I wondered how I ever fit into that little crawl space!
The route of my school journey is complete. It's another mile back to my current home. As I continue riding through the neighborhood, I pass the house of one of my sisters. She recently moved back to this neighborhood and her back yard is only several hundred feet away from the back yard of our old house. At the time we moved there, her current house didn't exist. In fact, her entire street and the next street down didn't exist, either. It was all woods, with a creek running through it. It was a young boy's delight to have that creek and the woods. The times I swam in the creek, my friends and I picked up bloodsuckers. And how I loved to climb trees!
Yet it was actually a thrill when the woods were being bulldozed over, conservation be damned. This young kid loved tractors. I watched as Drott backhoes dug the basements of dozens of these homes. On evenings and weekends, my friends and I crawled down into those rectangular pits and threw around the freshly-layed stones meant for a foundation. We played in the wood frame rooms of many unfinished structures. Only one time was I ever chased out; a friend and I just happened to be in one of those homes when the future family showed up to see its progress. We were caught. The father simply said, "Don't go in there again." After they moved in, they became among my family's closest friends to this day. A 40-year friendship that endures!
I ride out of the old neighborhood and stick to the sidewalk. It is dark now as I head back to my current home. I had no plans for this evening's bike ride. I simply headed west, into the wind.
Very often, I do not have a route in mind when I set out to ride my bike. Usually I head into the wind so I can pump hard the first half of my bike ride, then let the wind push me a little while I ride back. On this evening, I don't know where to go. The wind is coming out of the west, so I simply head west, into the wind.
As I ride along, I start to think about the route I used to take from home to school. My current home is about a mile from the house where I grew up, and by staying on this road, I will ride past the old neighborhood. I lived there for 17 years.
The route to school is slightly over a mile from my old home, so it is a little over two miles from where I live now. Even though I drive this route frequently today, it's not very often that I use the sidewalk next to the road. And that sidewalk is where I spent 8 years of my youth.
I ride past my old neighborhood. From the side street where I used to come out to the top of the prominent hill where my old school still sits, I once knew every single crack, hill and dip of that sidewalk. I stepped on a lot of cracks in those days; my poor mother's back!
As I ride along, on the right is the public school where I spent the second half of my kindergarten year. We moved into this neighborhood in February, 1967 when I was 6. The old donut shop next to it was there for a long time. Sometimes I stopped there on my way home from school. Now it is a pizzeria. I also remember the steak house that used to be in the same plaza. Other businesses have come and gone so many times I've lost track. Next to that is a bowling alley. I was in a league in my youth; my 15-pound bowling ball was torture to carry this far and back!
Next is the only major intersection I had to cross. If I took a right here, I'd be in the neighborhood where I once had a weekly paper route. After crossing the intersection, I look to the right and see the empty lot where a popular pizzeria and deli once stood. It burned down years ago. Weeds now grow through the cracks of its concrete foundation. On the left is a creek where a brick bank building once sat on the shore. Nothing but grass on that spot now, overshadowed by the plaza beyond that has expanded since then.
After a slight dip, the long climb up the hill begins. My modern 24-speed Trek eases up most of the way with little effort on this Fall evening. Back then, my 5-speed Stingray was a chore to pump up the hill. But the climb isn't constant. The sidewalk levels off here and there, and there is yet another dip to coast down before the ultimate and steepest climb begins. Oh, how I looked forward to flying down that hill at the end of the school day!
Here it is mostly residential. Most of the houses look pretty much the same as they did years ago, but with new paint jobs or siding. One very large piece of property has been broken down into several lots with new homes. Across the street, an old apple orchard still exists, but its trees are old and spindly.
After crossing a side street, I now reach the final, steep stretch. Most of the time I'd get off my Stingray here and walk it to the top. Occasionally, I'd pump hard, knowing that when I reached the driveway, I'd make a left turn and be able to enjoy a ride down a slight hill. This evening, my Trek makes the grade in no time flat, and next thing I know, I'm riding down that driveway. Past the old convent and into the church parking lot behind the school: The site of many recesses and phys ed ball games, sometimes with the boys playing "shirts" against "skins." I'm sure that's illegal for schools to do these days. And yeah, in choosing team members, I was one of those where they saved the best for last! LOL!
From the church parking lot we go behind the school building, where the younger kids' playground was. It was always pavement; the two swing sets, the slides, the monkey bars, the carousels caused many skinned knees! The lot is empty now as I ride through it, up to the iron grille where I used to lock my Stingray. The grille is still there! Bent, painted over many times and showing some rust, it's the same one!
I look across all the windows and pick out my old classrooms. This is a parochial school and I was here from first grade through eight grade. Grammar school and junior high. There was no "middle school."
From here I ride past the big windows of my old first grade classroom and reach the front parking lot, which back then was the bus loop. This is from where I got my biggest thrill as a bike rider to school back in those days, and I am about to relive the moment: The ride down the big hill!
I start building up speed as I intersect the sidewalk out front. I stop pumping and let gravity do the rest. Faster I go, the wind blowing across my body. It blew through my hair then, but I have a helmet now. I watch carefully for traffic coming out of the side street at the bottom of the steepest part; I have never forgotten the day that the brakes gave out on my Stingray and I was unable to stop the roll down the hill. I nearly collided with a school bus that had stopped there. The bus moved out of my way just as I reached the street. It could have been ugly. So tonight, I give the brakes a quick squeeze and make sure there is no traffic before I continue downhill.
It is well past sunset now as I continue the route back to my old neighborhood. Past the orchard, the creek, the bank, the deli's old foundation, across the intersection; I roll past the bowling alley, the restaurant, the pizzeria, and the public school. This time, I turn down the side street to the training grounds of my youth: Where I learned to ride a bike in the street for the first time.
I ride past the homes of schoolmates and friends I grew up with. A few of their parents still live here. I pause by the home where I grew up. I moved in there as a 6-year old and moved out the day I got married at age 23. The living room's two front windows are illuminated by the glow of a TV that sits in the same spot where our old Zenith console once sat. That TV's innards were tubes; color tubes! It had a loose connection in it somewhere that caused the picture to turn to snow a lot. Stomp your foot on the floor and the vibration would jolt the picture back again.
I look up to the dormer that was my old bedroom. When we moved into that house, the upstairs was unfinished. My dad, a carpenter, finished it. I was always proud of his carpentry. He was very good at what he did. Moving into that room was my 9th year birthday present. I wonder what the current owners have done with my "secret room." It was an attic that was only accessible by going through my closet and opening the sliding half-door. You had to crouch down to get through it. My "secret room" was my little hideaway. Years later as a tall teenager, I wondered how I ever fit into that little crawl space!
The route of my school journey is complete. It's another mile back to my current home. As I continue riding through the neighborhood, I pass the house of one of my sisters. She recently moved back to this neighborhood and her back yard is only several hundred feet away from the back yard of our old house. At the time we moved there, her current house didn't exist. In fact, her entire street and the next street down didn't exist, either. It was all woods, with a creek running through it. It was a young boy's delight to have that creek and the woods. The times I swam in the creek, my friends and I picked up bloodsuckers. And how I loved to climb trees!
Yet it was actually a thrill when the woods were being bulldozed over, conservation be damned. This young kid loved tractors. I watched as Drott backhoes dug the basements of dozens of these homes. On evenings and weekends, my friends and I crawled down into those rectangular pits and threw around the freshly-layed stones meant for a foundation. We played in the wood frame rooms of many unfinished structures. Only one time was I ever chased out; a friend and I just happened to be in one of those homes when the future family showed up to see its progress. We were caught. The father simply said, "Don't go in there again." After they moved in, they became among my family's closest friends to this day. A 40-year friendship that endures!
I ride out of the old neighborhood and stick to the sidewalk. It is dark now as I head back to my current home. I had no plans for this evening's bike ride. I simply headed west, into the wind.
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