England Master New Truck
Jeff
said…
In New York, Fifth and Eighth Avenues were the ways to the park and to Riverside Drive for thousands on holidays and Sundays. Both sides of these thoroughfares coming and going were filled with swiftly moving wheels, men, women, and children, pedalling along on their silent steeds. It was a happy-looking, cheerful crowd, for red blood was coursing through their veins, and the glow of pleasurable exercise was on their faces. Here at night you were in a stream of twinkling moving stars, the lights on the wheels flashing by or coming toward you out of the dark ahead like will-o'-the-wisps. The same crowds were met on the Coney Island cinder path, for thousands crossed the ferries or went over the bridge to Brooklyn, out Bedford Avenue to Prospect Park, and then swiftly along the crackling path to the island.
There was a real democracy in the cult of the wheel, a comradeship born of the road, a readiness to help in times of trouble, a never-failing willingness to discuss the various makes of wheels, gears, tires, bearings, saddles, every detail that concerned the speed, comfort or endurance of your mount.
How many of us discovered new worlds on our first country journey; my first long out-of-town ride took me to Tarrytown, with a stop at Irving's old home and a look at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. And I remember the way along the old viaduct was a lovely country ride, and the road across the river and down the other side from Nyack along the Palisades. And then many New Yorkers will remember the famous Merrick Road and byways on Long Island, the Rumson Road on the Jersey Shore, the run across Staten Island and around its waterside out to Fort Wadsworth and the beaches. And by the way, were you among the venturesome ones who rode down or up Broadway, on the old cable slot that used to make a straight and decidedly narrow smooth pathway between the tracks? It was a way to evade the bumpy cobblestones and to save a lot of time. But it called for a constant high speed and steady guidance, and only the seasoned and skilful rider found it easy going. With most beginners it was "off again, on again, Finnegan." I shall never forget one of my first long rides away from the near-by and familiar ways. We took a train to Paterson to make our start for the Delaware Water Gap. My mount was an early vintage, one with cushion tires, and weighed something under a hundred pounds the second day. It was a regular bone-breaker, a liver-shaker, but I was as proud of it as a boy with a new pony. I remember that ride along the fine Gap roads, the lovely glimpses of the river, the hills, the picturesque old stone houses, the cordial welcome we received at the inns and the sound sleeps that came of physical fatigue, and placid nerves due to exercise in the pure air.
A journey I thoroughly enjoyed took me through the Green and White Mountains. In the latter I found that many mountain roads run mostly uphill, and that some of them were knee-deep in sand that put me behind schedule and overtaxed my strength. But I look back and forget everything but the glorious mountain views; the long hard climbs, and the plugging through the sand were compensated by the long coasts down, the peace of the great hills, the verdure of the high pasturelands, the solemn gloom of the forests, the sparkle of silver lakes, the unspeakable refreshment of the wayside springs.
And what pictures and memories come back as I write of wonderful roads in France and lovely byways of rural England when the May was in bloom.
October 8, 2009 1:21 PM
Jeff
said…
In New York, Fifth and Eighth Avenues were the ways to the park and to Riverside Drive for thousands on holidays and Sundays. Both sides of these thoroughfares coming and going were filled with swiftly moving wheels, men, women, and children, pedalling along on their silent steeds. It was a happy-looking, cheerful crowd, for red blood was coursing through their veins, and the glow of pleasurable exercise was on their faces. Here at night you were in a stream of twinkling moving stars, the lights on the wheels flashing by or coming toward you out of the dark ahead like will-o'-the-wisps. The same crowds were met on the Coney Island cinder path, for thousands crossed the ferries or went over the bridge to Brooklyn, out Bedford Avenue to Prospect Park, and then swiftly along the crackling path to the island.
There was a real democracy in the cult of the wheel, a comradeship born of the road, a readiness to help in times of trouble, a never-failing willingness to discuss the various makes of wheels, gears, tires, bearings, saddles, every detail that concerned the speed, comfort or endurance of your mount.
How many of us discovered new worlds on our first country journey; my first long out-of-town ride took me to Tarrytown, with a stop at Irving's old home and a look at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. And I remember the way along the old viaduct was a lovely country ride, and the road across the river and down the other side from Nyack along the Palisades. And then many New Yorkers will remember the famous Merrick Road and byways on Long Island, the Rumson Road on the Jersey Shore, the run across Staten Island and around its waterside out to Fort Wadsworth and the beaches. And by the way, were you among the venturesome ones who rode down or up Broadway, on the old cable slot that used to make a straight and decidedly narrow smooth pathway between the tracks? It was a way to evade the bumpy cobblestones and to save a lot of time. But it called for a constant high speed and steady guidance, and only the seasoned and skilful rider found it easy going. With most beginners it was "off again, on again, Finnegan." I shall never forget one of my first long rides away from the near-by and familiar ways. We took a train to Paterson to make our start for the Delaware Water Gap. My mount was an early vintage, one with cushion tires, and weighed something under a hundred pounds the second day. It was a regular bone-breaker, a liver-shaker, but I was as proud of it as a boy with a new pony. I remember that ride along the fine Gap roads, the lovely glimpses of the river, the hills, the picturesque old stone houses, the cordial welcome we received at the inns and the sound sleeps that came of physical fatigue, and placid nerves due to exercise in the pure air.
A journey I thoroughly enjoyed took me through the Green and White Mountains. In the latter I found that many mountain roads run mostly uphill, and that some of them were knee-deep in sand that put me behind schedule and overtaxed my strength. But I look back and forget everything but the glorious mountain views; the long hard climbs, and the plugging through the sand were compensated by the long coasts down, the peace of the great hills, the verdure of the high pasturelands, the solemn gloom of the forests, the sparkle of silver lakes, the unspeakable refreshment of the wayside springs.
And what pictures and memories come back as I write of wonderful roads in France and lovely byways of rural England when the May was in bloom.
October 8, 2009 1:21 PM
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