Gin
In the spring of 1956, we were living on Plunkett Street in Pittsfield. I was finishing up sixth grade, a high point of my elementary school years. One Saturday close to my birthday in March my parents called me out of the house after lunch. There on the sidewalk was a bicycle. It was brand new, had a three-gear shift and handbrakes. It was purple with multi-colored plastic strips hanging from the handlebar grips. A grown-up bike for my birthday. Likely it was from Sears, their JC Higgins brand.
This was a complete surprise. Rooted to the spot, I was just staring. Then I heard my Dad calling to me. “Come over and sit on it so I can adjust the seat. I’ll show you how the gears work. You’ll have to get used to the hand brakes.” I was so happy. I hopped on so he could get the height of the seat right. I don’t think I took in much about his directions on the brakes. The first time I tried them I almost got tossed over the handlebars as the bike stopped so fast. I wasn’t used to this. With experience I got better with both the gears and the brakes.
With the new bike I realized I could now get places on my own. Now when I did errands for my mother, I could use the bike instead of walking. There was a basket over the front fender so I could carry a loaf of bread or a box of crackers. I never used a lock. I just rode to the store, dropped the kickstand down, purchased whatever she wanted trusting the bike would be there when I came out. It always was.
Fortunately the stores were down on Tyler Street, an easy ride. However, going the other way up Plunkett was something I avoided. I’ve written about walking up that hill in previous blogs.
Maybe that’s why I never took the bike to school. I never rode the bike for exercise either. The idea of doing activities for the sole purpose of getting exercise was unheard of. All that spring and summer I rode for fun. Just to take a ride. I liked to plan a loop so I could return home a different way. One of my favorite rides started with a drive down Tyler Street to the intersection where Dalton Avenue began by the General Electric main plant. As I rode the first part along Tyler I went by familiar places I had previously walked to, the convenience stores where I bought the Sunday paper for my parents, the Morningside branch library where I picked out my library books, and the store where my brother David worked, finally arriving where Tyler and Dalton separated.
To the right I could see the main plant of the GE, the largest employer in Pittsfield at that time. While it was called the main plant, it was really several different buildings. To me it was complicated area. There were fenced-in parking lots, gates with guards checking the IDs of those who wanted to enter, and a myriad of buildings set at angles to each other. Some had walkways on the third or fourth floor connecting them. It looked like a place where it would be easy to get lost, the reason I never rode my bike near there.
Instead I continued up Dalton Ave. This was an area that was mostly new to me. I never walked this far. I did know this road lead eventually to route 8 which we would sometimes take when we drove to North Adams to visit my grandparents. Along Dalton Avenue there was a small uphill stretch where one and two-story commercial buildings were intermixed with the two and three story duplexes that were common in this section of the city.
The road changed character once it intersected with Benedict Road. Dalton began to deserve its name “avenue” becoming wider and more expansive with a grassy median strip. I felt free in some way riding this section as if there was empty space all around me. The houses were single family with large yards both in front and on the sides. They were set well back from the road. Something else I liked about the area was that all the streets were named for states. There was a sense of consistency; it seems so organized. It didn’t know at the time this was a sign of a planned development. The south side of Dalton was developed as the GE grew, the single-family homes there owned mostly by GE engineers. It was fun driving by Rhode Island Avenue and New York Avenue. The street names reminded me of Monopoly.
It was also fun to bike this stretch because it was a mostly flat, even slightly downhill, an easy ride. I’d continue along Dalton until I reached Allengate Avenue on the left. This was my turning point, as far away from home as I would go on this route, the rest of the ride would be heading back. Here I would often stop under the big stone arch announcing the Allen Farm although even in the fifties the farm was long gone. It was a nice spot to get off the bike. I’d sit on the grass directly under the arch to have a snack.
I’d continue up Allengate which bent leftish becoming almost parallel to though north of Dalton. Very rural out here making for a lovely and quiet ride. Just a few houses with lots of open space. Allengate came to an end at Benedict Road. I’d turn left back toward Dalton Avenue. However, I didn’t return all the way to Dalton, Instead I’d ride down Benedict hill until I reached Springside Street right at Crane School where I spent my sixth grade year. Now for the really good part. A downhill ride along Springside to Plunkett. I walked up and down Plunkett a lot the past year going and coming back from school. So much more fun to speed down this hill back to my house. This was my first loop ride, one I would do several times over that summer.
Late in the summer my parents decided to move. After moving about once every two years since I was born, the move to Montgomery Avenue would turn out to be my last. I would live there until I went away to college. I loved it that I could take my bike to get a look at the new house on my own. Since we wouldn’t actually be moving until October I used the bike that summer to scout around my new neighborhood.
I was able to make a loop ride for that trip as well. Down to Tyler, remember I always tried to avoid going up the Plunkett hill, then along Tyler to take a right on First Street which turns into North. Since bike rules dictated riding along with the traffic, it was easy to ride along North up to Weller but once at Weller I stopped, got off the bike to walk it across the two lanes of North Street traffic. On subsequent bike rides to the new house, I felt more experienced giving a left hand signal and then riding across North Street making sure both lanes were clear. Of course giving a hand signal meant for a few moments steering with one hand. Pretty daring of me.
Once onto Weller it was just a quick right onto Montgomery. I’d ride up and down Montgomery just getting a sense of the street. Even though I knew the people who lived at 3 Montgomery, the other side of the duplex we’d be moving to, I was too shy to knock on the door to see if they were home. I just rode up and down the street a few times, trying to imagine living there.
I also rode a few blocks around the adjacent streets to see what was there. Oh, there’s a corner store where I can get the paper on Sundays. There is a Catholic school with a paved school yard another block away. Maybe a place to play ball? Back on Montgomery I rode up to the end of the street to see if there was a shortcut for walking to North Junior High. The reason was that Montgomery was a dead end street. I didn’t want to have to walk all the way around up Weller and along North to get to school every day. Yup. At the end of Montgomery I discovered an easy path through a grassy overgrown lot which led to Pontoosuc Avenue, a much quicker way to get to North.
Back down Montgomery I slowed down by the new house. I was hoping I would see the neighbor I knew, her name was Ollie, but I always called her Mrs. Marcoux, sitting on the porch. Then I could say hello. But even though I drove up and down a few times that never happened. I was just too timid to actually knock on her door.
So now it’s time to head home, for a few more weeks anyway. I started by retracing my route, up Weller onto North Street. On the return trip I’d only ride as far as the left turn which led to Springside Park. There was no road here so I’d ride over grass to Springside Avenue. It was fun riding by that little pond that’s there. Up a slight grade now until I reached the top of Plunkett. Now that fast ride down Plunkett hill and home. I did that ride a few times until the day we moved.
On the porch at Plunkett my father had strung up a hammock which he bought at the army/navy store. I guess it had been designed for the tropics because it was fully covered with mosquito netting. To get in you had to unzip the netting and then zip it back up again. On the day of the move I must have helped but all I can remember is reading a book nestled inside the hammock. On one trip back in the house to get another load for the truck, the guy in charge of the move said to me, “You are making my men jealous by being in that hammock. It looks comfortable.” How long I stayed in there I don’t remember but at one point the movers must have wanted to move the hammock as well.
Once the truck was loaded and ready to go, my parents drove to the new house. I had another option now. My bike. I was the mover of my bike. I moved my bike to the new house by following the first part of my loop over there. Now I had no qualms about driving up the driveway. I rode into the back yard to leave my bike by the back porch, its new home as well.
During my junior high years, I never rode to a friend’s house or rode with friends. I never took the bike upstreet. It was easier to walk or take a bus. It never occurred to me to think of the bike as transportation. I thought of it as recreation, just for fun. I was content to ride it up and down Montgomery, around Weller and up and down Lenox which paralleled Montgomery. One day my brother David showed me how to use clothespins to attach playing cards along the wheels so they’d flip back and forth when the spokes hit them making a sound a bit like an engine. The faster you rode the louder the noise. Eventually the cards tore. Like many things, this seemed like more fun that it really was.
As I reached high school age, I grew adventurous. I started to think of a day-long bike ride that would include a stop for a picnic lunch. There was one particular route I rode once each summer. It was the longest ride I would do. I’d plan it for a day when I was not doing anything else, no baby-sitting, no movie theater job, no shift at the phone company. I’d make myself a lunch. The usual fare, a bologna sandwich, a sandwich bag of chips, a piece of fruit, and maybe a cookie or two. The idea of buying water in a bottle was not yet common. I figured I’d buy a soda along the way at some store on the route. Oh, yes, my route.
The plan was to ride along North Street past the city limits into Lanesborough along Route 7 until I came to Bull Hill Road. Then along Bull Hill to Balance Rock Road. Balance Rock, once a tourist attraction featured on old post cards, is a large boulder probably left by a glacier. Only a small part of the rock is in touch with the ground, hence the name. This region is rural as it runs through part of Pittsfield State Forest. On the way back I’d take Peck’s Road eventually reaching Wahconah Street and my neighborhood. In essence this is a loop that goes north, circles around Pontoosuc Lake, and then passes by Onota Lakes on the right. Parts of this route were very rural, but there was little chance of getting lost as there were few crossing roads. According to Google Maps, it is about a twelve-mile loop.
I would always start off so energized, proud and excited that I am taking this on, full of self-confidence. The first part was quite easy. Once on North and heading past the Junior High on my right, the road was quite level. It was easy to notice details you missed when traveling by car. For instance, I saw that most of the houses past the Junior High on the right were new and modern, those on the left side of North were larger, more established houses.
Then the ride became fun because as North continues it goes downhill, then levels out again for a bit. There is the A&W on my left. I love their root beer; it is creamy not too sweet. However, it’s too early to stop. I am only a mile or so into this trip. I’m riding along the edge of the road, no bikes lanes then, but not much traffic either so I’m feeling safe on what can be a busy route.
North Street now becomes an uphill stretch. As it levels off, I’m approaching Pontoosuc Lake on the left. The street where my friend Carole lives is on the right. I spot the corner store where we would buy ice cold soda in bottles from a metal chest. But I don’t stop today. I’m not thirsty yet. I continue along North Street, enjoying the view of the lake noticing the swimming areas, the picnic sites, all the places my family goes when my father is on vacation. It’s funny how small they look from my bike viewpoint.
Next I pass the brown docks and building that houses Ponterill, a boat rental and swimming area run by the YMCA. Carole’s family are members. It’s in walking distance of their house if you walk overland through the woods. But today was not a day for swimming. I tried to pick a day for this ride that wasn’t too hot. I knew I wouldn’t enjoy biking in the heat.
I am no longer in Pittsfield. Somewhere around the lake I crossed into Lanesborough. Now North Street curves to the right and is mostly level. This stretch of highway I always thought of as a fun area. There are two places to buy ice cream; one is a soft serve, the other one has what my father would call real ice cream. While the buildings are there year-round, these are seasonal stores. Places with teenagers working inside an open window where you order, pay for and get your food in the summer. The walls inside and out are covered with brightly colored posters announcing all the options. Even though it’s still morning, I stop at the soft serve. The cold vanilla cone I get is a way to quench my thirst.
As I continue along what some might consider tourist row, there are two miniature golf courses on the right. My family would go to one of these each summer. Since none of us were particularly good, the age difference between us kids didn’t matter much. We were all pretty bad at it. I remember trying to time my swing at the windmill hole hoping the ball wouldn’t be blocked by one of the paddles. The most fun was the end. The last hole was always special. There were different options at the final hole, all of which swallowed your ball. One of them awarded a free game, but none of us ever won that.
Past the miniature golf course, the road was pretty quiet. On the right I spotted a road, no street sign, but my parents always called it Berkshire Village. I didn’t know if it led to a village or if that was just the name of the road. I have strong memories of one December day as a teenager when the whole family drove up this road. It was very rural, few houses, mostly meadows and fields.
My father parked the car by the side of the road and called to us to get out. “We’re going to find materials to make our own wreaths this year.” My parents showed Vicki and me how to gather fir-like vines that grew along the ground in a near-by meadow. (I think this was ground pine but I’m still not sure what we picked that afternoon. It did make good wreaths though.) At the edge of the darker woods we also looked for pine cones and small bushes with clusters of green leaves and red berries. It was a chilly afternoon, December in the Berkshires, but no snow which made finding the vines easy. Our mittens kept our hands warm but got sticky handling the pine cones. We had a couple of grocery store paper bags to fill with our greenery. I wonder now whose land this was, how my parents knew about it, and why they had the idea to make our own wreaths that particular year?
When we got home we set up a card table in the dining room to work on the wreaths. My father bent clothes hangers into circles for a frame. We wrapped the vines around the wires adding the pine cones, a few ornaments, the branches with red berries and some ribbons. I was pretty proud when my father hung one of the wreaths I had worked on on the front door. If this all sounds a bit too much like a Hallmark family Christmas movie, well, it was. Since none of our handiwork ever made it into photos we can imagine they were all simply beautiful in spite of all the evidence collected since that time that none of us were particularly gifted artistically.
At present Berkshire Village is a main road connecting routes 7 and 8. For a few years, it was one way to get to the new mall which flourished for a while but is now mostly closed and almost deserted. Interestingly, that mall is in the past now but still in the future on the day of my ride.
I continued north on North Street except it’s now called South Main Street since I am in Lanesborough. No stores or restaurants out here. Just meadows and fields. A few houses. A few businesses . Way up ahead I knew there was a drive-in and the center of the town but I wouldn’t be going that far today. My turn is coming up. A left onto Bull Hill Road. I’m almost to Balance Rock where I plan to have lunch. I head up Bull Hill Road toward the Pittsfield State Forest. I pause just after the turn. I am on Bull Hill. My back is to the busy road. I am about ready to enter the quiet section of this ride. I check to see how I’m feeling. Tired yet? Wondering why the heck I’m doing this yet? Nope. I am still enthused. Feeling okay.
So I start. Bull Hill Road is really a series of hills, some up, some down. It can be a fun ride. You pick up speed on the downhill sections to see how far up the next hill that momentum will carry you before you have to change gears, pedal harder, or even pedal standing up. It’s very forested here. You can see signs of houses: mailboxes along the road, long driveways leading into the woods, some houses even have mown front yards, but it is rural. Not many cars go by.
As I get further in on Bull Hill, the one worry I always when riding starts to grab my attention. Are there dogs along here that might chase me? I am neither afraid of dogs nor do I particularly like them. We never had a dog as a pet. We were a cat family. I wasn’t that familiar with dogs. I wasn’t concerned about them biting me; mostly I worried that if they started to chase me, I’d lose my balance and fall.
This worry took away a bit of the fun biking along Bull Hill Road. My concern may have had something to do with an earlier ride along this same road, the one time was I bothered by a dog. That time a dog did get my attention, all he (Yes. All dogs were boys to me.) did was run down his yard toward the road, barking at me. I picked up speed to get past him as fast as I could, but he just stayed in his yard. He didn’t even get close to the road. Maybe he was just saying hello and I should have pulled over to pet him, but I wasn’t going to risk it.
Bull Hill Road takes a wide turn to the left until it ends up going roughly south instead of west. More houses out here. I continue along a flat stretch until I see Balance Rock Road on the right. As I make the turn onto the road I’m thinking ahead to my picnic spot, Balance Rock itself. After another few minutes I’m beginning to wonder, do I want to wait. I’m hungry now.
The road that goes to Balance Rock itself is a longish trek through the state forest. It’s dark along that road even on a sunny day because of the trees. I’ve decided I’m going to stop now and have my lunch in the sunshine. It’s funny, every time I start this ride, I think I’ll actually go to Balance Rock for lunch before returning home. Each time I make the decision to stop short of that goal for a rest and lunch break. However, the next year, in spite of what I have done every year in the past, I start out sure I’ll get to Balance Rock. I never did.
So, once again, short of Balance Rock, I pull off the side of the road for my lunch. As I eat, I listen to the quiet. Not many cars go by. It’s easy to hear the sound of tree branches swaying in the wind. I think about the ride ahead of me. Balance Rock Road will take me along the other side of Pontoosuc Lake eventually connecting with Peck’s Road as it skirts along the east side of Onota Lake. Balance Rock Road itself is very quiet. I recall Peck’s Road will be busier, more houses, some stores, more cars. I ‘ll be heading back into traffic after having these roads basically to myself.
It is so comfortable sitting here, maybe too comfortable. As I sit, I realize my legs are tired, some muscles are beginning to complain. I have really gone only half-way at this point, about six more miles to go. I begin to wonder why I thought this was going to be fun. I realize I’m going to have to gather up some energy to get back on the bike for the ride home. How can I make myself energized again out here in the woods? I know. I’ll sing show tunes.
So up on the bike continuing along Balance Rock Road. I start with songs from Oklahoma, My Fair Lady and soon add ones I recall from South Pacific. All are from records I’d listen to at my babysitting jobs. I didn’t know the story line of any of these shows, just whatever was on the sound-track albums. Recalling the words and trying to sing them correctly distracts me from the physical part of pedaling. It was freeing singing like this. And I’m singing loudly too. No one to hear. No one to judge me if I missed a high note or sang off key. I must have seen an odd sight to anyone I passed by, but this stretch was mostly trees, a kind of quiet somewhat downhill slope. The diversion worked; I am back into the ride.
I haven’t turned but the road I am on has transitioned to Peck’s Road. Same road, different name. I must have crossed Hancock Road which goes along Pontoosuc on the south a bit ago. At that intersection the name of the road changes. As I continue along Peck’s Road, I pass the north side of Onota Lake. There is the causeway on my right. It cuts across the top part of Onota, just wide enough for two cars. My father told us that sometimes after a rain storm, the water is so high that parts of the causeway are under water and the road closed to cars. Today, since it is summer and has been dry for a while, it is easily accessible. I decide it would be fun to ride across it, so I add this little detour to my travels.
It is fun to see water on both sides of the road-way, but the water isn’t high enough to make it seem even a little bit scary or adventurous, so back to Peck’s Road. The best thing about Peck’s Road is that it is a long downhill ride.
At first there are just a few cottages, but then it begins to be more built up. Some businesses, a cemetery, an old abandoned mill, then more and more houses and even some stores. Two more cemeteries, one on each side of the road. On my left, I spot the brick structure the firemen use for practice. It’s an odd building, several stories high, but only one room wide on each floor. Oh. There’s Russell School. Both Chris and Vicki went there. Now I can spot Wahconah Street and Harry’s Store. I am practically home.
Only trouble is, Pontoosuc Street, right ahead of me just across Wahconah, is a steep hill. I am bushed, very little energy left. I start up it, but basically walk the bike most of the way until I reach Lenox Ave. Then I hop on again. Lenox is a downhill ride. I turn left onto Weller; the next left is Montgomery. I’m back home, tired, but pleased with myself. The bike ride is over.
Riding the bike into the backyard, I lean it against the back porch and go into the kitchen. My mother is making dinner. “How was your ride? Are you tired?” I admitted I was but told her I enjoyed the ride. “No dogs today. I’m going to wash up. Then I’ll set the table.” The once-a year-ride was over. Now it is just the usual beginning to a summer’s supper.
So that’s the story of my bike rides. I never brought the bike to college. The bike was still at Montgomery Avenue when I got married. I never took it with me. I never asked my parents what happened to it. I imagine when they moved to an apartment in Lenox, they just gave it away and that was that.
Many people my age still ride. Now they have helmets, flashing lights, florescent stripes, special spandex biking outfits with gloves. They use their bikes for transportation or for serious exercise. I often see groups of bikers around the Santa Monica Beach boardwalk.
The other bikers I see at the boardwalk are tourists renting a bike after years of inactivity. Often, it’s a mom and dad and a couple of kids on a tandem bike. They struggle a bit getting on, maintaining balance, adjusting to being on this two-wheeled contraption. My first thought is that I’d look as foolish as they do if I tried to ride now. Then I imagine myself renting a bike, riding along the boardwalk singing as I go. "Wouldn’t that be loverly"
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