Trip to Maine with Cousin Diana

I can't remember exactly when it was, probably around the summer of '73 I'm guessing.  Uncle Tom and Aunt Mary had been up in Maine a few years and we were dying to see them and their farm.  So Diana and I took my van up there.  It's something like a 7 or 8 hour drive from Long Island to Augusta (actually East Vassalboro per Margaret) (found the street in the assessors files as 1046 CROSS HILL ROAD, Vassalboro, Maine), pretty sure it was 8 back then.  Speed limits were lower.  We got up there and they had a good sized two storey farm house with 30 acres of mostly woods, but they did have a field planted with at the very least, corn and onions.  They had a Norwegian Elkhound named Smokey...very good dog.  When we arrived, Uncle Tom was quick to point out that I needed more air in my front tires.

It was nice during the day, but chilly at night.  Their only heat, or at least the only heat they used was a woodburning stove in the kitchen.  Uncle Tom had a white pickup truck and had recently bought a towable cement mixer that he lent out to the neighbors.  There was a lot of comraderie among the neighbors and everyone pitched in whenever someone had a sizable project.  I don't remember much about the inside of the house, except the kitchen where we spent most of our time.  They said that they liked when the snow got higher than the windows since it acted like insulation and kept the house warmer.

I saw a deer that was in the corn field, but as soon as he heard me, he bolted through the woods.  When I told Uncle Tom about it, he said it was probably in the next county by then. We went to a garage sale and I found an egg poaching pan that I thought was interesting, since I'd never had poached eggs.  I don't remember what everyone else picked up.  Aunt Mary made us corn fritters and onion pancakes for two of the breakfasts that were just delicious.  I don't remember much else about what we ate, because these were so different and with ingredients from their own field, but I'm sure there were martinis involved.

Got to talk to Uncle Tom about what I was studying. He knew quite a bit about electronics having been a chief engineer on the Grace Line ships and being responsible for everything mechanical and electrical onboard.  Aunt Mary and Diana went picking corn out in the field.  While they were picking corn, Aunt Mary farted.  Diana thought it was hilarious, since no one in our family dared fart in front of anyone.

Uncle Tom smoked a corn cob pipe and Aunt Mary rolled her own cigarettes with Bugler tobacco and a hand roller.  I picked that up myself and smoked hand rolled cigarettes for quite a while - much better tasting, less harsh, and slower smoke and much cheaper than prepackaged cigarettes.  Pretty sure Uncle Tom smoked Prince Albert, but I'm not 100% certain.

I'd really been looking forward to doing some work around the farm, but there wasn't really anything to do.  I don't really remember much else about what we did up there. 

Diana and I drove back and on the way I decided to stop in Mystic Seaport for lunch and to do a little sightseeing for an hour or so to break up the ride.  Diana really seemed to enjoy it.  One of my favorite places too.

TOSRV '76

There's not too much of a story to this...most of the ride was a blur, with a few memorable minutes.  TOSRV is the Tour of the Scioto River Valley.  The tour/valley goes from Columbus, Ohio to Portsmouth, Ohio and back, a distance of 210 miles.  It lasts two days and it done with 3000 others on bicycles. 

After my experience with bicycle camping, I researched the other ways of long distance cycling that were less precarious.  Basically, I subscribed to Bicycling magazine.  This tour was about 8 and a half months after Mikki and I had gotten an apartment in Queens and I started working in the city instead of living off unemployment.  So leading up to this ride, I hadn't really put in the bike miles that I needed for this ride.  Luckily I was still in good enough shape where that didn't end in catastrophe.

My bike also wasn't really up to snuff.  I'd had my issues with its wheels, and the spokes never seemed to be perfectly tuned, lending the wheels to sometimes develop a wobble that I'd try to get out with a bit more spoke tightening.  The nice part about the TOSRV was that it only had a small section of gently rolling hills and otherwise was for the most part flat.  I imagine that in one direction or the other it was more uphill than the other, given that the river must have to drop in altitude to reach its desitination, but that wasn't really noticeable.

I don't really remember how I booked the trip, somehow through the mail.  And outside a bike shop in the Village in Manhattan, I met up with everyone else going and boarded a charter bus that somehow accommodated all our bikes, sleeping bags and gear.  I don't even remember having to take the bike apart; so maybe the bus had a trailer for the bikes, but I can't remember.  We left late in the day and drove all night, catching what sleep we could on the 10 hour ride.  There was a woman about my age sitting across from me, and we chatted a bit, but the night was for getting rest for the upcoming ride.

When we arrived, it seemed very surreal.  They unloaded our bikes, loaded our gear and sleeping bags into another truck to be driven to Portsmouth and pointed us in the direction of the ride.  No fanfare, no checkin, just go.  At least that was how I remembered it.  It seemed that people just clustered together along the ride as long as you could keep up with the majority.  If you got dropped or took off, you'd look for another bunch to draft with.  I remember spending the early part with a bunch of about 25 people.  There were 3 rest stops where you could fill up on food, granola bars, drinks, etc.  Back then we didn't have hydration packs, so one or two bottles in hangers on your down tube and seat tube were about all you could carry.  I also carried a handlebar bag with a spare tube, tools, spokes, etc.  The bag I had also had a clear plastic sleeve on top, so I could put the map in and see it while I rode.  Didn't need it as the route was well marked.

I loved the scenery.  I had read Alan Eckert's "The Frontiersman" and could picture the Shawnee and Simon Kenton roaming the hills and the Indian mounds around Chillicothe.  Beautiful scenery and very green.  From what I'd heard, we were really lucky not to have any rain.  There was one section I remember that we hit maybe around 30 or 40 miles out, not really sure, but the road all of a sudden got very choppy with broken sections of asphalt.  I came into it at a good clip and it wasn't but a minute before I heard the ping of a broken spoke.  I pulled off to the side, took the wheel off and the tube and tape, and replaced the spoke.  I was squatting facing the street from the left side of the street, tightening the new spoke, when a photographer pulled up and snapped my picture from his car.  Never did see the picture.  Eventually I got back on the road.

The rest stops were great, mountains of granola bars, snacks, and drinks.  About 60 miles out, I saw a couple of guys coming back.  The really strong, semi-pro riders with top of the line bikes and clipless pedals had already done the 105 miles to Portsmouth and were on their way back, having done the first stretch in 4 hours.  It ultimately took me 8 hours.  Other than random snippets of scenery, breaking the spoke, fixing it, seeing guys coming back, and that one rest stop, I don't really remember much else about the ride that day.

When I got into Portsmouth, they directed us to the places we were going to be spending the night.  I ended up in a school gymnasium with several hundred other guys.  A couple smarter people brought air mattresses.  I do remember meeting up with the woman from the bus and getting ice cream cones someplace near the gym.  I don't remember anything else from that night, except for one nerdy guy from our bus who had a huge pack and was all decked out in street clothes for the night.  The rest of us just wore shorts and t-shirts.

The next morning I met up with that woman and we rode out together.  At one point, we joined a large peleton of about 50 people.  That was some of the most memorable riding...only inches from the person's wheel in front of you, no wind to cut through, whizzing along so much faster than you could do on your own.  At some point, we ended up separated from that group and I remember at one point I had to stop to adjust something.  There was some old abandoned farm shack next to the road and trees lining the fence between us and the shack. There wasn't any shoulder on the road and I was standing just at the edge.  A large peleton came flying by and I had to jump into the small space in the grass between the fence and the road to avoid getting run over.

Again, that's about all I remember, except that the ride back seemed so much more grueling...maybe we were going upstream then.  Plus being pretty sore from the previous day didn't help.  But eventually we made it back, got on the bus, probably in the same seats, and went back to NY overnight again, arriving back on Monday morning.

Snippets of Bellerose

The first house my parents owned was at 89-33 238th Street in Bellerose, Queens, NY.  Coincidently, 13 years after we moved away, I had a girl friend who lived at 89-33 Gettysburg Ave, two blocks away.  Things I remember...drying dishes with my sister while my mom washed them.  I think I was sitting on the counter.  Drinking the dregs of my father's can of Reingold only to find he was using it for an ashtray.  My father digging the dirt from his side landscaping job out of his nails with a napkin and spelling words that way.  My mom making boats out of our mashed potatoes.  One-armed Farmer Walters who lived behind us who gave us fresh corn (who turned out to be the uncle of George Buck who owned a farm a few blocks from us in East Meadow).  Picking the glass "marbles" out of the Meseroles' concrete pedestals.  Playing in the mud with a truck.  Hooking up the fire truck my Uncle Tom gave me to the garden hose to put water on the tree with the truck's hose. 

Crawling around the living room with my father and breaking a knickknack my Mom had on the coffee table and laughing sheepishly about it.  Christmas trees in the alcove.  The little TV screen in the big wooden cabinet. Watching King Kong on TV and covering my eyes.  Watching Hit Parade and American Bandstand, and dozens of cartoons, Our Gang, Abbot and Costello, Three Stooges, Laurel and Hardy.  My Dad with his face swollen up from poison ivy (or smoke inhalation).  Standing up in my crib and picking the wallpaper off the window sill. 

Little kid next door down who was a real weenie and accused me of something I didn't do.  Karen Masel's beautiful black cocker spaniel.  Running away with my sister and Karen and a baby blanket with books in it.  Little blond haired girl who lived in the apartment on the corner.  Kindergarten for a couple weeks before we moved - playing with wooden blocks there.  Working the firehose when the lot across the street went on fire and my Dad took me over to the firemen when it was out. 

Park on the other side of Braddock Ave with swings and sand box and metal wrought iron fence..

One trip to Smallwood

When we were kids, we used to spend most of our summers at the O'Flaherty/Wohrles/Bayer's bungalow in Smallwood, NY on Delaware Rd., near White Lake in the Catskills.  Cheap vacation at the time.  My father hated it, given the communal sleeping arrangements, at the very least.  It just had an outhouse and a cold water sink, uneven floors, fair dose of mold and must.

I remember once when Billy Wohrle, Bob O'Flaherty and I found this old 1930s rusty car or truck next to an empty barn.  I remember I was able to stand up in the front, so probably the doors were off and there was no roof or seat.  So, I jumped in and spun the steering wheel. Didn't know there was a beehive attached to the steering post under the hood.  We all got stung several times each (I know I got stung at least three times), and given the situation, probably got off easy.  But we were hollering and crying all the way back to the bungalow.  Aunt Mary slapped some witchhazel on the stings.

Once my Aunt Anne went out to the outhouse at night without her glasses.  As she was coming out, she yelled, "Hey, look at the big white dogs."  Two bulls had broken through the fence from the pasture.  Not sure how she got away unscathed.

Another time the three of us went out to the pasture with John Wohrle and he had a bunch of firecrackers.  We put them in the cow pies and blasted craters into them.  We used to play army out in the pasture too, but there were so many cow pies that you had to be careful where you stepped or flopped on the ground.

Later when I was about 15 or 16, my cousin Bob, his Mom and a friend of hers went up there by ourselves.  Bob brought his brother's .22 rifles, and pretty much the two of us were left to our own devices for the week.  Not a good idea when you got the two of us together.  The back of the property backed up to Farmer Stevenson's pasture, pretty close to a half mile or so deep and heavily wooded on the other side.  

Bob and I set up cans on the fence posts and shot through several boxes of shells.  Just about when we were done we heard a loud crack overhead.  Pretty sure that was from some hunter, because I've heard plenty of shots' shock waves after, and I'm sure that had to be at least a .30-06.  Then the cattle came out into the pasture, so it was time to pack it in.  Another day we tried our hands at gopher hunting in the pasture, but could never get close enough for a good shot.

The bungalow had a screened porch out front and one day we were sitting on the porch with the screen door open.  A bat flew in, and of course everyone believed that bats would get caught in your hair and you'd have to get it all cut off to get them out.  Bob bolted for the main door and left me out on the porch.  I just ducked and then the bat landed on the outside of the screen on the door.  I flung the door shut and the bat tried to come back in, but wasn't quick enough.  It got squished between the door and the jamb.  We had a good time later chasing Aunt Mary and her friend with the dead bat.

One late afternoon, Bob and I went into White Lake, and Bob says, "you look old enough with your beard growing in - go into that bar and get a couple six packs".  Sure enough, I went in, ordered two six packs of Bud and we drank them all the way back...several miles.  Good thing there wasn't any traffic on those roads, because we were staggering all over the road by the time we got back.

Across the street from the bungalow were pretty thick woods.  But all throughout there were blueberry, raspberry and blackberry bushes.  We would comb those bushes for an hour stuffing our faces with those berries.  We also found wild sour apples that we would spear on the ends of sticks that we'd whip to throw the apples.  Could really get some distance that way.

Sometime in the 70s or early 80s the bungalow finally started falling down, so the O'Flaherty's and cousins went up and tore it down.  Pretty sure my cousin Bob stayed there for Woodstock, since that was only a couple miles away.

Hangin with Cousin Ronnie

I'll never forget this one time we went down to Hatboro, PA to visit, Uncle Jack, Aunt Ronnie, Ronnie and Claire.  It was overcast and I don't remember if it rained while we were there or just before we got there.  So Ronnie and I go over to the nearby park, maybe it was a schoolyard, but they had a piece of playground equipment that I'd never been on before.  It was a carousel that you push yourself.  The track around it was rutted and soaked.  That didn't stop us as we ran around that thing to get it going as fast as we could, then tried to jump on.  Of course, the centripedal force was enough that we could barely hang on and at some point we were getting dragged through the mud.  We were laughing hysterically which made it even more impossible to keep our balance on it. 

My bicycle camping story

There can be a lot of differences depending upon how you approach long distance cycling... what support you have, the amount of preplanning, and how you plan to eat and sleep on the road. I remember reading in the early 70's of a 70 year old former racer, Ed Delong, who for his birthday, rode across America along, with little more than a credit card and some changes of clothes forwarded to general post offices along the route. My choice was to try bicycle camping, round trip from Long Island to Philadelphia and back. It was around 300 miles given the route I took..

I had trained fairly well and could easily do 50 to 75 miles a day without gear, and 40-50 with all the 35 lbs of gear (bike was a 10-speed Atala). I took along a camping cook set, sleeping bag, small stove, some food (planned on shopping for most meals), tarp, tools, tires, tubes, maps, and two changes of clothes. I had a handlebar bag and panniers from the Touring Cyclist shop.

I got up at 4 am, left the house and about a mile or so later, blew out the sides of both tires from too much pressure. Changed the tubes and stuffed the ragged tubes in the sides of the tires to keep the tubes in. Got to Manhattan when a bike store opened and replaced the tires. Took the PATH train to Hoboken and rode up through Passaic, where a woman ran the stop sign on the cross street, and stopped in front of me to avoid a pedestrian stepping off the curb. Just as I cut in front of her to avoid slamming into her side, she stepped on the gas and I got hit by the car. She crushed the back wheel, and I rolled off, but otherwise okay. The pedestrian called a cop and the woman took off.  The pedestrian got her license plate and the cop tracked her down.  I had a friend pick me up and take me to a bike shop to get another wheel, then I stayed at his house in Pompano Lakes for the night. We left together and had a great day and found a county park to set up camp about half way across Northern NJ. That night the creek I was sleeping next to overflowed from the downpour that was came in for the night. I slept in 3" of water for the rest of the night.

The next morning I took my very heavy sleeping back to a laundromat and dried it out. My friend rode back home and I rode on to the Delaware River. Camped on an island in the river and had a great night.  The next day I rode into Philly, but most of the local street signs had been stolen.  I stopped by a fire truck and asked them for directions.  They were right on and got me to Lycoming Street. I stayed with cousin Gerry and her boyfriend for a couple days. One night he and I rode to his garage so I could check the true on my wheels and tighten the spokes.  On the way back I jumped the bike over a pothole.  When I landed, the bike wobbled for a bit, but seemed okay.  When we got to his apartment, I got off and picked up the bike. The front wheel fell off.  The quick release had popped open when I jumped the pothole.  Only luck had stopped it from falling off altogether.

Heading back to NY, I went up the east side of NJ.  I made it up to Lakehurst and set up camp at the airport where we used to go parachuting.  After a shower and dinner, someone comes out and tells me I can't camp there.  So I just moved a few hundred feet away into the brush. That night, I was bitten on the eyelid that night by a mosquito and my eye was swollen shut for the rest of the next day. I rode up north on back roads the rest of the day. I made it to Rahway and hit a dead end that wasn't on the map among the refineries with nothing but the Jersey Turnpike between me and the Goethels Bridge.  So, I hopped the fence and rode a mile to an overpass I needed to get to, but someone ratted me out to the tollbooth.  A cop rolled up and gave me a ticket for riding on the turnpike. But he did give me a ride to the overpass I was trying to reach and opened the gate.

I didn't realize there wasn't a sidewalk on the Goethals Bridge. I put out my thumb and hitchhiked with a flatbed truck over the bridge. I rode through Staten Island to the ferry and went up through Manhattan to cousin Christine's place on 86th and 3rd. Rode back to Long Island the next day by taking the Roosevelt Island tram.

The next long trip was an organized trip with sag wagons, food stops and places to sleep at night. Never went bike camping again.

Short firehouse story

Thought of another story my father, John Heeg, told.  As mentioned before, the Engine 304 firehouse wasn't that busy.  Oddly enough, to pass the time, my father was engaged in a card game.  Must have been a friendly game, because my father was very anti-gambling.  Also surprising because I didn't even think he liked playing cards.  Anyway, one of the younger firemen learned about the pressure point in the back of the neck that would paralyze you when it was pinched really hard.  So he thought he'd be clever and pinch my father's neck during the game.  Sure enough it had its affect, but my father squirmed down in the chair to work his way out of the guy's grip.  Once he did that, he turned and grabbed the guy by the throat and pinched off both jugular veins in a very tight grip in his massive hands.  The guy passed out.  My father told him when he came to, "The next time you do that, they will take you out on a stretcher."  Needless to say, there wasn't a next time.