Ripitz
Well-known member
- Joined
- Dec 23, 2020
Part One
Set out on a pleasant afternoon for a gravel tour from my house through Wiccopee to Fahnestock State Park. This area is rich in history. Human habitation has occurred here for at least 10,000 years, possibly even longer.
I started off on country roads passing the old Methodist church with a congregation that hovers around a dozen or so. The general store that we used to pedal our pennies to for candy has been shuttered for years. The sprawling dairy farm that once was is now covered with sprawling “luxury” homes. Our local pick-your-own has been swarmed by the masses. Screaming children can be heard running amuck while oblivious parents stand on cider donut lines that can be seen from outer space. I make a hard pass.
Soon I hit the gravel and start my long climb up East Mountain.
I know this road well, I’ve been riding it off and on since the late 80s. It’s super smooth today.
I stop to visit a cemetery hidden in the woods. A close friend, whose grandparents owned the dairy farm, once showed me this place. He is a descendant of people who were laid to rest here. His ancestors born long before our country was founded, a German immigrant who married a native woman named Free Love. She died in 1816 at the age of 87.
Some of the graves are marked with simple stones.
I paused for a few minutes before leaving just to be with them, wondering who they were.
After a short shwack back to the gravel, I continue the climb to Schoolhouse Mountain Road. The one room school stands no more and the long abandoned road is now an improved multi-use trail.
I run into two bikers about to descend on a slacker lap. One parked car at the bottom will shuttle them back up. No judgement here, I’ve done similar things before. I heard one of them mention something about beer and I’m curious. The next thing I know I’m cheering my new friends with a Sam Adams Octoberfest.
They remind me that cycling can be a social activity. I get a laugh hearing their hoots and hollers as we drop in since I usually ride alone.
Soon I leave my friends and I’m on my own again.
I survive the hair raising descent with no suspension and breathe a sigh of relief once I reach the old Hubbard hunting lodge.
Set out on a pleasant afternoon for a gravel tour from my house through Wiccopee to Fahnestock State Park. This area is rich in history. Human habitation has occurred here for at least 10,000 years, possibly even longer.
I started off on country roads passing the old Methodist church with a congregation that hovers around a dozen or so. The general store that we used to pedal our pennies to for candy has been shuttered for years. The sprawling dairy farm that once was is now covered with sprawling “luxury” homes. Our local pick-your-own has been swarmed by the masses. Screaming children can be heard running amuck while oblivious parents stand on cider donut lines that can be seen from outer space. I make a hard pass.
Soon I hit the gravel and start my long climb up East Mountain.
I know this road well, I’ve been riding it off and on since the late 80s. It’s super smooth today.
I stop to visit a cemetery hidden in the woods. A close friend, whose grandparents owned the dairy farm, once showed me this place. He is a descendant of people who were laid to rest here. His ancestors born long before our country was founded, a German immigrant who married a native woman named Free Love. She died in 1816 at the age of 87.
Some of the graves are marked with simple stones.
I paused for a few minutes before leaving just to be with them, wondering who they were.
After a short shwack back to the gravel, I continue the climb to Schoolhouse Mountain Road. The one room school stands no more and the long abandoned road is now an improved multi-use trail.
I run into two bikers about to descend on a slacker lap. One parked car at the bottom will shuttle them back up. No judgement here, I’ve done similar things before. I heard one of them mention something about beer and I’m curious. The next thing I know I’m cheering my new friends with a Sam Adams Octoberfest.
They remind me that cycling can be a social activity. I get a laugh hearing their hoots and hollers as we drop in since I usually ride alone.
Soon I leave my friends and I’m on my own again.
I survive the hair raising descent with no suspension and breathe a sigh of relief once I reach the old Hubbard hunting lodge.
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