My recent Boston Marathon adventure got me thinking of another trip, hitherto unreported.
But, oh, look, The Statue Of Inhibitions has expired.
It was the Fall of 2014. A more innocent time. I was much younger. And I kept notes.
Back home two days, throat scratchy after many hours of public transport.
Still processing the idea I talked to friends I attended kindergarten with over sixty years ago. Greeted buddies with whom I ran from the cops, a kaftaned billionaire and a coterie of 68-year-old former cheerleaders. Then there was Nike’s first employee, the former CEO of Fleet Feet, the winners of six Boston Marathons and Barnie, The Horse. Quite an story.
And now another week later, I’ll see if I can pick up the highlights. I am finally well. Missus Sweetie now sick in bed. Travel not for sissies.
Friday. 9/19: The alarm was set for 0300, I was awake before that.
06:55 am. Crammed or wedged into a seat in cattley coach.
11:45 a.m. Arrived Logan airport. Love descending over that cold blue carpet.
Noonish. Boston. Picked up car at Budget. Upgraded to a luxury model, a Genesis with 32,000 miles on the odometer. “Manager’s Special.” Imagine my surprise the damn thing drove like a tractor, albeit with 400 horsepower.
Three to four hours to Danbury, CT. Thai Food at Mass Turnpike rest areas, proof I’m not in Florida anymore.
Conveniently located in the bustling New England town of Danbury, Connecticut, just a short drive from Hartford and New York City, the Ethan Allen Hotel blends classic style, gracious hospitality, and warm ambiance into a truly unique and personal travel experience. Experience affordable, livable luxury featuring friendly staff, delicious food, comfortable accommodations, and of course, classic Ethan Allen furnishings. All interiors are decorated in the timeless aesthetic of simple elegance with ease and comfort woven into every detail.
One thing I asked for. One thing. And the hotel screwed up my pre-ordered Romance Package. Which seems an oxymoron.
5-7 p.m. Cocktail party. Commencing a week-long beer binge.
Dinner with my wife, childhood neighbor Billy & his wife, Wendy. Apparently named after a Peter Pan character. Bill and I were the only Regents scholarship winners NOT in the Honor Society. A point of personal pride.
Saturday. 9/20: Slept in.
Drove into New York state to visit my childhood homes in Putnam County.
My Kelly Ridge home has been gentrified, #36 expanded by 1500 sq. ft. And a couple hundred thousands of dollars.
Lunch at Smalley’s. Established in 1852 and decorated for Halloween. In 1970, I proposed to my first wife here. At the time, the jukebox was playing Bob Dylan’s current hit, “Lay Lady Lay.”
Dreamed as a child of becoming a big success and having my boyhood home transformed into a park like so many of my heroes. Well, part of that came true.
Mid-1950′s, my mother was administrator of the County Farm, where old stinky local men would go when they had no other place to be. A hundred-acre property with a lake and fields and woods.
I pull up to gatehouse, introduce myself to Ranger Ryan.
He’s twenty-seven and I tell him I used to live here during the Eisenhower administration. I could see in his eyes the question ‘Who?’
Then I took Miss Peggy for a brief hike into the woods. Seems completely unchanged. The trees maybe a half-century taller.
Can’t tell you the numbers of imaginary Indians – indigenous warriors – my little brother and I slayed as they attempted to capture our rocky redoubt “Fort Apache.”
Then to Brewster to meet with Mark Slouka (& lovely wife Leslie). Turns out he has family in Czechoslovakia and I was a Czech linguist, serving along the Iron Curtain during the Cold War. He is a disciplined novelist and I’m not. If you haven’t yet read Mark’s novel Brewster, you have a treat in store.
Speaking of which, still no Romance Package.
Perhaps a note to the front desk might help: SAY MY NAME.
6-11 p.m. Re-Union Dinner-Party
We had a small class. Maybe 120 people. I figure our average net worth per graduate of the Class of 1964 is eight million dollars. You don’t have to have taken plane geometry three times to figure that out.
Should’ve worn my glasses. I have no idea who most of these people are, even when they are standing in front of me. And they are wearing their high school yearbook photos. I know I sure as hell don’t look anything like my photo – praise The Lord.
50th High School Reunion in a nutshell: Honey, I shrunk my classmates.
Apparently, I have grown much taller over this past half century.
Which I believe is a metaphor for my life’s arc. It’s not how you start out in life, but how you end up.
And how much fun you have & how much good you do in between.
And maybe how much crap you bounced back up from.
I am twenty-five pounds lighter than when these “kids” saw me last. More sinewy, for sure.
To be honest, I trained for this event like it was a big city marathon. Televised.
Which was a blessing. ’cause we stayed up way past my bedtime.
Missus Sweetie got bored, hanging with us old folks, so she grabbed a couple of the younger wives and crashed a wedding reception. Dancing ensued. Had to pull her out of there when she started to tease one of the groomsmen about the allure of older women. You could see the color rise up his face in a dark room.
There’s the Romance Package!
A beautiful vase full of red-tipped yellow roses, six or eight huge chocolate-covered strawberries and a bottle of champagne. But if I was in the mood at this late hour after all those beers, somebody else wouldn’t be.
Sunday. 9/21: Slept in. Both in the mood to do that.
The wife ate most of the berries, I drank most of the champagne and we gave the maid the roses.
On the way out the door, I dropped my high school photo in the trash basket.
1:00 p.m. John Kelley Statue Unveiling. Next to Mystic Pizza. 56 West Main St., CT.
Since I was practically driving by, I stopped for the John J. “The Younger” Kelley statue unveiling.
Crowd overflowed, Amby Burfoot gave an outstanding tribute.
Said hello to Nina Kuscik. I chased her in the 1974 USA marathon championships.
Back when I could still outrace some of the top women. Got to spend time with Amby, Bill Rodgers, Jack Fultz.
Patti (Catalano) Dillon. She practically squealed when she saw me.
Women often respond to me that way. Of course, it has been 30 years maybe.
In 1980, Patti had arguably the greatest year of any road racer in USA history.
See p.92 of When Running Was Young and So Were We.
Beware Of Moose
Broke my heart, when we couldn’t stay for the reception. Right near Mystic Pizza.
But we have to get to Bar Harbor tonight.
Still another seven hours away.
I don’t see so good after dark. I don’t see so good after dark in dense fog.
Can hardly make out the road. All I can see are the frequent reflective yellow warning signs.
Watch For Moose In Highway
More fog. Thick, soupy. More dark. More warnings out of the blur – Moose Crossing.
This Should Be Bar Harbor. Too Dark To Know.
9:00 p.m. Arrive Tom & Julie’s. At least we think it’s their house. Looks suspiciously normal. I have visited two or three of his homes, never normal. Could be a trap.
Too dark, too foggy. And there might be moose.
There’s nobody home. We wait outside in the dark inside the car in the cul-de-sac. That’s French-Canadian for dead end.
Later, after cooking us a generous slab of steak and fixing a crispy salad, Tom says, “We left the door open, you should’ve gone in.”
We live in Florida, I reminded him.
People leave their doors open, just hoping somebody will come in, so they can shoot them dead.
I’d rather take my chances with the moose.
Monday. 9/22: Spent most of the day touring the Acadia State Park. A beautiful, beautiful place.
Still no moose.
You wouldn’t want to hit a moose, Tom explains.
They’re tall, so when you hit a moose – average weight over 800 pounds – you take his legs out and he’s suddenly in your lap and you don’t feel so good ’cause you crashed into a tree and the moose is unhappy, ’cause his legs are broken.
He didn’t even mention the massive horns, doubtlessly sharp as samurai swords.
Put the wife in the back seat after lunch and took the windy coast road until she had to ask us to pull over so she could barf. In ladylike fashion, of course.
And then we went to dinner at Jack Russells’ Steakhouse & Brew Pub in Bar Harbor.
Hot soft pretzel preceded my entrée, the Lazy Lobster. Local lobster meat without the mess served in a white wine butter sauce.
More beer.
Tuesday 9/23: 11 am Depart Bar Harbor. Have places to get to before dark.
Watching in all directions for a moose. Starting to think moose are a myth.
Although a 2012 census said there are 76,000 moose in Maine alone.
New Hampshire’s state motto is Live Free Or Die and there are liquor stores at roadside rest areas.
Booze at lower prices, conveniently located. Win-win.
5 pm. Arrive at the home of The Forrest Gump of Running, Lebanon NH.
Notes are blank here. Could be fatigue. Could be an oath of omerta.
Weds. 9/24: Gump cooked omelets with Egg Beaters, which he proclaimed as good as real eggs.
Lunch at the Flying Goose Brew Pub & Grille, New London, NH.
Sweet n’ Spicy Trout: Rainbow filet oven baked with crushed pumpkin seeds & drizzled with teriyaki & Sriracha sauces.
More beer.
Actually can’t recall dinner.
I do remember taking my wife for a walk in the woods in the late afternoon and turning around after a while because I didn’t want to get us lost in the dark. Didn’t seem prudent.
There might’ve been moose.
We get back to the house, come in through a back door, grab a beer, just in time to see Gump’s car race out the driveway.
“Wonder where he’s going?”, I wonder.
I am sitting there with my honey drinking his beer when he returns. When we didn’t come home, he went looking for us.
Turns out there’s been moose – and black bear – seen in the neighborhood and he was worried about us.
That is so sweet.
Thursday. 9/25: Gump made pancakes, with Egg Beaters. Which are definitely not as good as real eggs. Then we went antiquing. Essential old treasures nobody needs but then you start thinking about shipping costs.
Seemed like a special occasion, dinner at The Simon Pearce Restaurant. A glass factory, too. Just looked it up.
Voted one of “America’s Most Romantic Restaurants” by Travel and Leisure and recipient of the Wine Spectator “Best Award of Excellence” – the dining room at the Mill is a wonderful way to experience our brand. Using fresh local ingredients, thoughtfully prepared creative American cuisine is served with the backdrop of the Ottauquechee River waterfall and covered bridge. With attentive, welcoming staff, the restaurant has become a beloved go-to for special occasions and casual lunch get-togethers alike.
Suffice to say, this romantic joint is considered the finest restaurant for many miles in all directions.
Friday. 9/26: Breakfast at King Arthur Flour. Gump insisted on treating us to a good-bye breakfast. He really likes this place. Me, too.
He seemed really sad to see Peggy go.
Then I aimed my luxury tractor at Boston, curving and winding through postcard villages to the Harborside Inn Boston. Ideally located near the harbor & Faneuil Hall.
Faneuil Hall is the former site of arguably Boston’s most important historical monument – Bill Rodger’s Running Center.
Certainly the most visited.
The weather outside was delightful, warmer by the water, and so we walked hand-in-hand, a couple of tourists.
At last, safe from moose.
Stopped in Donovan’s tavern. An actual dive, dark and practically empty, in the middle of a tourist mecca. Irish bartender named Aidan, been here twenty years. Customer starts to talk.
“Is this gonna be a long story or a short story?”, bartender asks, because there’s a rugby game on TV.
Back door opens. “Here’s my favorite customer,” Aidan tells me.
Why, I ask. Watch and see, he says.
Aidan pours the man a double and sets it down, turns away. Takes a look at the action on the screen.
Customer picks up the glass, downs the shot in a single gulp and walks out the same door he came in.
Left a $2 tip. Every workday, same story.
“If I had 500 of those guys, I’d be good,” Aidan says.
I left $5.
Tall, Sexy White Guy
And then the trip got strange.
We came across a crowd in a park gathered around a bunch of slender young black dudes.
Can’t tell if they are acrobats or dancers or … but they are amazing. I gave them $5 right off.
Jumping and contorting and swirling and… well, like I said, just amazing. Entertaining.
Pretty soon, they’re lining up a bunch of ladies and a little boy, apparently somebody is gonna leap over all of them.
Being somewhat expert in such matters, I’m thinking, you’d have to be part Bob Beamon, part Dick Fosbury to make that leap.
And then the show took an ugly turn.
The ringleader, charismatic, funny showman suddenly announces, what we need now is a …
“Tall, sexy, white guy.”
He puts me in the back.
I’ve seen enough Evil Knievel jumps to know most crashes happen in the back.
For $50, he’ll move me to the front.
I am moved to the front. Seemed like the savvy play.
There is video, I’ll look for it. Can’t find it.
I did survive. Unscathed.
Don’t like scathed itself.
After some beer, we took a walk. Perhaps a stroll.
And met Barnie The Horse, “rescued from the Amish”, whatever the distelfink that means.
Turns out my bride has never taken a horse-drawn carriage ride with a tall, sexy white guy.
Clip-clop-clip-clop. Gotta think that’s what a moose would sound like crossing the highway.
You can cross “romantic buggy ride” off her bucket list.
Oh, and Barnie The Horse is a bit nippy. You could lose a finger up to the wrist.
Who was rescued from whom, I wonder.
Later, we ate at McCormick & Schmick’s. I retain fond memories of my middle age and their Portland OR establishment. Sat on an elevated deck and ogled a parade of young people, which we never see back home.
I had a beer or two.
Sitting at the Harborside bar, not wanting the night to end, already almost 8 p.m., we get to watching aspiring models practice their walks as they prepare for agency auditions in the nearest ballroom. Not the worst way I’ve ever spent my time.
This one young girl is doing it all wrong, so Peggy jumps off her stool to show her how to swing that thing. The skinny darling is like twenty-three with two kids – they’re home with her mother – and this is her big chance.
Like to think she got the job.
Saturday. 9/27. Dropping off the tractor -$50 coupon for your next unhappy rental – the day before, a young Moroccan was our cabbie. Sweet guy.
The next morning, an older Ukrainian picks us up. He is scary.
I talk to strangers and he is having none of it. A cold stone.
Then the plane.
I take the aisle for my left leg, the one with the three blood clots and Peggy sits in the middle and a beflannelled Sasquatch arrives finally to sit next to the window.
Think Lucy & Desi meet The Thing. Too terrible to recollect in its entirety, but my favorite part… He filled his drink container to the brim and fell asleep. We encountered turbulence as he snored away and the cup of dark fluid started vibrating itself from right to left and just as it was about to splash into my wife’s lap, she reaches out and catches the cup on the lip of the tray.
“Hey!!!! Did you touch my drink?” The accusation bellowed. Thank God that breath did not hit an open flame.
Like every hiker deep in the woods since the invention of the iPhone, I did not get a photo.
Wife wants a refund on the half seat she can’t use and suggests a personality test before boarding. Maybe DNA.
Safely back home, grateful for all the generous hospitality, well, I think it’s important to remember what a simply amazing time we had.
Moose and all.
The end.
Can’t help noticing, these notes are far better than the notes I took on my trip a few weeks ago.
Thinking maybe I might’ve lost a step.
Or two.
But still stepping nonetheless.
Despite the danger.
