Today it snowed.
When it snows, it gets you thinking. Thinking about warm days. Thinking about sunny times outdoors. Thinking about bike rides in the country.
I remember a day during the pandemic. That’s five years ago for those counting. When I holstered my bike to my less than $50 rack that I attached to the trunk of my green Nissan and drove from Harlem to Millerton.
I was living not far from Harlem’s Striver’s Row at the time. My apartment was a in between studio and one bedroom prewar type of space located on Odell Clark Place. The apartment was rent stabilized. “The kitchen had been renovated,” was a selling point made by the agent. I could tell that the floors had not been touched in what seemed decades. The ceilings were high, though. From what I remember, the bathroom was tiled in beige and pink. I pictured bell bottom jeaned bodies fixing their makeup or coming their hair in the de-silvered mirror. The circuit breaker had these fuses that looked dangerous, and I was glad I never had to change them.
The lockdown was in full swing. For months I went to work. For months I went home. Back and forth. The lack of activity sent my head into a spiral. I could see that I was beginning to develop a sense of what solitary confinement does to a man. The repetition became a prison in and of itself. The need for change was potent lest I begin to lose grips of sanity by staring too deep into that foggy mirror, in that retro-tiled bathroom, in that forgotten rent stabilized apartment.
I started biking. One day, I biked over to the Brooklyn Bridge and felt very much like I was in a Zombie- genre film. No tourists were around. No venders roamed the walkway. No traffic drove on the road. I got a flat on 1st avenue on my way back home. Luckily, a hardware store owner took pity on me. He put air in my tire. He scoffed at my attempt at payment. I thanked him then I rode home.
As summer came, more cyclists came out like chipmunks and squirrels emerging in Spring from the forest floor. The City’s bike paths became like the tour de France. The City’s streets were filled with flash mobs. Protestors who organized marches all over town. I biked with my cousin through and around a few. I saw the police in their gear at the Tunnels. I heard the names of dead men and women chanted by the crowd. I heard the City bang pots. I heard the anti-vaxxers and pro-maskers shout from behind picket lines. I saw, heard, and felt all this in a span of months. I needed quiet. I needed another lockdown. I needed a rest from the City that never sleeps. That’s when I started to venture back home to the Catskills. After my return north, I discovered a place called Millerton.
I left Harlem, as I said. It was July 26, actually. I had no plans. No grand scheme. Just a drive north with my bike. I started on the Taconic. I almost turned back before the exit at 84. At that intersection is a stretch where the road becomes a dangerous mix of serpentines and ledges. A tourist would find it difficult to maneuver around those curves while also managing to stay away from the precipice and the rock wall. I felt very much like an out-of-towner returning to that route. And yet I kept on.
I drove 22 past Wingdale station. It was there that I noticed I was in a different Harlem. They call it a valley. This Harlem was not like mine. There were no Brownstones. No Striver’s Row. No tenements with rent stabilized containing dangerous fuse boxes. There was an old hospital that gave me goosebumps when I drove by it. There was space between towns. The plains there were vast. I didn’t see any protests. Instead, I saw farms. I saw mountains. I saw “God’s Country.” I took 22 past Dover where I had hiked before. There’s an old Native American hideout there and rumors of a road leading to a community where you shouldn’t drive down alone.
When I got to Millerton, I parked in a lot near the old rail station. It was between Harney and Sons and the Diner. The trail was called the Harlem Valley Rail. I rode my bike from Millerton south to a place called Wassaic.
I felt alone on the Rail. I could see what I believed were the Berkshires to the left. I biked through forests, old towns, and over bridges. There were parts where rock had been blown to bits so that the rail could be laid. In those spots, the track led through short valleys where the sides were made of mossed cover rock. In the distance there was a range of hills. Green plains laid at their feet. I rode over a wooden patch of the trail. I ended up at the General Store in Wassaic. There was artwork in the fields where horses roamed free. I took in the air. I listened to the trees. I felt the breeze and thought of nothing. The sun began to set, and I returned to Millerton.
***
Now it is five years later.
I thought about those two Harlems for a long time after. Even after I moved to Westchester. Even after the snow has fallen. Today, I came across a post about the newly built track from Millerton to Under Mountain. That’s what had me reminiscing about my rides.
I will not be biking for a while. I am like the squirrel, staying warm and dry in my den until spring. As I sit in my apartment that is new and very much not rent stabilized, I can’t help but wonder what a ride on that trail would be like. I hope this July I’ll find out.
Joseph Dunnigan has written articles for the Sierra Club’s Lower Hudson Group and The Goshen News. Besides writing articles, Joseph also writes short stories. Apart from writing, Joseph is completing the Catskill 3500 Hiking Challenge. He lives in Westchester County, New York.
