I was riding in the company of Scott Volk, a co-conspirator in many of my life’s early adventures, and our destination was Nyack, New York. By itself, Nyack is no big deal, other than it was the first place I ever had a lap dance from a totally naked performance artist (albeit ten years after this story occurred). Yet from the heights of the cliffs (still the Palisades) that look down on the Hudson River around Nyack, two 14-year-old boys could park their bikes in High Tor State Park and gaze down at the amazing sight of the Tappan Zee Bridge.
Above -- The "Tappan Zee" Bridge, which carries the New York State Thruway across the Hudson River.(Photo courtesy of Wikipedia -- Click to enlarge.)
Now it is important to understand that I was born and raised in Jersey City, the dog shit and broken glass capital of the world. The place was famous for attached houses (many painted highly implausible colors) with flat roofs, suffocating summer heat, and accents in the mouths of residents that made Leo Gorcey (of the Bowery Boys) sound like William F. Buckley. Scott and I pedaled our bikes as hard as possible to escape to open views, from a lofty perspective, with a breeze that carried no hint of ethnic cooking nor the exhaust of cars orbiting a block to grab a parking spot.
Above -- Leo Gorcey of "The Dead End Kids, Angels With Dirty Faces," and "The Bowery Boys."
Pedaling along 9W was the closest thing we could do to getting out in the country. There were virtually no houses on this road (31 years ago), while a number of access points permitted entry to Palisades Interstate Park, with its vistas (400 feet above the Hudson), and opportunities to take street bicycles along hiking trails. But nothing could compete with the splendor of looking down on the Tappan Zee Bridge, which to us, was an engineering marvel on a par with the Eiffel Tower and the Great Pyramid.
The bridge was built in 1955 at one one the widest points on the Hudson River. With its approaches, the bridge is 3 miles long, with a center span of 1200 feet, with the roadway 138 feet above the river. We just liked to look at it. Actually, we’d lean the bikes up against a couple of trees, pull our sandwiches of a bag, and pool the cookies or cupcakes that remained -- all while studying the silver structure that spanned the river like a bracelet, hundreds of feet below.
Above -- The "Tappan Zee" Bridge snakes across the mighty Hudson like a bracelet, runningh from Nyack, NY to history Tarrytown, NY -- home of the "Headless Horseman." (Photo courtesy of Wikipedia -- Click to enlarge)
Some of the cliff faces and mountains (such as they are) on the river’s edge are famous. The “Storm King on the Hudson” had been immortalized by painters like Thomas Cole and Homer Dodge Martin (of the Hudson River School) in the early 19th century. Now Scott and I were immortalizing them with peanut butter and jelly.
Above -- Storm King Mountain On The Hudson, one of the many landmarks of nature I pedalled a bike over as a kid. (Photo courtesy of Wikipedia -- Click to enlarge.)
Yet bigger fish were to be fried on this trip, and there was nothing that could have prepared me for it. Not far after crossing the New York State Line, Route 9W drops in elevation with a sweeping curve to the right. Though the shoulder was non-existent at this point, we’d get our bikes up to 45mph shooting down this sweeper of a curve, moving out among the traffic.
Above -- A painting of the Adirondacks by Homer Dodge Martin (From Wikipedia -- Click to enlarge)
With the wind whistling in my ears, I can remember reaching down to switch the levers, which threw the chain on the combination of sprockets that brought the greatest resistance to the pedals and the fastest speed to the bike. Scott was hot on my heels. Not only was this part of the “big fun” for this ride, but it was crucial to get up a good head of steam to minimize the effort of climbing the inevitable hill that followed this refreshing plummet.
Yet halfway around this curve, two guys in jeans with bandanas on their heads stepped out of the brush on the right and waved us down. I remember the squeal of the rims as the rubber center-pull brake blocks bit into them, bringing the bikes to a halt.
They were two Harley riders with a problem. They had pulled over in the darkness of the previous evening to spend the night with their girlfriends, and one of the bikes drove into a little bog. It was buried in muck almost up to the exhaust system, and was being held upright by a piece of wood. They wanted us to lend them a hand at pushing the bike out.
It took the four of us (the ladies didn’t help) nearly forty minutes of pushing and shoving to get that bike out of the ooze without dropping it. Scott and I were in sneakers that were covered with foul-smelling swamp rot that came halfway up to our knees. “Frank” and “Butch” had muck on their feet, hands, and faces. But the Harley was free and only the tires were covered with shit.
We got ready to leave, and Scott was asking Frank about something on his bike (the unstuck one). I found “Butch” and this incredibly attractive young thing swapping spit on a log.
“So long,” I said. “We gotta go.”
The guy looked at me with a suggestion of a smile.
“You want anything,” he asked. “A cigarette... A shot of tequilla... A few bucks...”
“Naw, we’re fine.”
I rather got the impression I was having my leg pulled, and then he said, “Want to see some tits?”
Before I could say anything, the babe with him lifted up her shirt. She was about 20, with a dark tan, modestly endowed, with nipples like finished beadwork on perfection. I was conscious of my eyes opening like the torpedo doors on a submarine. Nerve endings in my brain, long since considered dead or unattached, started firing impulses with machine gun rapidity. A voice in my mind whispered, “Tits... You get to see 'em with a motorcycle.” My soul responded by assuming the shape of a steel bar, a compass needle pointing in her direction, my new dtstiny, committing my whole being to the endeavor of a two-wheeled lifestyle.
And then it was over. She smiled. He laughed. The shirt came down and I turned away, wondering if this had just happened to me.
We pedaled into the park 40 minutes later, with the roar of two Harleys briefly passing behind us, heading north on Route 9W.
I told Scott what had happened as we unwrapped our PB&J sandwiches.
“Why didn’t you come and get me,” he asked.
“Because I didn’t want to waste a second by blinking,” I said.
We ate our lunch in the usual silence, looking down at the bridge. Years later, Scott told me he often thinks of those rides we took as kids, and remembers every detail of that bridge. Now matter how often I look at the Tappan Zee Bridge now, I am instantly transported to a glade of trees, where the girlfriend of a Harley rider showed me my first real natural wonder.
I knew then that I too would ride a motorcycle. I sort of also knew that I’d love the feel of power in the handgrips, the rise and fall of the engine’s growl, and the scream of the wind around my helmet. But I had no doubt as to what I was going to love best about having a bike.
©Copyright Jack Riepe 2009
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With a Shrug)
Now it is important to understand that I was born and raised in Jersey City, the dog shit and broken glass capital of the world. The place was famous for attached houses (many painted highly implausible colors) with flat roofs, suffocating summer heat, and accents in the mouths of residents that made Leo Gorcey (of the Bowery Boys) sound like William F. Buckley. Scott and I pedaled our bikes as hard as possible to escape to open views, from a lofty perspective, with a breeze that carried no hint of ethnic cooking nor the exhaust of cars orbiting a block to grab a parking spot.
Above -- Leo Gorcey of "The Dead End Kids, Angels With Dirty Faces," and "The Bowery Boys."I once dated a girl who dumped me because she said I sounded a lot like him. (Photo from Wikipedia -- Click to enlarge)
Pedaling along 9W was the closest thing we could do to getting out in the country. There were virtually no houses on this road (31 years ago), while a number of access points permitted entry to Palisades Interstate Park, with its vistas (400 feet above the Hudson), and opportunities to take street bicycles along hiking trails. But nothing could compete with the splendor of looking down on the Tappan Zee Bridge, which to us, was an engineering marvel on a par with the Eiffel Tower and the Great Pyramid.
The bridge was built in 1955 at one one the widest points on the Hudson River. With its approaches, the bridge is 3 miles long, with a center span of 1200 feet, with the roadway 138 feet above the river. We just liked to look at it. Actually, we’d lean the bikes up against a couple of trees, pull our sandwiches of a bag, and pool the cookies or cupcakes that remained -- all while studying the silver structure that spanned the river like a bracelet, hundreds of feet below.
Above -- The "Tappan Zee" Bridge snakes across the mighty Hudson like a bracelet, runningh from Nyack, NY to history Tarrytown, NY -- home of the "Headless Horseman." (Photo courtesy of Wikipedia -- Click to enlarge)Some of the cliff faces and mountains (such as they are) on the river’s edge are famous. The “Storm King on the Hudson” had been immortalized by painters like Thomas Cole and Homer Dodge Martin (of the Hudson River School) in the early 19th century. Now Scott and I were immortalizing them with peanut butter and jelly.
Above -- Storm King Mountain On The Hudson, one of the many landmarks of nature I pedalled a bike over as a kid. (Photo courtesy of Wikipedia -- Click to enlarge.)Yet bigger fish were to be fried on this trip, and there was nothing that could have prepared me for it. Not far after crossing the New York State Line, Route 9W drops in elevation with a sweeping curve to the right. Though the shoulder was non-existent at this point, we’d get our bikes up to 45mph shooting down this sweeper of a curve, moving out among the traffic.
Above -- A painting of the Adirondacks by Homer Dodge Martin (From Wikipedia -- Click to enlarge)With the wind whistling in my ears, I can remember reaching down to switch the levers, which threw the chain on the combination of sprockets that brought the greatest resistance to the pedals and the fastest speed to the bike. Scott was hot on my heels. Not only was this part of the “big fun” for this ride, but it was crucial to get up a good head of steam to minimize the effort of climbing the inevitable hill that followed this refreshing plummet.
Yet halfway around this curve, two guys in jeans with bandanas on their heads stepped out of the brush on the right and waved us down. I remember the squeal of the rims as the rubber center-pull brake blocks bit into them, bringing the bikes to a halt.
They were two Harley riders with a problem. They had pulled over in the darkness of the previous evening to spend the night with their girlfriends, and one of the bikes drove into a little bog. It was buried in muck almost up to the exhaust system, and was being held upright by a piece of wood. They wanted us to lend them a hand at pushing the bike out.
It took the four of us (the ladies didn’t help) nearly forty minutes of pushing and shoving to get that bike out of the ooze without dropping it. Scott and I were in sneakers that were covered with foul-smelling swamp rot that came halfway up to our knees. “Frank” and “Butch” had muck on their feet, hands, and faces. But the Harley was free and only the tires were covered with shit.
We got ready to leave, and Scott was asking Frank about something on his bike (the unstuck one). I found “Butch” and this incredibly attractive young thing swapping spit on a log.
“So long,” I said. “We gotta go.”
The guy looked at me with a suggestion of a smile.
“You want anything,” he asked. “A cigarette... A shot of tequilla... A few bucks...”
“Naw, we’re fine.”
I rather got the impression I was having my leg pulled, and then he said, “Want to see some tits?”
Before I could say anything, the babe with him lifted up her shirt. She was about 20, with a dark tan, modestly endowed, with nipples like finished beadwork on perfection. I was conscious of my eyes opening like the torpedo doors on a submarine. Nerve endings in my brain, long since considered dead or unattached, started firing impulses with machine gun rapidity. A voice in my mind whispered, “Tits... You get to see 'em with a motorcycle.” My soul responded by assuming the shape of a steel bar, a compass needle pointing in her direction, my new dtstiny, committing my whole being to the endeavor of a two-wheeled lifestyle.
And then it was over. She smiled. He laughed. The shirt came down and I turned away, wondering if this had just happened to me.
We pedaled into the park 40 minutes later, with the roar of two Harleys briefly passing behind us, heading north on Route 9W.
I told Scott what had happened as we unwrapped our PB&J sandwiches.
“Why didn’t you come and get me,” he asked.
“Because I didn’t want to waste a second by blinking,” I said.
We ate our lunch in the usual silence, looking down at the bridge. Years later, Scott told me he often thinks of those rides we took as kids, and remembers every detail of that bridge. Now matter how often I look at the Tappan Zee Bridge now, I am instantly transported to a glade of trees, where the girlfriend of a Harley rider showed me my first real natural wonder.
I knew then that I too would ride a motorcycle. I sort of also knew that I’d love the feel of power in the handgrips, the rise and fall of the engine’s growl, and the scream of the wind around my helmet. But I had no doubt as to what I was going to love best about having a bike.
©Copyright Jack Riepe 2009
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With a Shrug)
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