Minnewaska Musings

By Paul Gremmels

I’m not much of a bike rider. The fact that I learned to ride when I was in the first grade and still remember how are about my only qualifications to be called a bicyclist.  I don’t train, study or own a fancy bike. In fact, the bike I ride is a twenty-five year old mountain bike with half the working gears, no shocks and a bent frame. I skip the spandex shorts but I do, however, wear a helmet, safety vest and fingerless gloves. I ride slow, so slow that I will admit to being occasionally passed by hard-core runners. But it is not speed or sleekness that I am riding for. I ride mostly beside Lake Minnewaska into the town of Glenwood.  The same path that I rode as a youth. I am pedaling along a time line of sorts, with one tire in the present and the other in the past.

   

I ride past many memories on my way into town: A small resort where I had my first job, raking the beach every morning for a dollar. The inlet culvert which is still a good place to fish and many people still do. The vacant lot on the corner where The Little Store used to be, but is long since gone. The base of the Fish Hatchery hill is still watched over by the green painted house, that has always been green for as long as anyone can remember. Cresting the hill I recall how we used to jump our bikes off the Viking Water loading dock. Going down hill is still as fun today as it was ages ago and if you time it right, you can keep your momentum up nearly to the Dairy Queen. I coast past the new Lakeside Ballroom. The old one burned down. The old one which my father and I painted three times over the course of as many decades. The band shell in the park is quickly followed by other places that are known only to those who grew up here; Schramm’s lawn, Boyle’s hill and Gillman’s corner. Recalling them, I feel as though I am a part of some long forgotten, secret society.

A little farther down the road, toward the swimming beach, I stop to rest next to the lake. By the shore is a bench near one of my favorite trees. It is a very old and very large elm tree that looks as though it has been plucked right out of a Robert Frost poem. The tree has survived countless storms, Dutch-elm disease and a major road improvement project. I set my bike down and take off my helmet. I sit in the middle of the bench and splay my arms across the backrest. I take in the massive lake before me. From here I can see my entire route, put into parentheses by the crown of the elm tree. The far ridge is where I live, maybe five miles distant. I draw in a breath and quietly whisper a T. L. Williams quote; 

“Time is the greatest distance between two places.”

Indeed. The ride to this place in time covered more memories than miles. The ride back, will be equally as far. 

Paul Gremmels is a freelance writer, essayist and a columnist. He lives with his wife, Ann, in rural Pope County.  His column is published in the Pope County Tribune on the last week of each month.  He welcomes and responds to all correspondence. He can be contacted at: gremmels@runestone.net