Yesterday's rain continued until late afternoon, but the wind continued long into the night. I was very reluctant to alter the agreed upon day and time, because there were many people who had made plans and I didn't want to cause this large inconvenience for all these folks. You can see how foggy my reasoning was and how poor I have become at making plans and keeping to a schedule. In retrospect it is obvious that a day's postponement made all the sense in the world. I didn't want to ride the fifty miles into Boston into the teeth of a driving storm. The small gathering of Babcocks who were going to welcome me at the Public Gardens would certainly be relieved to have it happen on a nicer day. And all the media that were going to be there capturing history in the making, would now be politely excused. I'm sure they had more important events to cover. Anyway, the postponement turned out to be the best ad hoc decision of the entire trip. The day dawned bright and crisp, with more than a hint of fall in the air, and no sign of the awful storm that had passed overnight. It was, in all aspects, the perfect day for the grand finale.
I thanked my hosts, apologizing for all the road grit I had spread all over their house, bid farewell to their dog Mary, with whom I had spent most of the previous day, watching the storm blow over. and then the last leg was underway. They had designed a custom route for me to ride into Boston, snaking through the towns of Clinton, Stow, Sudbury, and Weston, staying away from all but the most sparsely travelled roads. This was the sort of route I had envisioned riding every day through the east, but it is really impossible to design such a route without the help of local expertise. The roads in this part of the country are so densely packed, that the real difficulty of riding is that I had to pay constant attention to the map, lest I zag when a zig was called for.
The towns came one quickly after another. Whoever gridded all of the towns of New England had a cozy set of communities in mind. In the forty miles I cycled before reaching the Boston city limits, I touched the towns of West Boylston, Sterling, Clinon, Lancaster, Bolton, Stow, Sudbury, Wayland, Concord and Lincoln (erroneously), Weston, and Newton. On average, the towns are no more that 5 miles apart, and the settling pattern was pretty clear. For the last several weeks I have noticed as I moved eastward the towns were getting older and older. I did not see the sign for Newton, but I remember from growing up in that city that it was established around 1650. The steady march of the white settlers is very well documented by the signs at each town line.
In Weston I was overcome with nostalgia, as I found myself riding by the Massachusetts Audubon Society center, and realized that, as a 10 year old child riding my bike from home out into the country, this very place marked the furthest I ever got in this westward direction. It is interesting to note how small the world of a child is, and how distinct the memories are of where the boundaries lie. Beyond the Audubon complex I knew there was a larger world, but my comfort zone held me back. Now here I was, half a lifetime later coming back into that zone, having seen a thin ribbon of the country stretching all the way from the Pacific.
I had decided to take a circuitous route through Newton, to take in many of the places I frequented as a child. It is amazing how the names of neighbors, buildings, streets and parks came to me almost as if I had never left. The only thing that had really changed was the size of the houses, which had seemed to have shrunk over the years. Only the trees seemed to be the right size. After 30 years of embellishment, one's memory can play tricks.
Then in a flash it was over and I was thrust into life off the bike. It will take a few days to decompress, remember what is expected of one in a group of two or more, and resist the temptation to eat continually. I shall return to Seattle directly, for I have some pressing issues, but in the next couple of weeks I will send up an epilogue, and correct as many of the errors and omissions in this site as I can.
One favor I ask of those of you who followed this trip. The WWW is a particularly anonymous medium. Hence I have no idea how many followers there are out there and where they are located. A short email to dbell@wrq.com mentioning where you heard about the trip, and where you reside would be greatly appreciated.
For me this has been a singular event. I think perhaps it is not over yet, but certainly this phase is done. Who knows where it goes from here, or when it will go there.
One last thing I would mention here. perhaps I needn't even say it, but there was never a single minute when I wished I were not doing this trip. I was not bored, or lonely, or fed up with the trip at any time. I think that Babcock and Turner had alot to do with my sustained level of enthusiasm, and also the great tolerance and perseverance of my favorite Babcock. Judy, who would have loved to come on much of the journey with me, perhaps even the whole thing, but she knew from the outset how focused and determined I was, and decided it was best to leave me to do it on my own. She could see what I could not.
Thanks to everyone for the company. Wasn't that a cool story?
No longer on the road, after 4740 miles, and 72 days. It's going to take a while.
Dennis
P.S. I almost forgot to get Babcock and Turner to Boston. They finally rendezvoused on the last day, and rode to Boston together. From the newspaper articles, we find Will on his way out of Springfield:
Passing eastward along one of the beautiful streets, my route took me by a collection of huge buildings which I knew must comprise the famous United States arsenal where
"From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ rise the burnished arms, But from whose silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the village with strange alarms."
A half day's run brought me to North Brookfield, where I rejoined Mr. Turner after a separation of a week, and we at once resumed the journey. During the afternoon we whirled through Brimfield, West Brookfield, Northboro, Southboro, Marlboro and other fields and boros till we were fairly bewildered, and finally about 8 o'clock in the evening, August 27, struck Beacon street, passed into the city, down to the crooked narrow streets of the business portion, past the old South church, and finally the American house, turned our faithful wheels over to the porter and over a hot supper congratulated each other on the successful termination of the trip, which many of our acquaintances had been candid enough to say we would not complete, and about which we ourselves at starting, were in some doubt. Before beginning the journey we expressly agreed that if we found the necessary work and hardships detrimental to health we would not hesitate to discontinue the trip, but never during the summer was such a topic suggested by either.
The next morning after our arrival we "took stock," and found that the distance covered was 4,195 miles; we started June 8, so that it had been eighty-one days since our departure from Seattle, twenty-four of which had been days of rest, leaving the actual wheeling days fifty-seven. We have not lost a day on account of sickness, nor have we had any serious accident. There have been many times when the outing has been more work than play, and some hardships had to be endured, but all in all the pleasure of the trip far outweighed any other feature.
Today there is to be a great bicycle parade in Boston, and from present indications it will bring more wheelmen together in one review than have ever before assembled in one place. We are fortunate in being here to witness it and quite honored in being requested to serve on the staff of one of the division commanders.
W.F. BABCOCK