Ride of My Life: Part 1

Butler to Homestead

On August 2nd, I set off on a ride that was 42 years 364 days in the making. It was the eve of my 43rd birthday, and I was about to ride my bike from the hospital where I was born to all 11 places I'd lived - a truly audacious yet equally arbitrary feat that would have made Jim proud.

Chrissy and I woke up in a hotel room in Pittsburgh. The plan was to Uber to Butler Hospital, ride 70 miles back to the hotel, stopping at each of the 3 places I'd lived. We'd go through Point State Park (the big Pittsburgh fountain where the 3 rivers meet) on the way which would mark the start of my "Crush the Commonwealth" permanent ride (more on that later). I'd drop Chrissy off at the car in Homestead, she'd drive back to Philly and I ride straight through to the Liberty Bell, taking ditch naps PBP-style along the way. Once I got to Philly I'd get some sleep and then finish hitting the 5 places I'd lived in the area before finishing at my house in Medford.

In total, it was 24,000 feet up and 501 miles over. The Crush the Commonwealth portion was 609km with 138km of gravel, meaning I needed to finish in under 43hrs and 24 minutes in order for it to "count" as my PA brevet. And for good measure, I wanted to finish the whole 806km ride at that same pace: 56 hrs 42 min. But rides of this magnitude and complexity rarely go to plan - in an organized event, no less mostly riding solo.

We got our Uber XXL at 7:30, arrived at Butler Hospital $117 poorer and were on the road by 9. Butler, PA was once an idyllic blue collar town, birthplace of the Army Hummer, hometown of Olympian Eric Namesnick, and most recently, where a rallygoer was killed and Donald Trump made national headlines with a bloodied ear. The town came and went in a flash and we found ourselves on a rail trail system that stretched southeast to Freeport.

The first 10 miles were the kind of easy, fun pedaling rail trails always deliver—flat, steady, the land rising and falling around us while we cruised along the even line of the old railroad bed. Midway to Freeport, we hopped off and rode a few miles to 166 Caldwell Drive, my childhood home.

In my head I had romanticized this ride. It was to be a pilgrimage of sorts, where at each stop, I could sit and reflect for a few minutes on my past - sort through whatever baggage I held onto, and walk away a little bit freer. I hadn't been back to Butler in almost 20 years, and my childhood home was a potent first foray into this journey of self-reflection and internal-ammends. Leading up to this I wondered, for this stop in particular, how could I get right with it?

Everything seemed to blur together: the innocence of youth set against the necrosis of a marriage that never should have been; a mother who gave everything she had for me; the paradox of being an “only child” with half-siblings living just a few towns away; a father who self-identified his OCD-like behavior as “high-standards”, strengths forged from chaos—mediating my parents’ fights at five, picking up sticks across acres of woods twice a year at seven, learning to weaponize anger as a shield against pain at eleven.

So when we bombed down the 9º descent to my old driveway, I was surprised to find not solitude and reflection, but the new homeowner circling the yard on his John Deere.

I figured I'd take the opportunity to introduce myself. Jonathan and his wife recently moved to Butler from Central, PA. He works as an engineering manager at a manufacturing plant in the next town over. We quickly got to talking about the property and comparing notes. He recognized that someone long ago had a love for the house due to the meticulous nature of its design. He said it felt like they're living at camp - which is a good way to describe the place. There's a 2 acre backfield surrounded by trees on all four sides, inaccessible by the road. There's a stream that runs the length of the property. The house I knew sat on 3 acres of pristinely manicured landscaping with another 4 acres of pristinely manicured woods. But he said the previous owner didn't do an ounce of maintenance in over 10 years so the place largely fell into disrepair. They've been fixing the place up though. Redid the kitchen. Put in a "pool spa". Planted a Sequoia tree in the front yard - funny to think that in 400 years after we're all long gone, that tree may be the largest living thing in Butler County.

An apple orchard is their next project.

Acknowledging that I had a multi~day journey ahead of me, I cut our talk short after 10 minutes. As I prepared to push-off, I realized what a gift it was to bump into Jonathan. Our quick chat reframed my perspective of this trip, hell, of this phase of my life. It's not about the past. What's done is done. There aren't any ghosts of Derek's childhood living at 166 Caldwell. It's Jonathan and his modest plans to fix-up the property that my father once enslaved himself to build and maintain.

And with that, Chrissy and I struggled to start up the 20º climb on the other side of the valley.

We meandered through the hills of South Butler - past Eric's house where I remember playing Zany Golf on the original Macintosh. As I passed Ruth Barton’s house, it hit me like a bolt of lightning—this was where the childhood photo in my last post was taken. And with that realization, a very vivid memory flooded back. I was there with my dad. I sensed he had respect and reverence for the Bartons, and there was a good deal of "parents talking" time while I puttered around in the back yard. Memory is a weird thing.

About that same time, Chrissy was realizing that the hills of Western Pennsylvania are no joke. They are constant, punchy, relentless. She found herself walking up a number of climbs and was getting a little discouraged. I assured her we've all been there, and there's nothing wrong with a bit of walking.

We were headed to The Pointe at Adams Ridge in Cranbery, PA - the first place we lived together after getting married in 2007. While Chrissy was mid-sufferfest, I was soaking in the nostalgia - the landscapes ripe with de-ja-vous. I felt grateful to have grown up in a place with so much natural beauty, and at the same time, I felt OK to have moved on.

When we came upon a particular intersection, I remembered that Penn Valley Swim Club was right up the street. My old stompin’ grounds were worth adding a couple miles to the journey. We did a quick detour so I could see if the record boards were still there, and perhaps, if my name was still on them. As we approached, I was taken aback at the distance between the memories of Penn Valley in my minds eye vs. the reality. I remembered it as grand, sweeping, sprawling, acres and acres of summer fun. The upper deck. The volleyball court. The pavilion. The basketball and tennis courts. These were where some of my lasting core memories were formed, and yet, in the returning, the place looked no different from any summer club in America. I didn't process any deep meaning at the time, but as I reflect now, I think there's a beauty in both sides of it: the grandeur of personal experience that is also, objectively, a quite common, sometimes even universal experience.

I hoped my records had all been broken. I thought about how good those kids must have felt in those fleeting moments of victory.

We hammered the hills through Mars and down to Cranberry Twp. By the time we got up the long climb to the Pointe, Chrissy was absolutely gassed. She almost fell as she attempted to dismount her bike at our former apartment. This was the third close-call after 1. previously almost eating it up the steep grade on Caldwell Dr and 2. crossing railroad tracks at a very dangerous angle too close to parallel with their deep metal ruts.

I took mental notes of her fatigue.

We talked a bit outside our old door. Thinking back to our first days together as a married couple. How in love we were. What a bad idea it was to move to Pittsburgh in the middle of winter. How relocating back to NJ after such a short period of time seemed so terrifying. How everything worked out for the best. A gratitude for the life we have. An appreciation for the haphazard route that may have appeared a well manicured plan from afar.

We ripped down the hillside to the Convive coffee shop down below.

Chrissy was spent. We hail from the flatlands of Southern NJ, and she wasn't prepared for the North Pittsburgh hills. She had done 3,000ft of climbing in 30 miles, and I was concerned for her safety. Before throwing in the towel based on even the most severe bonk, it's always well advised to stop, sit, drink, and eat. So, we got some caffeine and carbs in us and waited to see if her state of mind changed.

Coming into this trip, we spitballed some pretty crazy ideas - ones like renting a U-Haul and driving it to Butler, then renting another vehicle for the return trip at a town on the route: option one at mile 120 and option two at mile 220. Sitting at mile 30 with a DNF in the balance, I was glad cooler heads prevailed and we opted for the 70 mile exit. But would we make it?

I used to be pretty rigid, especially when it came to things that create a sense of accomplishment. So, in a past life, I could have processed the situation that was unfolding through a very selfish and negative lens. Yes, I realize I sound like a real asshole at heart, but I'd argue that most people might sound similar if they're really honest about it. Self-centeredness is a universal human condition that we need to work to overcome. So, I was happy to realize that my natural reaction in the moment was one of empathy, concern, and selflessness. The ride be damned.

But Chrissy didn't want to quit. Over the past year, she's caught the bug of pushing her own limits and realized this might just be another wall to scale. So, when she felt good enough to get back on the bike, she did. And we rode, with the agreement that if she started feeling off, we'd call it and get her an Uber and I'd meet her back at the hotel later.

One mile. Two miles. Ten miles. By mile 15 we were cruising down the backside of a 3 mile climb, and closing in on my teenage home.

4912 Meadowcrest Dr in Allison Park is where my mom and I moved after the divorce. It just made sense to relocate down the street from the swimming program that I had been commuting 6 hours a week to for the past 4 years. I was 13.

Again, struck by the modest every-neighborhood nature of street, we pulled up to the mailbox and just as I was planning to zoom into my next introspective flashback, a car pulled into the driveway. Out walked a man. Younger than Jonathan. Less inviting. A different generation, less hospitable, I thought.

His name was Matt. His wife Holly walked up with their daughter Iyla. They had bought the house from someone who had bought it from my mom. "You're Lilian's son?!" He asked. "Everyone around here LOVES your mom. I've heard many stories about her."

Not surprising, there's only one Abuelita Minner.

Turns out, I was wrong about the hospitality. Matt invited me in multiple times. "Come in and look around the place, I'm sure you want to see how it's changed!" to the point where his wife felt he might be making me uncomfortable. He wasn't.

I simply explained that I had spent the last five hours sweating on my bike and wouldn't feel right trapsing around his home in such a state.

I told them about the bonfires we used to have out in the woods, but I held back several other juicy stories reserved for the specially initiated. Mrs Kennedy from across the street pulled in while we were talking. I avoided eye contact as she knows some juicy ones. I'm not even sure which ones.

There is a shame in me that's still alive and well.

But again, the experience proved to be about the present not the past. The second home I lived in, the second current owner I got to meet. There aren't any ghosts of Derek's teen years living at 4912 Meadowcrest. It's where Matt, Holly, and Iyla are making memories now.

And so we set off for Homestead 25 miles away. The first 5 miles a glorious descent down Middle Road, from Hampton to Shaler. Pure long-downhill cycling bliss. Chrissy was back. Spirits were high.

The route I used Strava to build took us through a couple dicey spots - through Etna on Route 8 with semis whizzing past and over the 62nd St Bridge which was anything but bike friendly.

There was a street festival in Lawrenceville that day with thousands of people out and about. My bike wasn't shifting properly and made a rubbing noise when I was in the lowest gear. I surmised the derailleur might have been bent, and when we passed Iron City Bikes shop, I popped in for a quick tune up.

"Hey man, just so you know - when I try to bend this back into place, it could snap".

"Yeah, I know. Go for it."

<pregnant pause followed by...no snap>

I paid the man who seemed to say "$20 bucks" every time any patron asked how much for this or that, and as I was headed out the door I heard his assistant say "Caution: Fragile Meatsack (imprinted on the back of my cycling vest)...that's awesome."

"Look Chrissy - he likes it! See!"

Chrissy is not a fan.

Soon after we left the bike shop, we spotted Pete Davidson on the street. Now mind you, Chrissy has a bad case of starstruckedness (if that's a word). She told Teresa Giudice (of Housewives of NJ fame) she loved her when we saw her in Magic Kingdom. She went up to Anderson Cooper and said she loved him when we saw him walking in the East Village. And now with mental fatigue in full bloom, upon spotting Pete Davidson, she steered into a passing car's path and then promptly cut me off.

Strike...five? ;-)

We paused, regained our composure, and then wound our way through downtown Pittsburgh, into Point State Park, and to our hotel in Homestead.

The original plan had been for me to keep going—ride straight through the night into central Pennsylvania. But the day took twice as long as expected, and safety (and enjoyment) demanded flexibility. Instead, we went out for a nice birthday dinner. The next morning, Chrissy would drop me off back at The Pointe so I could restart “Crush the Commonwealth.”

To Be Continued....