Where the Journey Began
The will to remember rejuvenates me.
Adams, Massachusetts. Grades four five and six burning away
at C.T. Plunkett.
Thinking back, the years 1972 through 1975. I can distinctly
recall trail-running beginnings. Each day, bell rings, school lets out, a small
peculiar group of students from the East Side of town make the journey from
Plunkett to Hoosac Street School. Our goal is to catch Bus #22 and Mrs. Austin
loading up the younger kids. I imagine that we could have rode another bus to
that connecting point, and for some that would have made sense. But, being kids
from the sparsely settled areas along the base of the Hoosac Range, we needed a
small amount of release rather than an extra 15 minutes on a big yellow bus.
Downtown Adams has never exactly been a metropolis, but you
still may be wondering where we found trails separating the two schools. It
wasn’t easy. The route had to be shown to us by older kids, passed down word of
mouth committed to memory an Underground Railroad. It was supposed to be
illegal I guess, safety reasons and all. It was the twine that held a small
group of us together during three years in middle school.
We would rumble out of the playground at dismissal with
guilty glances over shoulders. The first hurdle was making sure that no
authority figure witnessed our great escape. Buses parked idling diesel fuel
spitting out the exhaust for the riders to swallow, not us. Tree lined grassy
area along the Adams Supermarket lead us around and in back of what is now the
Big Y. Once there, it was simply climb chain link fence and a hop over a cement
water meter vault to our destination.
Beyond these barriers was the real attraction, a quarter
mile or so on real single-track trail. Our "trail" was along the east
bank of the Hoosac River winding along parallel to Summer Street. The total
distance of "trail running" we did each day during the September to June
school year was about a mile I guess. But the draw of the short several
hundred-foot section along the river was what pushed and pulled us. This daily
run along the same section of dirt trail was also the initiation needed to
learn repetition and consistency, both needed for long distance running. It
taught dedication.
None of us wore watches in those days, so we had no clear
indication of time. We knew we had to pretty much go all out to make the
connector at Hoosac Street School. Mrs. Austin and bus #22 were on a schedule
that had to be followed. There wasn’t any margin of error allowed.
Each day, once we finished the "trail" and hopped
over the last fenced obstacle, it was an end to our labyrinth through downtown
Adams’ wilderness. Regaining pavement, sidewalk and street by Burnett’s Shoe
Shop, Crystal Creamery Dairy and whatever else was there twenty five years ago
had us feeling safe again, the mystery was gone until tomorrow.
Past St. Stanislaus and the quick left past the Polish
Bakery and into Hoosac Street School where we would board the "short"
bus for the ride home. Up and up and up to the rural farming area where we
lived. Breathing labored, backs covered with sweat, relaxing in the hard green
stiff comfortable seats it was another day where we kicked life in the ass,
invented an art form and rose from the embers of confinement all rolled into
one. We were the envy of those who weren’t yet ready to rebel against the
shuttle between two schools. Hero’s in our own mind.
We overcame distance and time. We tackled obstacles in our
inexperienced lives. We shared secrets. We were forever hidden along the banks
of the Hoosac. Running our way through three grades of life with the wind and
the rain and snow never inhibiting us at all. Each day we had the river with
the water slowly flowing in the same direction as us. It was something we could
depend on. It too had places to go.
I understand we were only kids ridding ourselves of the
usual amount of aggression built up from being inside all day. Throw in a tiny
bundle of rebellious behavior with the trespassing and avoidance of the bus
shuttle. I also see young men running from point to point because it felt
remarkably good each day. Gary and Brian and Bob and Stephen and Robert and
Dean and me, an oddball collection of misfits for sure. We ran then without
knowing that this was about as wonderful and free as it would ever be.
{05/01/99}
