Just off the interstate highway 684 in Danbury,
Connecticut-in fact underneath the overpass itself-was the diner that got its
name from the dairy/processing plant right behind-Marcus Dairy. According to a short history I looked up on
the company web site the ‘dairy’ was a farm which the Marcus family bought in
1919. They built up a farming and milk
distribution business and finally gave up the farming to focus on packaging and
distributing dairy products. Sometime
about 60 years ago they also opened a restaurant that served breakfast and ice
cream and over the years it became a regular Sunday morning hang out for the
motorcycling crowd. Bikes would line the
road and fill the driveway and parking lot. It was a freewheeling museum with every kind
of motorcycle and many old cars and hotrods.
The breakfast was fresh and good and I looked forward to riding there
with my friend. Outside the dinner familiar
faces hung out and families visited to see the array of shinny motorbikes. The mood was always festive. The Harleys and BMW’s and the ‘squids’ all
parked in their respective areas but the feeling was generally up beat- live
and let live. If it has two wheels and
it made it to the ‘dairy’ it was cool.
Not long ago the ‘dairy’ was demolished to make way for the
inevitable tentacles of retail America. It would soon be just another strip of stores
and restaurants and the wandering Sunday morning motorcyclists-myself
included-had to begin the search for someplace new to go to…No real suitable
place has surfaced. The Marcus dairy
crowd has spread out to various dinners and restaurants but none welcomes the
huge crowd and noise and biking enthusiasm the way the Marcus’ family place
did. Hanging out in the parking lot of
Starbucks with a dozen Ducati’s just doesn’t feel nearly as good. The overlook at Perkins Drive is a nice solo destination
during the week but on Sunday it is crowded and impersonal and there is no
coffee or anything to eat. I almost
stopped taking a Sunday morning ride altogether, as I just couldn’t muster any
enthusiasm for the available venues.
This morning I could stand it no longer and even though I couldn’t get
my regular companion to come I took a little ride myself. A different kind of Sunday morning ride-Over
the mountains and up to God’s country to have a coffee and some conversation
with old friends.
I have known Richie and Hadie for over twenty-five
years. We have shared Baptisms, bar
mitzvahs, barbeques and birthdays. We share
a love of life and work. I had not been
up to see them for a very long time. Riding
sixty-five miles to their vacation home near Grahamsville, NY
was a pleasure on this cool summer morning.
The coffee they put in front of me had a familiar Bustello flavor. We sipped and caught each other up on the
trivia of our lives. I saw the recent
work they had done on their home and Richie showed me his ‘new’ truck. The vintage Dodge was shinny and black with
decals of a sexy woman on the door panels.
I felt like a kid climbing into the cab with Richie and Hadie. A host of my own memories accompanied the
ancient truck smells and the sound of un-synchromeshed gears grinding and
grumbling as the truck lurched out of the driveway. We played with the extinct ventilating windows
and the air scoop on the hood. We made
bad jokes about seat belts (or the lack of them) and gasoline consumption (pre
CAFÉ standard). We rumbled past the
Roundout Reservoir and tiny decrepit churches and general stores. Up and down the hills of southern New York the little
truck groaned and smelled of oil and gasoline.
This is what heaven should smell like, I thought to myself.
Back at their home after an hour’s truck ride I said my good
byes. Richie snapped my picture as I got
on my bike. They waved as I pulled out
of the driveway. The perfect weather
held. The perfect Sunday ride was not
Marcus Dairy, but a visit with friends.
The bike was not the star but only the conveyance. Perhaps next week I will visit someone else
and ‘catch up’.
