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Near Peekskill, New York, United States
My view. No apologies --Shorts, Poems and Photos-Your Comments are always appreciated. (Use with permission)

Monday, June 25, 2012

One Hundred and Fifty Mile Cup of Coffee




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’. 

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