The Eastern Trail Giveth and the Eastern Trail Taketh away.

Tuesday July 6th - 12:30 PM or so

After much fanfare, we're off. We were already about a hundred yards to the good by not starting at the very end of NY Ave, but what's a hundred yards over a 110 mile walk? Actually, just did the math...1,760 yards in a mile...193,600 yards in 110 miles, divided 110 miles by 193,600 yards and the number was so small I couldn't understand it

Can someone explain that to me? Anyone? Didn't think so.

The fab five. This was the best we looked until our first showers post walk sometime Sunday afternoon or evening. Actually I'll take that back. This is the best we looked for probably ten days or so. Blisters have a way of aging you a bit. I saved this picture as "the walk virgins". By the time we finished we had been around the block a few hundred times...both literally and figuratively.

The police escort we were hoping for didn't materialize, but we did get some public works vehicles (unless the timing of the start of our walk just happened to coincide with the street sweeping schedule in Sunset Park that day). There were a few antique cars, which was appropriate because you also had five antique walkers making their way down NY Ave.

* Side note*

    This was the street I grew up on, so the memories are flooding in. The home run I hit in Little League tryouts when I was nine years old on that very baseball field (side note to the side note - when your athletic career peaks at nine, can you really call yourself an athlete?...and how sad is it that you still find a way to mention this story any chance you get? Yeah, pretty pathetic.). Thinking of all of the times I'd crisscrossed this same street, and all of the surrounding streets, while trick or treating as a kid. How many thousands of times I'd walked, or rode a bike, or a skateboard, or a car up and down this street. Which of these houses I'd been in over the years (most of them), I slept over in (many of them), or delivered newspapers to (a lot of them), or mowed the lawns of (some of them). The multitude of touch football games and wiffleball games on this road, shots taken on hoops in these driveways, the games of hide and seek, capture the flag, and God knows what else in the front and backyards. That was the Richard's house, and the Jipsons, and the Cooks, and the Millers, and the Wildes - yes, those Wildes.

    There were well wishers all along the road, both sides. I guess the word got out after all. Walked past the house I grew up in, where one of my big brothers and my sister were waiting for us at the end of the driveway. My brother handed me a badge that was my Mom's when she was a crossing guide when I was a kid. That might come in handy, knowing we had my Mom watching over and keeping us safe on the hundreds of roads we had yet to cross ahead of us.

    First turn of the day took us in front of Link's house for our last photo op before things got serious.

Some history -

     After the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004 , Link got the idea to paint a giant logo of the Sox on the landscape of the giant sloping hill of his front yard. Here's a photo of a clipping from the newspaper with the original paint job. Sorry for the scribble on the pic. Some guy named Johnny Pesky thought he'd write a personal message and sign his autograph on the photo - In case you can't make it out, it says "To Link. Great job, Johnny Pesky". The nerve of some people.

    Fast forward 17 years, Link had the idea to recreate that logo to call attention to our walk. With some added touches. This is the best he could come up with....

    This became a bit of a local attraction. Link and his wonderful wife, Michelle, said people would drive by day and night to take pictures of this and ask questions regarding what this was all about. Even though Link's house is on a side street in Sunset Park, this logo was visible from Main Street - also known as Route 1- So I can't imagine how many people drove by this on their daily commute, or the number of tourists on their way to Pine Point, or Old Orchard, or the Holy Donut (trust me, tourists love the Holy Donut), or wherever else a drive on Route 1 in South Portland might take you. I know I went out of my way more than a few times to see this in all its glory.

    Here's the photo op...might be the last picture of us on the walk when we weren't drenched either in sweat or rain.

    If I knew that's the way we looked when we started, I would have doubted we were going to make it. I have this pictured saved as "If they only knew". What a crew. Jesus, this was me after losing a significant amount of weight with all of the walking I'd done over the last year. Still a big boy, The only one that still looked this fresh by the end was Denise. The rest of us would resemble the Walking Dead.

    

    Finally we were leaving the safety of Sunset Park. Right on to Route 1 (right was South, right?) and 109 miles later , we'd be there. This was where our first missed opportunity from our plan took place. For months Link wanted to take a picture of one of us heading one way and another heading the other way...to show just how a bunch of amateurs would start a 100+ mile walk. We mentioned getting this pic halfway down NY Ave., ten minutes later we had forgotten all about it. So it goes.

                  

    This was our new reality...walking in the breakdown lane with traffic zooming past us. Oh, and had anyone noticed how hot it is yet? Just past where the old Humpty Dumpty potato chip plant used to be was our first big hill and the first coordination of getting five walkers semi synchronized in crossing the road in tandem, sort of. At the top of the hill we still had one of the local tv stations taking some video of us...still looking fairly fresh...seeing we were only about two miles in. First rest stop/water break was at Lois' Natural Foods store on Route 1 in Scarborough. Did I mention it was getting hot yet? My youngest daughter works here and she wanted us to stop by. So we did. Went in and bought the only water the walkers purchased on this entire trip (John, our savior) would handle this for the next six days, which he did exceedingly well. One last visit with various Erskine's and McHugh's and we were back on our way. Why the bag Pete, why the bag ?

    This is where we made a route decision we had discussed more than a few times in our pre-walk conversations - stay on Route 1 or take the Eastern trail and reconnect with Route 1 somewhere in Saco? Almost the same mileage - about 11 miles to our next proposed stop - the Hannaford in Saco. Route 1 would give us more exposure, the Eastern Trail would take us through the Scarborough Marsh and some wooded back trails. Who needed the exposure when it's over 90 degrees. At this point we were shade seeking missiles and we chose the trail. One of the best decisions of the entire walk.

    It was at this point - between our stop at Lois' and the decision to take the Eastern Trail, that Joe realized he no longer had his wallet. Joe's our financial guy, so he, of all people, needs to know where his wallet is. Oh, and he, as had a few of us, had left his phone in John's truck. Using someone's phone, Joe got ahold of some family members and commenced to dispatch instructions like "Check Dad's house" or " look in my truck" or "check my dirty clothes pile" or some other similar wild goose chase type directions. One of us, can't recall who, had eventually gotten ahold of John to let him know that Joe's wallet was MIA. Handsome Joe was trying to recall when he last remembered having his wallet on his person, and the best he could come up with was "sometime this morning". Huge help Joe. As we're walking South, John is now walking North, retracing the three miles we've already covered back to the start, scanning the ground in search of Joe's wallet. The thing about this, in our pre meetings, John often called out how he was the smart one because he was the only one of us riding to Boston and not doing any walking. I'll be damned if he didn't walk the same first three miles as us...just in the other direction. John was now matching us step for step in the opposite direction looking for that god damned wallet (at least I imagine that's what John was calling it at this point). John was doing this unbeknownst to us. Did I mention it was hot?

    Meanwhile the walkers are settling into a groove. Hot but finding some shade on Eastern Road, across Black Point Road, and then finally on to the Eastern Trail. If you've never walked the Eastern Trail, I recommend it. At least this beginning portion of it. Here's a snip from a brochure of the Eastern Trail. Gives you a flavor of this portion of our walk. Just like the brochure says, we were relaxed and we were enjoying. Still.

    And here's a couple of photos of us, somewhere early on the trail...See? Still relaxed.

- despite the missing wallet.

    After we crossed the Marsh we met up with John. This was the first of dozens of John's telepathically timed meet ups with us. Always when we needed a quick break. So just over the marsh we did what would become our quick stop routine...get some fluids in us, grab something to eat (usually a banana, or a tangerine, or a melted protein bar - did I mention it was hot?) and assess what we just did and what we had ahead of us. The focus of this conversation was Bob's (see what I did there) still missing wallet. Laugh, complain, recap, plan, and then head out. At this stop I had grabbed an ET (Eastern Trail for future reference) map. This guide served us well, for awhile, and would then fail us miserably, by the end of the day.

    This is when the the trail (and map) was still our friend. We were currently at the parking area at the intersection of the trail and Pine Point Road. You can find it on this map. Based on this we had about an eight mile leg ahead of us before we'd intersect with Route 1 again. So, with food in our tanks and freshly and fully watered, we had our plan for the next few hours until we'd meet John again. And we were on our way.

    This continued to be one of the nicer parts of our entire walk, despite the heat. Wooded and shady, we continued on our way, locking into the rhythm and cadence that we would find ourselves settling into over the next six days. At times we'd walk as a entity of five, or pair off into groups, sometimes having  conversations, frequently falling into spells of quiet, one would walk a bit ahead (ahem, not naming names) , one or two or three would fall behind..it was all very fluid and worked for us on the entire walk. Despite the heat (have I mentioned the heat already?) we had put about ten miles behind us and were feeling pretty good. Could the entire one hundred and ten miles (see how I spelled that out instead of using numbers? - makes it seem even longer that way) go like this? A guy can dream.

                              

I didn't expect day one to take three posts, but it looks like that's exactly what's going to happen. The rainbows and unicorns from the start of the walk will turn into - well, whatever is the opposite of rainbows and unicorns.

Stayed tuned.

AOP at Noon

 

AOP at Noon

This is the first installment of my attempt to capture our walk to Fenway Park.

A little background with what this (and future) posts are all about.

Without getting too deep into the weeds, in 1973 four fathers from South Portland Maine, decide to walk from said town to Fenway Park in Boston MA to raise money for the Jimmy Fund. The Jimmy Fund started in 1948 when the Variety Children's Charity of New England and the Boston Braves baseball team joined forces to help a 12-year-old cancer patient dubbed "Jimmy." I'll skip the background of how the dads landed on their plan. That's an entirely different story.

Here’s the original Jimmy – and a picture of our dads before their walk.

       


Those handsome devils – from left to right – are Norm Payette, Wilbur Wildes, Ge Erskine, and Dave McHugh. Those are our dads. 

Fast forward to 2019 – 46 years after the infamous walk to Fenway – four of the original walker’s kids decide they want to replicate the walk that their fathers did all those years before.

I could get into the details of how we made this happen, but I think you all will appreciate me not sharing those details with you once you suffer through all the minutiae I’m going to put you through as you read through our story. Cutting to the chase, I’ll just say after hundreds of hours of planning, their kids were ready to replicate the original walk. In addition to honoring our fathers, we also were doing this to raise, what we hoped would be, substantial money for this great organization. More on that later as well.

Time to introduce the main characters in this story. Let’s start with the walkers:

        Link                              Denise                  Pete                   Bob            Tom

·        Link Erskine – Ge’s son. Link was one of the fastest kids in the state of Maine in high school. Link stated early on that he wasn’t sure he could make it all the way due to some recent surgeries and other ailments directly related to being able to successfully walk around the block, never mind all the way to Boston. As you will see, he came through as a champ. I might refer to Link (his adult nickname) as Linky (his childhood nickname).

·        Denise Payette – Norm’s daughter. The smart money pre-walk was on Denise being the pacesetter. Denise wore weights around her ankles for the year before the walk, “to get ready”. I’ll probably refer to Denise as “Denise” throughout this story.

·        Peter Wildes – Wilbur’s son. This is me. I prepared by walking for a year leading up to our event. Averaged 40 miles a week early on, then kicked it up to 60 per week for the last month and a half. Still wasn’t sure if I was ready. I’ll refer to myself as me, I, or even the third person, Pete, in this.

·        Joe McHugh – Dave’s son. Joe also did a lot of pre-walk prep. His approach was a bit different than the others. Joe would bite off a solid 20-mile day during the week, which is approximately what we envisioned walking each day on our trek. Not a bad strategy. I’ll refer to Joe by name, or Handsome Joe, and maybe occasionally as Bob (more on that later) throughout.

We also had an additional walker:

·        Tom Hill – Tom is Joe’s brother in-law and Dave’s son in-law. Tom started out a year prior by volunteering to being our scout, but over time he became a key fund-raiser for us and ultimately, the fifth Beatle. Tom ended up walking every mile with us. I’ll be calling Tom, Tom in this story

One additional key player:

                            

John Cushing – John has been friends with the kids of the original four for over 44 years. Early on offered up (or was cajoled into) being our support driver. That role turned into being a combination Sherpa, pace car, Sacagawea, and main support structure for our walk. Basically, he was our savior, as you will be reading. Conveniently I will be referring to John as John.

Now that you’ve got the background and the key players, let’s dive in.

Tuesday July 6^th – First day of the walk.

Text from Pete at 4:01 AM

o   Anyone else can’t sleep?

o   Joe – 4:01 AM: This guy

o   Denise – 4:02 AM: This girl

o   Link – 4:03 AM: Up all night

That’s no way to be prepared for a 110-mile walk. What could you expect after 18 months of planning and 48 years of history hanging over our heads? This was the equivalent of trying to sleep the night before Christmas when you were ten years old…and the night before your wedding day….and the night before a cross country or an overseas trip that you had been planning for years... all rolled into one.

We had planned for AOP (ass on pavement – a phrase we used throughout the walk) for a noon start. If we all fell back asleep then we could have got nearly a full night’s sleep in. That, unfortunately, did not happen.

                                

Instead, things like showering, packing, worrying if you were forgetting something, wondering what we were thinking to begin with to try and pull off this crazy scheme, and the reality of what we had been planning for over 18 months (not for the last time on this day) and owning up to a debt we all felt we had to repay after 48 years was finally upon us, and starting to sink in.

Side bar – one thing Pete had to do the first morning was his daily interview with a local radio station - WBLM. Link was doing the same with another local radio station - WPOR. WBLM is Rock, WPOR is Country – so we felt we had our bases covered.

                        

Some time before, this station , WBLM, was kind enough to put me on for a few minutes to talk about our walk. This was all part of my imagined grand scheme to saturate TV, radio, newspapers, and the internet with our story. I’ll be damned if near the end of this thing, we almost did that.

The week prior to our walk the morning show host Herb (Captain) Ivy, reached out to me again and asked if I’d like to call each each morning of our walk to give a live update. Me, instantly reverting to my teenage dream of actually being a radio dj, of course said yes. So, in my first interview, between counting how many pairs of underwear I needed to pack and figuring the proper ratio of jeans vs. shorts, I once again did my best Les Nessman impersonation to spread the word. Oh, and as would become my schtick for the week, I requested a song for the walkers. First request for day one – Truckin’ – The Grateful Dead.

                      

   


By now it was time to roll. Plan was to meet a Link’s house before we all went deep into Sunset Park to begin our walk at the same location our dads did in 1973 – the Little League field at Wilkinson Park.

So, with backpacks, luggage, sleeping bags, and our families in tow we met at Link’s at 11:00 AM. We had a tight schedule and felt by adding in the hour buffer before we had to beat feet might be wise.

Upon arrival at Link’s, Joe let each new arrival know that the walkers were in the process of being interviewed by someone at the Boston Herald. This was great, one of the biggest papers in the city of our destination wanted to interview us. Like I mentioned, total media saturation. They already interviewed Link, Joe was in process when I got there, so only Denise and I left to do. We had an hour, no problem, right?

Wrong.

Little did we know (until it was our turn to be interviewed) that out interviewer, Marie Szaniszlo – a wonderful woman- could quite possibly be the slowest interviewer in the history of interviewers. Let’s just say, if she interviewed each of us any slower, we’d be interviewing her….and writing the sorry in long hand….and in cursive…and then mailing it via the postal service to the newsroom…and forgetting to put a stamp on the mail so it would come back to us…except we would have forgotten to put a return address on the envelope so it would be lost in the mail, until somehow, miraculously we would have somehow come across it, then do the whole thing again, only this time remembering to put a stamp on the envelope. That kind of slow.

I just googled Marie, and this is her intro on LinkedIn….

Experienced, versatile media professional who's skilled in researching, interviewing, writing, and editing; who has a sixth sense for what makes a good story and how to tell it; and whose managers deploy her for the most challenging stories when they need a "hail Marie pass."

God love Marie.

It was now about 12:15, but we figured there might be a dozen people at the park waiting for us, so no big deal, right?

Again, wrong.

As we drove down to the end of the street to get to our starting point, what to our wondering eyes did appear? A crowd of easily a hundred friends, family, and probably just neighbors that wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

   

A bit overwhelming. Gratifying at the same time. All these people had taken time out of their busy days to come support us.

Surreal, might be the better adjective. Was that Dave McHugh, the last of the original walkers giving an interview to not one, but two television stations?

Why, yes indeed, it was!

Then Link…and Joe…and Denise…and Pete. The AOP at noon was now starting to get away from us.

        

After many interviews…. many more photos with family and friends…and after all the excuses to delay the start of this thing were exhausted, it was time to get started.

  Ever heard the expression herding cats? That was how the start of or walk began.  

                                  

That, my friends are the events leading up to the start of our once in a lifetime walk to Fenway.

Next up:

The Eastern Trail Giveth and the Eastern Trail Taketh Away.

The day we all grew up a little bit

 

The day we all grew up a little bit.

This is how I recall that day. Could have been 1973, or 74, or no later than 75. It was the era of our Dad’s original walk to Fenway to raise money for the Jimmy Fund.

   Some of these memories might not represent the best parenting decisions, but those were different times. Our Dads were solid guys…. upstanding citizens, and good family men. We (as kids) did not wear seatbelts…we sat in the beds of pick-up trucks…rode hundreds of miles backwards in station wagons…played outside unsupervised by our parents …ran loose in the streets, on ballfields, in the woods, and in dozens of backyards, on our own and free until the streetlights came on. Bicycles (with no helmets), skateboards, firecrackers and caps, jarts (yes, jarts - you kids can google it.), metal playgrounds – built on either asphalt or crushed rock - that would scorch you in the Summer time…it was, essentially the Wild West. And we loved it.

                       

So, picture this - 

·       Every year the Sunset Park Little League would take a bus full of Little Leaguers and coaches to a Red Sox game at Fenway Park.

o   Here is a real life photo of one of those teams, from that approximate era. I am sure a few of these kids were on this trip. I know one was for sure…and if he reads this, he should remember what is to follow in this story as well. If this picture doesn’t scream this is the 70’s, then nothing does.

·       We always sat in the left field blue wooden grandstand seats – probably section 32 or 33. The seats closest to the green Monster and the farthest from the field. Whichever one it was it was where the Red Sox drunkest (and most loyal) fans congregated. Lots of swearing and singing and colorful language was in the air in those sections. It was the most Boston”est” place in all of Boston. It was terribly thrilling for a ten- or eleven-year-old.

              

·       So, after a game that I do not remember who the Sox played, or if they won or lost, we piled in the bus for the long ride home. When you are 10 or 11, two hours is a awfully long time.

·       This is where I start remembering some of the details of the day a little clearer. Still, I cannot guarantee this is 100% accurate, but it is how I remember it.

o   First – the bus stops at the Golden Banana. If you have never heard of it, google (again with the google) the Golden Banana, it still exists. I’m sure it is a far seedier version than it was in the early 70’s…but then again, maybe not. Like I said before, different times. The Golden Banana was along a super exciting (once again, for a ten or eleven year old) stretch of Route 1 in Peabody and Saugus with famous landmarks such as the Giant cactus sign in front of the Hilltop Steakhouse restaurant, the leaning tower of “pizza” replica entrance to Prince Pizzeria , and the infamous orange dinosaur that was the showcase of the miniature golf course that you sped by on your entry into Boston. This gives you a bit of the flavor of the neighborhood.

 

o   This is where it gets a little fuzzy. Somehow, while the Dads went in to enjoy some of Boston’s Best Adult Entertainment, the kids were set free.

§  Now, we could have had a chaperone, but I am betting the chaperone was just the biggest 12-year-old on the bus.

o   The Dads must have given us some spending money because we somehow found the Bel-Aire Diner. Maybe a quarter mile down, as I’ve already mentioned, a very busy Route 1 in Saugus or Peabody MA. I do not remember any fatherly advice being dispensed, like, “We’ll meet back here in an hour” or “listen to so and so and do whatever he says” or “Don’t go across the highway”, but I am sure some must have been dispensed. This was decades before cell phones so there was no, “Give us a call if you need anything”.

 

            

o   Now picture tables full of preteen boys with some spending money at this diner. I am sure we did not have a ton of cash, but, being the early seventies, I am betting a hamburger, fries, chocolate milkshake, and a piece of pie probably would have run us about $3.00. If I did not say before, I will now, good times.

o   After our meal and feeling a little inspired by our freedom, we ambled out onto the street, I am picturing a side street that sort of runs alongside Route 1. Oh, by ambled, I mean in the opposite direction of the Golden Banana parking lot, where the bus back to Maine was parked and our Dads were being entertained. Quite an image…a pack of boys from the suburbs of Maine, all wearing their Service Oil, A & W, Haverty Buick, or Gill’s Pharmacy baseball caps (those might not be exact, but I got a few of them right).

o   I cannot swear to this but I’m picturing walking past things like junkyards with guard dogs tied up with metal chains, or piles of scrap metal behind chain link fences, or the loading docks of heavy equipment repair shops. Am I painting the picture for you?

                                

o   Anyhow, being pre-teen baseball players, we somehow sniffed out a baseball field with a game in progress. So, like moths to a flame, we went and watched. Did we ever watch. This was Boston little league baseball. Fans in the stands, players in uniform, but I will not swear I remember any grass on the field. Picture the Bad News Bears movie set in Boston and not in Southern California.

                

o   Sizing up the crowd, I’d be willing to bet that some of the fans that we were sitting with in the grandstands at Fenway were now at this game as well, or maybe it was just a coincidence that we were surrounded by Sully’s, Timmy’s, Smitty's, Mickey’s, Billy’s, and Matty’s in both places. Maybe it was also a coincidence that a lot of the language we heard at Fenway was the same language we were hearing here…and maybe it is customary to drink in the stands at little league games in Boston. Who knows, but it was the best place to be if you were looking for some excitement on a Sunday in the early seventies.

o   This is where the details blur, but I swear this happened. There was some excitement on the field, I’m sure instigated with a perceived a bad call by the ump, and things started to get a little heated. Coaches arguing with the umps, the umps arguing with the other coaches, players arguing with the other players, bat boys hollering at the other bat boys, kids sitting unattended in station wagons arguing with other unattended kids in the backs of station wagons, groups of kids and adults in clusters on the infield in one loud dispute with anyone they could get in front of, all with that awesome Boston accent…”That was a wicked bad call”…”Are you numb, he was bookin’ it to first and was safe by a mile”...”You can’t bang a U-ie on second base, that ain’t right”…”Hey ump, is that a grinder in your cup?” and other hostile type expressions that my Maine ears had never had the pleasure of hearing being strung together out loud before.

o   This was not just on the field; the crowd was getting into it as well. At that point someone, and then everyone, decided they were not letting no six-foot-high cyclone fence around the field get in the way of where the action was. Before our little South Portland eyes could believe it, anyone over the age of five was out of the stands and on the field. I did not know it had a name at the time, but this was the first time I ever saw an honest to God donnybrook. Pushing, shoving, fists flying, pig piling, shirts getting pulled over the heads, bats getting thrown, coolers used as weapons, bloody scrum. It was a bona fide melee.

                                                    

o   This was some big stuff for a bunch of kids a mile away from any adult they knew and over 100 miles from home. If anyone had told them when they were climbing on the bus on that fine Sunday morning, that this was how they were going to end their day, they would not have believed you, but not one of them would have said no thanks and not stepped on that bus.

       

o   Sorry, there is no grand finale on this, that is the last I remember of the day. A little anti climatic I know.  I don't remember how the skirmish ended, if there was an ambulance involved, or if and how many police showed up. Wish I did. Somehow, we made it back to our fathers, or perhaps they found us. None of that is important. We had survived the Great Peabody Little League Battle Royale and lived to tell all our classmates the next day, and probably the rest of the week, if not the entire Summer. As well as creating a somewhat foggy memory that I still can't shake nearly fifty years later. Thanks for allowing me the opportunity to get it in writing so now it can live on in perpetuity....or at least until the internet is still a thing.

o   Now, doesn’t that make you miss, or wish you grew up in, the 70’s?

   

                  (I had that exact same yellow bike. Probably rode it the school the day after the bus trip).