By Anne Felker

Worn out by the work week, we are tired of sitting at our desks,of long commutes stuck in traffic, of our too-busy brains that need a break. We decide to bicycle to Easton to check out the new beers on tap at Two Rivers. We charge up our lights for the return ride home in the dark, and head out around six p.m.. The clouds to the west look a little dark but we figure, the worst thing that happens if it rains is, we get wet, and the day is warm enough that weʼd find no tragedy in that.

We roll down the street from our neighborhood, picking up a good head of steam with no effort. Speeding down Spring Street, we greet our neighbors, four-year-old Evelyn and her Dad, by using our our bike noisemakers — Donʼs a sweet tinkly bell and mine a squeaky honker in the shape of a sumo wrestler.

We get on the towpath trail at Sand Island at the foot of Main Street in Bethlehem and head east. The path there runs with the river on the right side, the canal to the left. ! Usually, the trail section from Sand Island to Freemansburg is busy with runners, walkers and other cyclists, but tonight it is quiet. We donʼt see another soul until we are nearing Freemansburg. The rains have been heavy this past week, though, so we are occupied noticing a few spots on the edges of the trail washed out by the deluges.

But mostly what we see is the spectacular greeness of everything — tendrils of stinging nettle and other less itchy climbers reach out toward us; the milkweed stands four feet tall in full bloom, their seed heads balls of soft purple flowers. The air feels warm and slightly humid, and every once in a while we catch the heavy perfume of honeysuckle in bloom. A little past Freemansburg, at a spot where the trail is open to sunlight, an elderberry bush gone wild waves its heavy flowered heads. The birds will be well-fed by that sprawling ten-foot high plant in another few weeks.

When we come to the steep paths that go down to the two usual swimming spots, we slow down to wend through the pile of bicycles strewn across the trail. Both spots are crowded with teenagers. One guy is standing near the trail, taking off his shirt. Looking past him, we see others lined up to take their turns on the rope swings that go way out to a deep part of the river, still others bobbing in the water. The river is slow moving here, despite the rains. As we bike away, we hear their shouts and yells. What a great way to spend a hot June night.

A little further on, on the canal side, we see enormous rectangular rocks in a jumble. It looks as though what was an old stone wall has given way from the recent rains. I try to imagine what that area looked like a few nights ago, when it happened, with the water gushing until the wall collapsed in a roar. Where the wall has maintained its integrity, we see three- to four-foot wide flat faced rectangular rocks, neatly arranged into a wall about twenty feet high.

As we descend on the path toward the old boat launch, we slow down, as we see the path is largely washed out. What was an easy dirt path has now become a rock- strewn expanse, with even the road gone at the foot of ***Hope Road*****. I think of the development immediately north, above and adjacent to the path, and wonder what rainfall assumptions the builders used as they planned for drainage and acceptable run- off. We continue on, our mild-mannered bike ride having turned into rock jumping single track for a short bit. Soon, the trail begins a slow rise to the paved boat launch. Above us rises the enormous bridge that carries Route 33 over the Lehigh River to its juncture
with Route 78. Don had described the earlier gridlock with the Route 78 shut down in both directions, but now we hear the traffic roaring far overhead, so we figure whatever caused the shutdown has since been cleared. The bridge supports are enormous, much bigger than our house. The bridge itself runs high overhead. As I pedal under this bridge, I consider that those roaring past overhead likely have no clue of the secret world of plants and and muddy trail washouts and box turtles and great blue herons and bicyclists below. I wonder what secret worlds I regularly pass by, without notice.

We make the short climb to the ** boat launch where there are a few people, well, launching their boats. In no time, we are on the paved part of the path. We pass by the fields near ***, always full. Tonight there is what looks to be a mixed game – the women play the outfield, the men play the infield. They are all shouting and cheering. We nearly come to a stop as a man on a skateboard veers across the path toward us, his attention on his young son running behind him. “Sorry!” he shouts once we are safely out of his range.

We get off the path a short while later, and take Lehigh Street into Easton. The street has been recently covered with oil and loose stone, and the transition from smooth paved bike path to the road is a bumpy one. But thereʼs little traffic on this street. We pass a dirt parking lot on the right, where a young man drives his pickup truck, roaring the engine, skidding and sliding, and raising big clouds of dirt. Iʼm glad heʼs not on the road, and I keep a watchful ear and eye until we are way passed, in case he decides to change his mind and drive up behind us.

We come into Easton on Fourth Street, and wave to the elderly people sitting on the bench outside of their apartments at Fourth and Washington as we cycle past. We turn left at Ferry Street, and bike the short climb up to Sixth — our only real hill since leaving Bethlehem — then coast down to our destination at Sixth and Northampton.

The place is busy, but we luck out in getting a table outside. We love to people watch, and set about doing so as we put in our order. We bump into friends who are happy to join us, and the four of us sit for a long time, blabbing and watching the neighborhood as the night descends. The big cloud that had been in the West when we left home is still there. As the sun sets, a wide shaft of sunlight shines from behind it. After the sky darkens, the cloud shifts so we see the thin white sliver of a moon, and a bright shining light near, that we decide must be a planet. (Ignorant as we are of the heavens, we donʼt know which.)

The beers are wonderful, a fine array of flavors and styles. Having done our part to support the newest beer makers in Easton, we wish them the best, and pick up our bikes.

We start our ride home by cycling through the streets of Easton to Wilson Borough and then around 18th Street, we take a series of smaller roads to drop down to the bike path. At the baseball fields, the last fans and players are rounding their things up and moving toward their cars in the parking lot. The fields are still ablaze with light, but they are empty except for the guy riding the mower with the attachment that smooths out the infield dirt. After we leave that lit area, we plunge into real darkness, riding the trail enclosed overhead with the canopy of trees. Our headlights do the job, so we can see well enough to cycle safely. But our sight is limited to the little area immediately in front of us.

The rest of the ride home is the reverse of our ride to Easton. We go at a pace that seems effortless, slowly cutting through the warm darkness of the June night. Mostly, we are silent. As I scan the path ahead with my light, I think of the wildlife Iʼve seen on this path — possum, skunk, deer, wild turkeys, pheasants, one time a fox. Any of these could be right outside the range of our lights, standing next to the path as we move by, part of the hidden world. Tonight, though we hear some unusual birdsong, we donʼt see anything. Around Freemansburg, I wonder if my light is getting dimmer; by the time we pass the Stefko bridge, Iʼm sure of it (I hadnʼt let it fully charge) but I am comfortable knowing that we are closer and closer to home.

Once home, the hassles of the work week are petty, a thing of the past. We are pleasantly tired, and refreshed by our short trip on the long path that runs not far from our own front door. Sometimes, the ordinary can be transformative; so it is with our ordinary Friday night in June.