I used to think Baltimore was sexy and alive. Growing up in the northwest suburbs, my creative mother would take me to art galleries and festivals, and revisit my strong Bohemian roots on Fernley Ave, and the heart of the Czech community. As a young artist with no understanding of the word, or meaning, of "poseur," I was drawn to those who looked "different"--purple spiked hair, torn clothing, the "fuck you" look that warned the curious to quickly glance away. I had no tools to distinguish an act or a look from real conviction.After 4 years of grad school, I returned to Baltimore as a bona fide "artist." I had worked full time in the Art Department where I got my mfa, and part of my job was to "chaperone" and coordinate workshops with "big name" artists--Helen Frankenthaler, Larry Rivers, David Leach, etc. --and to witness the evolution of budding artist talents, both at school, and within the DC area. Four years of witnessing brought an undeniable clarity--the soul-felt artist may, or may not, look the part. Years later, I would know the same thing about bikers.
Baltimore looked, and felt, different when I returned. I found my place in the art scene. Columbia to Baltimore became an easy drive. I knew the neighborhoods, knew where to go, knew where to park. But then, visiting friends in Fells Point, Patterson Park, and Canton, became depressing. Over and over, when I returned to my car after each visit, I found it defaced--windows broken, bags stolen, dashboards skewn with debris. Charm City was losing its enchantment, and slowly I stopped my ritualistic visits. It was getting expensive, and the city stressed me out. I stopped seeing goodness and life behind the chaos and the ruin and the history. It just looked broken.
That was years ago.
Baltimore, in the past few weeks, has started to embody complicated beauty again, thanks to revisiting the city via cross bike. Jon introduced me to the Gwynn Falls Trail, a manicured and extensive pathway that winds around and through some of the best and worst of Baltimore(mostly west?).
Today, we did a 40 mile sojourn that started in Elkridge and continued through the Patapsco State Park roads that eventually connect to the GFT. We visited "Hell House" and scrambled through the ruins of an old swimming pool, trashed by the most artistically advanced graffiti I have seen in some time.
Real life trains are the stuff of nightmares for me. After reading an article, years ago, about a Baltimore woman whose 21st birthday wish was to hop on a passing train with her friends, I have an intense and completely irrational fear of crossing railroad tracks and being whacked by an unexpected locomotive. The woman, witnessed by her group of slightly inebriated friends who gathered to celebrate her stunt, ran to a slowly passing train, grabbed a metal bar and attempted to hoist herself upward and over to safety. But she slipped, fell haplessly onto the tracks and was beheaded. I have never erased the horror of that image from my mind.Still, I faced my fear by crossing the single lane bridge(the width of the traintrack) over the Patapsco. When I stumbled, and my leg fell through the rungs, I saw my bike shoe dangling over nothingness. If a train had come by in those moments of crossing, Jon would have seen a very different "me." He prepped me before crossing that if a train started coming I was to leap onto one of the three small platforms that jutted out over the river below. In my mind, I decided that if a train came, both my bike and I were heading for the water.
The 50 degree day turned cold, and felt wintery, because I had underdressed. There were winter smells, and the river looked intensely cold. But senses were pretty much locked on the visual. We passed historic ruins on the hillside and trash filled stream sections, with plastic bags arrested by fallen tree branches in the water, feeling like trapped & frozen halloween ghosts.We stopped by the Carrie Murray Nature Center, just off the trail. We entered through the woods in the back of the property, so it felt deserted, surreal and cold when we arrived; the outdoor animal cages were empty, and I assumed it was long ago abandoned. But the door to the building was open, and inside it was warm, in temperature and in hospitality. Filled with rescued cold blooded creatures--snakes, iguanas, turtles--the rooms pulsated with heat, the staff was friendly, and it was a welcome respite from the outside.
Dickeysville, another stop off the trail, was equally surreal. Just past the "projects," a pristine, community of well manicured historic homes emerged. Each home was white--painted brick, siding, mortar. It was odd, and I felt as out of place, and nervous, as I did at the previous stop in a sketchy neighborhood that reminded me of The Wire.
We returned home 5 hours after we left. We had ridden at a reasonable pace, but the lure of off trail curiosities and adventures turned the trip into a day long affair. The day left me with strong visuals of sights passed, indelible feelings of highly contrasting neighborhoods, and a longing to return. My connection with my home town is emerging, still embryonic, but alive. I'm counting on future cross bike adventures--sans the worry about car breakins--to help me bring it full circle.
We "commuted" to the Patapsco trail maintenance in Baltimore--from Frederick. It seems an eternity ago, but it was only this morning. 5am arrived rudely. We scrambled to eat, to get our bikes together, and planted our tired asses on our saddles by 5:30am. We pedaled into a black, and very cold, morning.
