Pittsburgh

Just as in Indiana and New York earlier in these travels, so too in Pennsylvania, the Boy Scouts of America commemorative Statue of Liberties came in a pair. Of the five Statutes scattered around Pennsylvania two were within ten miles of each other in the communities of New Castle and Ellwood City near the border with Ohio. As frequently happens with Carnegie Libraries, one nearby town can inspire another to get one of its own, whether it be a library or a statue.

The eight-foot tall Statue of Liberty in New Castle was dedicated in 1955, four years after the one in Ellwood City.  Most were erected between 1950, the fortieth anniversary of the Scouts and the inauguration of the program, and 1952.  New Castle’s was belatedly acquired to highlight a small island of a park at a significant intersection along the Nashannock Creek honoring Owen Penfield Fox for “making the park program of the city a beneficent reality.”  There was no mention on the plaque, or anywhere on the monument, of it’s link to the Boy Scouts.

The Statue in Ellwood City had the standard plaque and was mounted on a brick pedestal similar to that of New Castle. Even though I had seen another less than an hour before, it still brought an instant surge of delight, almost of shocked surprise of “What the hell is that doing here?” even though I had been gazing ahead searching for it hoping it was where it was supposed to be. It resided in front of the high school in a large expanse of grass.  It made me want to keep riding around Pennsylvania searching out more for that orgiastic moment of discovery.

But after three successive days of biking in temperatures pushing one hundred degrees and a solid week more in the forecast, I decided I’d had enough of cycling in a furnace and that it was time to bring this six-week, 2,500 mile ride to a close.  I would gather the remaining ten Carnegies of western Pennsylvania, mostly in and around Pittsburgh, then hop on the train back to Chicago.  I had many enticements luring me home. I had yet to experience Janina’s garden in full summer glory, always having been in France, so didn’t want to miss that opportunity.  It also felt the time to seek out fellow cyclists out in suburbia and join in on some rides with a club that I had so far neglected being out of town during its summer menu of several rides a week. 

I began the countdown of the final ten Carnegies of this trip in Butler, about thirty miles from the metropolis.  It was a bustling small city whose Carnegie had been rendered unrecognizable as an historic, centuries old building by its large addition, entirely disposing its original entrance and whatever classic features it might have had.  I arrived after seven, well after it had closed.  An older guy with a vintage Raleigh ten-speed as a companion sat on a bench with his head buried in his phone taking advantage of the WiFi.  I asked if he knew anything of the library’s history.  He got up and was happy to point out the window that had once been the entrance.  He was well informed, but he was unaware the library had been funded by Carnegie, which he knew enough to pronounce the Scottish way—Car-NAY-gie.  

“Not everyone around here likes him because he didn’t pay his workers well,” he said.  He asked if I would be visiting the library in Braddock before I reached Pittsburgh, as that was the first he had funded.  I told him I’d seen it several years ago when I sought out the most prominent of his libraries around the city, but hadn’t had time to get to all of them, which I would be doing this time. 

He proceeded to tell me more about Butler.  It had produced the first Jeep during World War II, but didn’t have a factory large enough to turn out more than fifty a day, so the bulk were manufactured in Ohio.  The designer of the Brooklyn Bridge was from Butler and a Hollywood actress from the ‘30s, whose name he couldn’t remember, had lived in the house across the street. And the town was the home of the Biddly Brothers, who were featured in a Hollywood film.  He went on and on, making it all the more remarkable that he didn’t know we were in the shadow of a Carnegie.  It was telling that the library did not acknowledge Carnegie in any way, not with a plaque nor with his portrait.

That wasn’t the case with the nine libraries awaiting me in and around Pittsburgh, as each acknowledged Carnegie in some way, often multiple times, such as the affluent suburb of Oakmont with Carnegie above the original entrance and on prominent display in front of the addition. The architect of the addition made no attempt to match the peaked roof of the original building.

None of the Pittsburgh libraries had reopened, other than providing curbside pickups.  I regretted the opportunity for a break from the heat and the chance to see the interiors, but it was for the best if I wished to get to all nine libraries in one day and catch the midnight train to Chicago.  I knew I couldn’t take any prolonged breaks if I wished to succeed, especially with the extremely hilly terrain, not only slowing my speed but making it frustratingly impossible more often than not to make a direct route from one library to the next. 

I followed the Allegheny for a few miles one last time from Oakmont to the Homewood Branch, turning at the zoo along the river to head inland to the library three miles away.  The Allegheny continued for a few miles further, ending its 325-mile journey through New York and Pennsylvania to unite with the Monongahela to form the Ohio River in downtown Pittsburgh besides its football stadium.  As with all the Branch libraries this one was quite imposing and spacious and without addition. The not-too-clear script high above the door spelled out “Carnegie Library Homewood.”

It was a fairly straightforward two-and-a-half miles to the suburb of Edgewood and it’s Carnegie on Pennwood Avenue running parallel to train tracks.  It bore the name of C. C. Mellon, a boyhood friend of Carnegie’s who was one of the first trustees of the Carnegie Institute founded in 1895.  The library was dominated by a sign promoting its curbside pickup program.  Along the way I passed a two-block long line of idling cars.  There were no Golden Arches ahead so I knew it was a virus-testing line leading up to a large RV and a cluster of nurses administering the test.

The Swissvale Carnegie was even less of a jaunt, though it required a circuitous route. It was a suburban library, not a branch of Pittsburgh’s system, but it was a clone of the Homewood Branch, other than being identified as a “Carnegie Free Library.”

After two short hops between libraries I had a long haul to the next, including a detour that was longer than either of those hops.  The detour sign came just after a fire station, so I asked about the detour at the station and if I might be able to get through and need not make the detour. Neither of the two guys on duty knew, but they didn’t discourage me from trying. They hadn’t seen it lately, as a mile away the road was blocked by a high fence that there was no getting around. At least the detour led me down a nice boulevard, Forbes, with a bike lane, the only one I was to enjoy in all my meandering around the city.

After nearly an hour I reached the boarded-up Hazelwood Branch.  The homes across the street in the quiet residential neighborhood didn’t look much healthier than the library.

I kept hoping to come upon a 7/Eleven and a 49 cent Big Gulp.  It was mid-afternoon and I hadn’t had ice in my water bottle all day. The thermometer on my Garmin had been over one hundred for hours.  It didn’t seem as scorching as out in the countryside with buildings providing shade and opportunity to escape the sun whenever I chose.  

I had stopped at a couple of gas stations over the hours hoping for a soft drink machine dispensing Gatorade and ice, but had yet to succeed.  I finally came upon one after I crossed the Monongahela.  Ice cold fluid down my throat brought instant bliss.  I could feel it trickle all the way down my esophagus to my stomach.  I didn’t care the price, I was happy to pay it.  

I thought I was going to have an easy ride to the Mount Washington Branch on Grandview, but it necessitated a two-mile steep climb that went on and on through a forest to reach the Mount.  This was totally unanticipated.  It did give a spectacular view of the city. 

There was a viewpoint right across from the Carnegie, fenced in and under renovation.  I was caught by a downpour on the climb.  The temperature dropped twenty-five degrees and stayed there the rest of the day.  It was beginning to cool anyway with the hour approaching six.  

It was so tricky connecting to the West End Branch that I had to unload my bike and lift it over two barricades to escape the highway I found myself on.  It was the only Carnegie of the day with columns and a classic small town temple style. It adjoined  a park that a pack of teens was walking through and by my parked bike.  “What’s all that stuff on your bike,” a girl asked.  Before I could answer another asked, “Does it make it go slow?”   As they kept walking a boy chimed in, “How much horse power does it have?”

I was able to get to a road along the river that took me to a bridge with a sidewalks for bikes and pedestrians that led back over to downtown.  I had a final two Carnegies within eight miles and could then head to the Amtrak station.  I had yet to buy my ticket, to make sure I could complete this mission, and also because when I had tried earlier on line I couldn’t determine if the train offered bike space allowing me to roll it on or if I’d have to box it.

Less than two miles from downtown was the former Wylie Avenue Branch that had been converted to a mosque.  I’d been to Carnegies that had become churches but never a mosque.  It was at the summit of a climb and gave no indication of being a mosque other than the vinyl sign covering the Carnegie Library inscription.  It was too much to hope that there might be a service being conducted or even that the building would be open at this late hour to see its transformation.  Of all the libraries I didn’t get into on this trip, this one was probably the most disappointing.

It was no easy ride the three miles to the final Carnegie of the day and the past month-and-a-half with a few hills to contend with and a hodgepodge of roads to navigate.  The final stretch was down a steep residential street.  Pittsburgh was vying with San Francisco for the most climbing of any Carnegie town.  My altimeter recorded over 4,000 feet of climbing for the day, the most of the trip.  The Lawrenceville Branch was another mammoth building that had needed no addition.  It had a little more decorative stone and brick work around its entry than any of the others.

I at last had a direct and flat route to my next and ultimate destination.  Liberty Avenue took me straight to the Amtrak Station.  I arrived with four hours to spare.  But I couldn’t put my legs up just yet.  The station’s computers were down so the agent couldn’t sell me a ticket.  Nor did it have WiFi so I had to go to a Starbucks a couple blocks away.  It was closed but there was some WiFi from a nearby source with a strong enough signal that I could use my iPad phone to call Amtrak.  All was going well with the animated system until it couldn’t decipher my name.  An agent came to the rescue and with the great news that I could roll on my bike, no box necessary.

The only issue came when I received the email confirmation of my ticket and it misspelled my last name “ianson”  rather than “ensen,” missing on two counts, botching both “en’s.” There had been a warning to make sure the name on one’s ticket matched one’s identification.  But no worries, as no one ever looked at my ticket, either to board the train or once I took my seat.  

I expected a seat to myself, but that was no guarantee.  Masks were required at all times, but capacity was not being limited to one person per seat.  I could well end up sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with another for ten hours. Fortunately, it wasn’t so full to require that.  I had a seat to myself, as did everyone who seemed to be traveling alone. The train left right on time, a minute to midnight.  Within moments I was in a deep sleep laying on my sleeping pad on the floor behind my seat at the rear of the car.  

And thus ends my Corona Virus Tour.  With eighty-one Carnegies, fifty-three in Ohio, thirteen in New York and fifteen in Pennsylvania, it was my second largest haul ever, only exceeded by the eighty-three in California and Arizona a year ago.  But there had been no Statue of Liberties on that trip, as there was only one in all of California and out of my way.  The six on this trip gives a combined total of eighty-seven libraries and Statues, a combined record.  

I may be headed home, but I’m not done with my tent, as it will be my abode for the  next two weeks in Janina’s back yard as I undergo a modified quarantine.