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.

Grove City, PA

That four-hour post-hot cakes nap on Friday turned out not to be enough. I was still feeling so run-down that evening when I come upon a motel, rather than continuing on for a forest, I seized upon it, the first of these travels, and proceeded to sleep for nearly thirty-six hours straight.  I presumed it to simply be a case of extreme exhaustion, as I didn’t have an elevated temperature or nausea or diarrhea or loss of smell or taste, what I understood the symptoms of the corona virus to be, just the loss of hunger.  

I should have been starving, but had no desire to eat and had to force down a spoonful of peanut butter from time to time and bite of banana.   I had been negligent in not taking a single rest day in nearly forty days of cycling, considering a fifty-mile day a respite of a sort, and was finally paying the price.  Or maybe it was Tour de France withdrawal.  The day would have been the start of week two of The Tour and it’s foray into the Pyrenees.  It had been the focus of my July for years, even before I started riding it in 2004, and I was missing it.

When I mustered the energy to go fetch the motel’s meager complimentary breakfast, a paper bag with a cup of juice, a cup of yogurt and a granola bar, I was startled to hear just behind me a loud thunk and then a thud.  I turned to see a young woman with a low-cut blouse, and what the French would admiringly call “a full balcony,” laying crumbled on the floor with a hulk of a guy hovering over her. “Holy shit,” I thought. “An actual assault right here in the lobby.  The world truly is in a downward spiral.”  The woman who had just handed me my breakfast screamed, “Get out.  I’m calling the police.”  The young woman moaned, “That’s okay.  My parents are coming to get me.”

That further inclined me to avoid turning on the television and it’s window into the chaos of current affairs. I still felt exhausted after my thirty-six hour marathon and slept most of the next day too, just taking time to do some much-needed wash and repair a broken pannier and find microscopic punctures in two tubes and eat some potato salad and hummus and apple sauce.  Three nights in a motel was enough, though I felt like my body could use more down-time.  

I felt instantly rejuvenated when I began pedaling and knew I’d made the correct decision. The legs were full of pep. The northwest corner of Pennsylvania continued to provide superlative cycling on lightly traveled roads through thick forests and small towns with lots of Trump signs.  The bicycle is the curative force.  It was forty-two miles to the next Carnegie in Oil City, founded in the 1860s when oil was discovered nearby, and it became the center of oil production in the country.  It’s Carnegie, built in 1902, was as opulent as a boomtown Opera House with an abundance of ornamentation and extra columns flanking windows rather than the entry, a genuine stunner of a building.

It was my good fortune to have my arrival delayed by my spell of Rip Van Winkel time, as I arrived on the day when it reopened.  There were “Welcome back” signs plastered all over the library.  The interior had been fully modernized to match the large addition to its backside, so whatever ostentation may have graced it was long gone.  There were much fewer than the maximum of ten patrons allowed at a time, so the thirty minute maximum stay wasn’t being enforced.  It was my first opportunity to linger and relax in a library in weeks.  It hardly mattered that it didn’t have the intimate warmth of a Carnegie nor the glow of a Carnegie portrait to sit under.  A further bonus was a drinking fountain with ultra-cold water, just what I needed to fill my bottles before camping in less than an hour.

A respectable gent was sitting on a bench beside my bike when I exited, interested in my travels.  His daughter was a lawyer in Chicago.  He recommended a bike bath along the Allegheny that would take me to Franklin seven miles away, sparing me a four-lane highway.  It was popular with joggers in the evening hour.  There were relic oil wells here and there.  

Rather than continuing to Franklin I was able to disappear into the forest halfway there not far from another well. I could hear an occasional vessel on the river, but the dominant sound were deer snorting not too distant.

It was a couple mile steep climb out of Franklin away from the river and quite a bit more climbing before reaching Grove City thirty miles away and the next Carnegie on the campus of Grove City College founded in 1876 with the Carnegie added in 1900.  It was now the Alumni Center though it was still engraved with Carnegie Music Hall.  The modern town library was just a block away and had reopened the day before.  As in Oil City it was only allowing stays of thirty minutes.  I was handed a timer when I arrived, though I was able to prolong my stay as half an hour was hardly enough time to recover from hours in the ninety degree heat.

Corry PA

While Chris was one hundred and fifty miles northeast enjoying the much-hyped Finger Lakes of central New York, I was enjoying the perfectly fine Kinzus Beach at the confluence of the Allegheny River and Kinzu Creek across the border into Pennsylvania. It was a lake thanks to the Kinzu Dam three miles down river. It was a perfect day for the first swim of these travels with the temperature reaching 90 for the first time since I set out over five weeks ago.

I had to make do with the refreshing water of the lake to cool me as the rest rooms and drinking fountain were not in operation.  But I was able to fill my water bottles thanks to a young man from Toledo traveling with his wife and two children who had water to spare.  

I had to step daintily on the pebbles into the lake, as there was no sand, not even in the lake.  It had actually been given a concrete base that was slimy and slick.  The beach came at about the half way point of a fifty-mile stretch between Carnegies in Bradford and Corry through the Allegency State Forest.  I almost thought I was out west, where I’m accustomed to such prolonged rides through thick forests, particularly as I rode a steep two-mile climb up to a somewhat cool 2,200 foot plateau.  


It was backcountry cycling with long stretches between amenities.  I stopped at an antique store with a sign saying everything sixty per cent off hoping it might have some cold drinks.  No luck, but I could at least sit on the porch in the shade on a bench from a one-room schoolhouse.  The proprietor, an older woman who’d started the business in 1967 and was trying to sell it, joined me.  She apologized for not wearing a mask, saying it was too hot and if we kept our distance we’d been fine.  She said there’d only been fifteen cases of the virus in the county, so I shouldn’t feel concerned.

My final miles in New York had been equally rustic and western, providing deluxe forest camping.  I pitched my tent near a lagoon.  The mosquitoes weren’t a factor, but the frogs croaked all night, finally letting up with the dawn.  A couple ticks found there way into the tent.  I had been spared them with Chris,  as he is a tick-magnet, finding a few nearly every night in his tent. One attached himself to the back of my arm.  I had to wait until I found a restroom mirror to be able to grab him with my tweezers.  When I opened my shirt a giant one was crawling on the front side of my arm, easily flicked away.

My final Carnegie in New York, in Salamanca, was vacant and on its way to becoming a ruin.  It was vacated in 1967, replaced by a featureless building that had been a grocery store. The books had been transported in a large community effort by a battalion of shopping carts the mile from the old library to the new including crossing over the Allegheny River.  It may be the only Carnegie on an Indian Reservation.  About twenty per cent of Salamanca’s six thousand residents are Native American.  Everyone rents from the tribe, including the library.

The new library had a sign saying it was open from eleven to one and three to seven.  I arrived at 2:30.  I was down to fifteen per cent on my iPad, so was in need of at least an hour of charging, preferably two.  I sought out the Carnegie and some chocolate milk at the Sav-A-Lot and got back to the library shortly after it reopened.  All the chairs were upside down on the tables and the librarian said there was no lingering, a bust.  

At least the local McDonald’s had indoor dining, she said, and I should be able to charge there. That was a success, but I learned from Joel the next day that was my last chance to sit inside at a McDonald’s, as it’s restaurants were going to withdraw dining in for at least three weeks, a big bummer especially with it getting hot. So it may be Burger King henceforth, if it doesn’t follow suit.  I much prefer McDonald’s, as it is a Chicago-based company, while Burger King is Canadien joining up with Tim Horton in 2014.  Plus McDonald’s generally has stronger WiFi and a cheaper chicken sandwich, though the same four hundred calories.  My favor for McDonald’s was rewarded a few days ago when I found a McDonald’s credit card along the road with fifteen dollars on it—two weeks worth of McChickens. 

The Carnegie in Franklinville, still in New York preceding the one in Salamanca, bore the name of Blount, but had all the dignity of a Carnegie.  It was only offering curbside pickup at its rear addition.

The first Carnegie back in Pennsylvania in Bradford, gloriously identified itself as a Carnegie Public Library and Free to All in bold large letters.  It had been turned into a restaurant and was adorned with two large flags.

Corry too fifty miles west had transformed its Carnegie into a restaurant.  It was hopping with activity when I arrived in the early evening.

It was more of a diner than Bradford’s with people on the porch and inside among the stacks of books. 

Yesterday’s heat and climbing had sapped my energy. At eleven I took a break in the shade under a tree and slept for four hours, something I had never done before. I thought I just needed a nap of thirty minutes or so, but kept waking and going back to sleep for a little more.  I was across the street from a convenience store and thought someone might come over and check on me, but evidently my bike and the tree shielded me. A stack of hot cakes was partially to blame for my lethargy, a much needed hearty meal.

Olean, New York

With the Fourth of July imminent I’m not sure if I want to be in rural New York for the occasion.  In one community after another vendors of fireworks have set up tents selling their merchandise with the enticement of “Buy one, get one free.”  I’ve already heard quite a few being tested.  Chris and I were barraged by what we thought was a series of gun shots our first night camping together, but were actually fireworks.

I had somewhat set a goal of cycling around New York until I found a license plate, hoping I would succeed while I picked off the thirteen Carnegies in the western end of the state.  I have just two remaining and have yet to find one.  I would like to drop down to Pennsylvania after the final Carnegie in this part of the state and start in on the fourteen Carnegies in its west that I have yet to visit, including six branches in Pittsburgh that I didn’t have time for on a previous visit.  I may just have to forego that New York license plate, as it would be over one hundred miles across the bottom of the state to the next Carnegie in Elmira.

Along with all the fireworks for sale is a lot of firewood.  There are regular stands along the road with bundles going for three or four or five dollars, all on the honor system.  The town of Alfred had an honor system cabinet full of books and clothes and knick knacks.  At first I thought it was a mini-version of Telluride’s legendary Free Box, but it was accompanied by an explanation that it was a fundraiser for homeless cats and dogs started in 1973.

An even larger cabinet solely of books outside the Carnegie in Hornell was a version of a Little Free Library.  It didn’t want books in exchange or even books returned.  It was primarily filled with books discarded from the library that were free for the taking. Two little girls were avidly perusing what it had to offer, as the library behind wasn’t open.  

I caught the director of the library leaving in the rear of the building and asked where the addition to the library began as the bricks were so evenly matched.  She pointed it out and said it was done thirty years ago and increased the size of the library by 2,000 square feet, more than three times it’s original 600 square feet.  She confirmed that Carnegie’s portrait was on display,  but offered no invitation to give it a peek.  Not a single librarian has been willing to allow me a quick look at their closed library even with a neckerchief around my face, or maybe because of it.

The Hornell Carnegie was the only one in a series of six that did not have a Main Street address.  It was on Genesee, a Seneca word meaning “beautiful valley.”  I’ve been cycling through a series of them, some separated by strenuous climbs of a mile or more.  There are two Seneca reservations in the area.  Chris and I passed through one along the coast before Buffalo with the usual casino.

The small town of Perry felt no more inclined to open its Carnegie than Hornell.  It had a long gentle ramp added to its side leading to the front entry, which was barred by yellow tape leaving no doubt that it was closed

The former Carnegie Library on the campus of Alfred University was on the fringe of the campus on Main Street.  It retained the Carnegie name as Carnegie Hall and was now an administration building.  The long building was distinguished by a gorgeous set of interlocking bricks and hadn’t been added on to. The compact campus featured a ceramics museum to go along with a ceramics major.  

I had a long, steep climb over a high ridge to another beautiful valley and the small town of Andover and it’s Carnegie.  There was a small park across the street with several benches, including two under cover with a nearby electric socket.  I would have sat on the steps of the library for at least a few minutes but one needed a password for its WiFi even though signs advertised that its WiFi was available. If I had been desperate for WiFi I would have ducked into the post office or the nearby shops asking if anyone knew the password.  That would have been a fun exercise.

It was another pretty ride through forested terrain to Bolivar and it’s Carnegie.  My eyes caught the word “Open” on a sign out front on the sidewalk and I had a quick surge of hope until I read the rest of the sign—“for curbside pickups.”  It’s WiFi demanded a password too.  A sign on the door said to ring the bell for pickups.  I rang it and asked the librarian for the password—bolivarlib.  She verified that Carnegie’s portrait was on display and that the library hadn’t had an addition in its 110 years.  It was identified by simply “Library” over the door flanked by a nineteen and a ten.  A National Register of Historic Places plaque was to the right of the door. 

 Out front was a stack of saltine crackers with a sign reading “Free, take what you need.”  No one came by while I was there.  

The Carnegie in Olean, a much larger city, was in the very center of the city next to an equally grand post office just past a large roundabout.  The library was now “The Old Library Restaurant.”  Even though it had a dozen tables out front in a lovely garden setting, it wasn’t open.  Next door to the restaurant was a Bed and Breakfast seemingly affiliated with the restaurant bearing the name of the Library Inn.  

I’ve come upon at least two other Carnegies converted to restaurants, one in Denver and another in a small town north of Indianapolis.  And if Wikipedia is to be trusted two more await me in Pennsylvania.  Hopefully I’ll get a chance to see the bookish natures of their interiors.

This part of New York is the domain of 7/11s.  I am happy for each, not only as a reminder of their sponsorship of a Tour de France team in the ‘80s, but because they are offering Big Gulps for the unbeatable price of 49 cents.  The weather doesn’t overly demand them, as it’s been refreshingly mild, hovering around 80, but a 32-ounce cup of flavored fluid with as much ice as I want at that price is hard to resist.  Along with the sodas on tap, they have Powerade, but just the standard blue-colored one, unfortunately not the mango that Circle K has on tap.  I won’t mind at all paying the Circle K price of 69 cents when I return to Pennsylvania for that mango-treat.