Five and Twenty

West of Canandaigua, New York on Routes 5&20 there was a Restaurant at Toomey's Corners called Irby's. It was owned and operated by Bud Irby, the father of a lovely girl I went to school with named Susan.

Every year it was tradition for our family to have lunch at Irby's on the last day of school—usually a half day. It was an event we looked forward to. Not only was it one of the few times of the year we ate out, it was the sacred gateway to summer vacation! There were trucks in the parking lot and truckers and travelers at the counter that would soon be miles and miles away. I remember being consumed with the possibilities of summer and the mystique the highway stretching westward.

I didn't know it at the time but that Highway indeed continues to the oceans, both east and west.

My wife and I have recently started (re)reading “Blue Highways” by William Least Heat Moon to each other before bed. It is often the highlight of our day.

Least Heat Moon took to the road in a bare-bones Ford Econoline Van with a cot and cooler in the back and his modest savings stuffed up under the dash. He traveled in a wide circumference around the US. He stuck to “blue highways”—the two-lane routes instead of the 'red' four-lane Interstates. It's a wonderful book that takes a unique look at the US and its people. I highly recommend it.

http://www.amazon.com/Blue-Highways-Journey-into-America/dp/0316353299

One day my wife and I will slowly make our way across the country on one particular 'blue' highway from coast to coast to write about it, photograph it and compose music based on the experience.

This highway, the longest in the US, runs across 12 states, from Boston, Massachusetts—from within 200 yards of the Fenway Park, to Newport Oregon, a half mile short of the sand and surf of the Pacific Ocean: US Route 20.
 

 US Route 20

There are a lot of interesting 'blue' highways in the US; some that are more historic, like Route 66 From Chicago to LA; some that are more picturesque, like US Route 1 running up the coast of California.

What's so special about US Route twenty?

We have history, US 20 and I.

I was born a quarter mile from Route 20 in Canandaigua, New York where it ran in 1965 (both the hospital and the highway have since moved proportionally to the south). My father always lived near and, at times, right on Route 20 growing up in Fredonia, New York. It was in that same town that my parent's met at Fredonia State University.

Until 1978, Routes 5 & 20 went smack through the middle of Canandaigua (there was an earlier eastern bypass constructed in the '50s). The highway passed under a low railroad bridge that was built long before modern tractor trailer trucks. Despite large signs with clearance heights at three different points under the bridge and flashing yellow lights, many a truck driver has found themselves wedged between the New York Central Rail Road and the upward sloping pavement of West Avenue (Routes 5 & 20). A couple of my friends who lived in town had many tales of scavenging the spilled contents of those trucks be it jars of pickles, rolls of paper towels or whole watermelons.

The route has changed but the bridge remains

with it's low clearance as this Texas trucker learned the hard way in 2010

For today's blog I will tell some my tales of US20, at least the part of it I grew up around.

During one of my early visits to Irby's Restaurant (I was three or four), I returned from the restrooms—a solo mission I was very proud of—I announced in a voice loud enough for the entire dinning room to hear: “I can reach! I can reach!”

In high school I had a friend we'll call Ray who lived right on 5&20 just East of Irby's and Toomey's Corners. Ray had a charisma that made him, at once, a pain in the ass and a lot of fun. He and another friend of mine, Ed (the younger brother of the girl I smacked with my lunch box if you're a regular reader) and I had driven to Fairport to see a couple of neo-mod rock bands. On the way home we dropped Ray of at his house. The three of us decided it would be an excellent idea to relieve ourselves in the middle of 5&20, perhaps some form of artistic expression more than rebellion.

A quarter mile down the road we saw a car approaching. We casually zipped up and strolled to the side of the road like the cool idiots we were.

The car that approached slowed then stopped. The beam of sheriff's search light focused on the streams of urine on the highway, then at the three of us on the side of the road, then back on the piss. The engine gunned and the Sheriff's car pulled into the end of Ray's parents' long driveway.

Ray pulled the starter rope on his salesman-slick charm and strolled up to the cop. Ed and I hung in the shadows thinking we were toast.

“Hey officer, evening to ya... Sir.”

The officer looked back out at the soiled pavement to breech the obvious subject.

“Haha, yeah pretty stupid huh? Sorry about that sir. Just kids, ya know... being kids, no harm done though, right?”

“You live here?”

“Yeah, I live here. My parents'. In fact, that's why decided to, ya know, use the great outdoors so as not to disturb my hard-working dad.”

“Anyone drinking?”

“No... no sir. We're just foolish all on our own. But no big deal right? Lesson learned right? I mean, now that I think about it we could have been seriously struck by a car or even caused an accident. Lots of paperwork for you then, right?”

By the time Ray was done with his spiel, the young sheriff's deputy was just trying to put Ray off so he could get back in his cruiser and leave, almost sorry he'd stopped at all and nearly apologizing for it.

During high school and college, I was in a band with a couple guys who lived in Waterloo, NY, to the east of Canandiagua. I spent many hours driving back and forth on 5 & 20. Naturally, as a young person. My cars were not always in the best condition so I spent almost as much time broken down.

We weren't just a band but the best of friends. We did a lot of hanging out after we jammed so many of my return trips from Waterloo were well after midnight.

This was the case the night my alternator died, leaving the ignition and headlights powered by the battery alone. I knew there was no way I was going to make it home, but in order to minimize the distance my father would have to travel to pick me up, I drove as far as I could. The battery slowly expended itself. Eventually my headlights were about as bright as candles and cars going the other way flashed their headlights at me. I'd like to say I was sensible and safe and stopped when my headlights were too dim to be useful or safe, but I hobbled along until the coil could no longer fire the spark plugs. The engine sputtered it's last breath and I coasted to a halt.

I had passed a country and western bar a mile or so up the road, so I hiked back and braced myself for a Pee Wee Herman moment as called my father from a pay phone in the loud hoppin' joint, neck deep in red necks and brimming with bikers. I could barely hear anything on the phone so I just repeated my location a few times and hung up. He must have understood me because a half hour later he showed up at the car.

Another break-down I had was during the 1984 Winter Olympics from Sarajevo, I was able to stop and use a phone at a house along 5&20 that had their lights on after 2AM.

“Lucky for you the Olympics are going on,” the guy said, “we're not normally up at this hour.”

Unfortunately for my Dad, he was not up watching the Olympics.

During warmer weather, my old Chevy van sprung a radiator leak and began to overheat soon after I left my friend's house in Waterloo. I was still thirty miles from home so I spared my Dad the “come get me” phone call. My first strategy was to stop and let the engine cool, then drive until the needle hit the red again—wash rinse repeat.

The drive times soon grew shorter and the wait times longer so I decided to take a different tack. I walked three miles down 5 & 20 with a plastic container until I found a culvert full of water in front of a middle-of-nowhere Napa auto parts store. I walked back to the van with the full container, filled the radiator and drove ahead to the same culvert to get as much water as I could. While topping off my radiator and filling anything else in the van that could hold water, I saw the first car on the highway since I had passed through Geneva. I shielded my eyes when the county sheriff shone his spot light on me. He looked suspicious as I explained that my automotive difficulties did not in any way involve robbing an auto parts store. He carefully looked back and forth between the Auto Parts store the culvert and my water container and was unable to find any mischief, let alone a misdemeanor.

He seemed disappointed.

This may, or may not be what used to be the Napa store...

or was this the country bar?
Both??

I used my stockpile of water to refill my radiator periodically. Because I thought to leaving the cap off the radiator so high pressure would not push the water through the leaks, I only had to stop a couple more times. I made it home just before dawn. My father slept through the night undisturbed.

I played bass in the pit orchestra for a production of “Jesus Christ Superstar” at the Smith Opera house in Geneva which was in that same direction on 5&20 as the band I was in. My Waterloo musician friends were also involved and we took the opportunity to hang out after rehearsals. Many folks from the production congregated at Jesus' apartment—which was on the top floor of his building, of course. More late nights driving back on 5&20; nothing new.

I missed play rehearsal one evening because I had my first car accident. It was the one occasion when I brought along a couple of my friends from Canandaigua. On 5&20, a couple miles East of Canandaigua, a car was making a left turn. The car in front of me rear-ended them on the right side. I, in-turn, veered and hit the turning car on the left side

An ambidextrous country pile-up.

It probably didn't help that my friend John was briefly steering the car from the passenger seat while I was reaching for a cassette tape on the floor or something stupid like that.

Hey, wait just a minute!

I just remembered; that wasn't my first accident at all. My first vehicular mishap was a bit earlier. It was, of course, still on US 20.

I was cruising around in front of my grandparents' house in Fredonia. The vehicle I was operating flipped on it's side and I escaped with only a scraped knee.

I started crying.

My grandfather came out front, picked me up and righted my tipped-over tricycle. He hardly said a word but put me in the car and took me to a nearby store as I continued to blubber. He came out with an orange Creamsicle which dried my tears and has been a soothing and healing taste to me ever since.

US 20 has a total length of 3,365 miles. My stretch accounts for less than 2%. These are only my stories; there must be volumes of tales to be told about and around Route 20.

The day will come when I will venture out to discover of those tales and create some new adventures of my own. I hope to keep, break downs, scraped knees and crying to a minimum.

If I can't, I'm sure I can find a culvert full of water or maybe someplace that still sells Creamicles.

5&20's routes through time in Canandiagua, NY
-click to enlarge-