My love affair with bridges, and soaring across the Hudson on foot

By Mark Marchand

Most people consider bridges as structures built for convenience and safety. They are so ubiquitous that we take them for granted, scooting over them in cars, trucks, and trains without much thought. The only time we pay attention to them is when one of them fails spectacularly, like the I-35 bridge in Minneapolis 13 years ago. Fourteen people were killed and 145 injured in that catastrophe. In a similar disaster, a major bridge in Genoa, Italy, crumbled to the ground in 2018, killing 43. The public reaction to bridge tragedies is similar to the shock that follows airline crashes, a rarity in one of the safest means of travel today. We react in horror to both, but soon we find ourselves back on bridges or jetting to places thousands of miles away. Bridge collapses and airline accidents temporarily ding the trust we place in both. But because we need them so much, we forgive … and forget.

I am no different than most when it comes to bridges. But the way they are built, their history, and what they look like fascinates me. This enchantment began when I first crossed the George Washington Bridge connecting New York City to New Jersey during a family trip in the mid-1960s. Later on that same trip I saw the Pulaski Skyway Bridge arching up from the swampy lands of eastern New Jersey. I didn’t realize it until I got home weeks later that I had taken 50 photos of both bridges. Family members who were on the trip were disappointed I didn’t take one picture of them. I was hooked on bridges.

One of my favorites has always been the majestic Brooklyn Bridge. Construction on that still heavily used span connecting Brooklyn to Manhattan began in 1869—just four years after the Civil War ended. I was finally able to walk every inch of this bridge in 2014. I wrote about that magical experience here in my blog.

One of my first “loves,” the Brooklyn Bridge. Looking back at Manhattan from the middle of the bridge, in 2014.

The second reason I’ve always loved bridges is more allegorical. To me, bridges are a metaphor for constructing a means—physical or virtual—to connect to something: ideas … the future … the past … even linking one part of a song to another. I recall with some humor how I came up with the phrase “Connections to Tomorrow” in 1986 when I was searching for a theme to describe new technology being deployed in Boston by my employer, a Verizon predecessor company. Each time I looked at that phrase after we printed it on brochures and giveaways, I thought, “I should have used ‘bridges’ instead of connections.”

***

Last month, I crossed another bridge experience off my list. About 90 minutes south of where I live in Upstate New York sits the Walkway Over the Hudson. This combination park/pedestrian footpath spans the Hudson River, soaring to over 200-feet above the waterway. The 1.2-mile crossing links Highland on the west bank to Poughkeepsie to the east. The structure started life as a railroad bridge in 1889. Freight and passenger trains rumbled over the span for decades, until a fire destroyed the tracks and closed the bridge in 1974. It remained shut until an ambitious group of organizers decided to turn it into a pedestrian walkway years later. Their efforts paid off when the superb footpath opened in 2009, welcomed by widespread positive reviews and thousands of walkers.

Since then, the walkway has grown in popularity and became part of the Hudson Valley Rail Trail network: three connected trails extending for 18 miles over paved pathways. On the day I visited, I quickly learned the pandemic had not slowed the flow of walkers and bicyclists searching for new acreage to explore.

***

I drive to Highland on an unusually warm Friday late in November. I’m delighted to find that most precious of commodities when visiting outdoor attractions in rural areas: a building containing clean restrooms. Even better, it’s powered by solar panels. After a quick stop there I begin my eastbound walk along a paved pathway leading to the bridge. The slowly rising path features several signs and maps that help visitors find their way. Stopping to look at one diagram I learn that I can cross the Hudson, meander through downtown Poughkeepsie, and return to my car on the west side of the Hudson by walking across a second bridge. The bustling Franklin Delano Roosevelt Mid-Hudson Bridge is a mile south and carries thousands of cars and trucks across the river. That steel suspension bridge features a pedestrian path just inches from the traffic. I’m thrilled. I get to walk two bridges. I resume my stroll, brushing by other walkers, runners, and bicyclists. Many hikers are accompanied by their dogs.

Entrance for the Walkway Over The Hudson, beginning on the west side in HIghland. The blue decals suggest strategies for social distancing and mixing with bicyclists.

Since we all need to remember we’re in the midst of a pandemic, urgent warning signs abound. They tell us masks are mandatory and suggest schemes for remaining socially distant. On both sides of the walkway are steel, chest-high barriers with vertical beams. In some places there are higher chain link fences. I surmise they are intended to discourage visitors from throwing debris to a roadway below. More somber are the signs offering help via phone for someone who might be considering suicide.

Pausing near the top of the walkway, looking south to the Mid-Hudson Bridge,.my way home.

As I near the halfway point of the walkway, where it arches to its highest point above the river, I’m rewarded with stunning views of the Hudson north and south, along with rising hills and greenery. I stop for a few selfies with my phone and snap pictures of the landscape with my single-lens reflex camera. The skies on this day are mostly gray, with low clouds. The sun breaks out infrequently.  I catch short bursts of conversation from other walkers, some of whom speak in different languages. As I resume walking after my photo session, I see a group of students from a nearby college. They’re wearing sweatshirts and hats with their school logo. One is video chatting with her mother on a smart phone. “Mom, this is so amazing … I’ve never walked across a bridge. Let me show you …” The young female student then pans the setting with her phone.

Looking north up the Hudson, from the river walkway.

I reach the point where the walkway starts to slope downward toward Poughkeepsie. I stop and sit on a bench to take it all in. No one would have ever been able to witness this unique view if the river walkway hadn’t been created. Driving a car across a bridge does not allow the type of scenic absorption I seek on my walks.  I’m thankful. I get up and head to Poughkeepsie.

Once I “land” on the east termination point of the walkway I study the map again. I’m confused by the route it suggests through the densely populated city, and I give up after a few minutes. Google Maps is easily accessible on my phone, I think, in case I get lost. I turn right at the end of the path and descend another slope onto the city streets.

View of downtown Poughkeepsie as I approach the end of the river walkway.

Within minutes I’m lost. None of the street names match those listed on the sign back at the bridge. I pull my phone out and launch Google Maps. I wait for the screen to populate … and I wait … and I wait. Nothing happens. I give up after five minutes and decide to navigate by myself, using a general sense of where I think the Hudson River sits. Once I find my way to the river, I know all I need do is turn left and walk to the Mid-Hudson motor vehicle span. I try this and I find myself even more lost. I’m by myself in a congested older city and I have no idea where I am. The only thing I have going for me is daylight. I continue walking. I’m hemmed in, though, by rows and rows of two-story houses and apartment buildings. I can’t see where I’m headed.

Still hopelessly lost a few minutes later I come upon my savior in the form of that omnipresent, friendly, geographically smart public servant: a mail man. He’s loading envelopes and small packages into a temporary holding container just off the main street. I place my mask back on because he’s wearing his. I explain that I’m lost and trying to find the trail to the bridge south of where we stand. He has apparently heard the same question before. He quickly says, “I think they want you on Verrazano Avenue, turn left, and then you follow that to the train station and riverbank area.” He explains how to find Verrazano from where we stand. I thank him profusely and continue. I find the street and arrive at the Metro North/Amtrak train station a few minutes later. From there I know it’s easy to get to my second bridge of the day. I find a small park along the river to sit and rest for a few minutes. The flow of water from right to left is mesmerizing

A few blocks south of the train station, I ascend a series of steps to reach the Mid-Hudson Bridge. The noise from two-way traffic is deafening. I also find myself enclosed in a narrow steel and concrete walkway. I experience the same claustrophobic feeling I did years earlier when I entered the walkway along the Manhattan Bridge. Today I have rising girders and heavy traffic on my left and a steel railing separating me from the long drop to the river on my right. There is barely enough room for two-way pedestrian traffic. But that isn’t a problem on this day. I’m alone as I walk west.

Entrance to the walkway on the FDR Mid-Hudson Bridge

Somewhere near the halfway point I discover an unusual gem. The designers engineered a sort of music station where visitors can press a button and listen to melodies that could only be made by sounds from the bridge. Composer Joseph Bertolozzi produced a series of instrumental pieces based on rivets being pounded into metal and other noises, like “playing drums” on the walkway girders and guardrails. The feature is simply called “Bridge Music.” I listen to a few samples. I did not expect such unusual evidence of the arts on a dreary, utilitarian structure. I’m impressed.

Back on the west side of the Hudson, looking back at the FDR Mid-Hudson Bridge.

At the end of the bridge, I clamber down more steps to reach a path that takes me back to my beginning point. I discover a food truck selling kettle corn and soda. I also need to rest before the long drive home. I buy a bag of popcorn and a Coke and sit for a while looking at the much larger crowd now assembling at the walkway entrance. Everyone is masked, except for those appearing to be part of an immediate family. Most visitors sit more than 6 feet apart. Dogs strain at their leashes. Children restlessly pull on their parents’ arms. I detect a vague difference from similar scenes I have witnessed in the past. I suddenly realize it’s the volume level of conversation. The louder, more distinct clips of dialogue are muffled by masks. Oh yes, I think, it’s that pandemic thing again. I finish my snack and head to the restroom for one last visit. Some three hours after I arrive, I’m headed home.

It’s winter now and we’ve just been belted by a major snowstorm. I’m using the downtime to start looking for the next bridge to walk. A friend recently told me the Tappan Zee replacement bridge, the Mario M. Cuomo span, has a walkway. It’s over three miles long … but I’m game for the round trip.

A nod to empathy on Election Day

I posted this on Facebook today, and I’m sharing it here:

By Mark Marchand

I voted for empathy in this election.

Empathy is the ability to understand and share in the feelings of another human. Those who demonstrate empathy usually translate those feelings into doing something to help someone. What a noble concept.We have a vacuum of empathy in Washington, D.C. Whether it’s a president who literally denies the existence of a pandemic that’s killed hundreds of thousands or the Republican leadership that enables him, we need to replace him and his enablers. Now.

The man in office has no feelings for others. He demonstrates no care for the sick and dying as we experience the second (or is it the third?) wave of the cornoavirus and COVID19 disease it causes. The man in office now is nothing more than a carnival barker, a reality TV person concerned with ratings. He says so almost daily. And it’s doubtful that he’s a real billionaire, given the broad spectrum of failed businesses and phony philanthropies he created. It’s no surprise then, that his primary reaction to the pandemic is denial. Recall that he said he “Takes no responsibility.”

I care about the poor Black men, women and children born into a world of discrimination based on something so trivial it’s bewildering: the color of their skin. Black Lives DO matter. My heart is heavy with sadness over what these people have had to endure since the dawn of our nation. In that respect, the Civil War solved nothing, except for keeping a deeply divided country together. The man in office doesn’t care. Join me in caring and doing something.

I care about the application of pure, evidence-based science to the world around us and to our our health. We had plans in place to handle a pandemic. They were dismantled by this man. And each step of the way he spread misinformation that has made the situation worse. A stealthy virus infecting millions around the globe is no time for politics. It’s time to listen to doctors and scientists who have spent lifetimes pursuing achievements that have bettered all our lives. It’s thanks to them our lifespans have nearly doubled in the space of one century. The man in office knew how bad the virus was but as he told all of us, he minimized it to avoid panic. There was no lesson learned from presidents like JFK or FDR who confronted us with with harsh truths we needed to know. We’re a stronger nation because of their bold, direct communication.

I care about having a clean, healthy planet left for our children. Denial of the raw, empirical science behind climate change is to laugh in the face of a tsunami wave accelerating toward your shore. Science is not a belief system or politics. There is no lack of consensus surrounding climate change. It’s an urgent crisis of the highest magnitude. As many scientists say, there is no Planet B. We only have this one.

I care about all of us having access to health care, regardless of pre-existing conditions. Because of his hatred for President Barack Obama, the man in office has used every ounce of his political strength to try and dismantle the Affordable Care Act. He may yet succeed.

I could go on. There’s the tens of thousands of lies the man in office has told over four years, starting with the size of his Inaugural crowd on Jan. 20, 2017. Photographs don’t lie. There’s the bullying of anyone who dares oppose him. I knew bullies on the streets and playgrounds where I grew up in Chicopee, Mass. The man in office is one of those youths grown up to be an adult who never understood the terrible pain he inflicts on others. (Side note to the First Lady: If you’re looking for a place to start your anti-bullying campaign, talk with your husband.)

I seek to have a man or woman in the Oval Office who recognizes all this and more … and who demonstrates care by placing himself in the shoes of someone who is suffering.I’ll close by citing three quotes that have always been at the core of my personal approach to life.

1) In his Inaugural Address, President John F. Kennedy asked that we look beyond our own selfish needs as we struggle with the challenges of daily life: “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.” I have not always succeeded but I’ve tried to think of that phrase each time I start to do something selfish. The man in office now acts only in his self interest.

2) A personal hero of mine was JFK’s brother Bobby. Sadly, he was murdered while running for president in 1968. Bobby was a man of vision who urged all of us to learn lessons from history and apply them to our lives. He often quoted Irish playwright and political activist George Bernard Shaw, who said, “Some men see things as they are, and ask why. Others dream things that never were, and ask why not.” I first heard Bobby cite this quote in 1967. I got goose bumps then. I still do today. The man in office never asks this question. He simply thinks about what can contribute to his own wealth or fame.

3) Nineteenth-century slavery abolitionist William Lloyd Garrison was such a fiery orater that those who supported his fight for freeing Black people often asked him to tone it down. He refused. In a line from one of his most-cited articles, which appears on the base of his statue on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston, he said: “I do not wish to think, or speak, or write with moderation. I am in earnest – I will not equivocate – I will not excuse – I will not retreat a single inch – AND I WILL BE HEARD.” The use of caps at the end was his decision. I’m with Garrision. Silence is assent.

Please join me in voting against and speaking out against the man in office today.There is so much more to cite, but I think you get my point. I do care deeply about others. I wear a mask out of respect and love for my fellow humans, regardless of how “uncomfortable” it might be. These last four years have shaken my faith and confidence in governmental leadership.

I voted for Joseph Biden and Kamala Harris. I love my country. I believe it was ALWAYS great, and will remain so. The authors of the Constitution knew perfection in government was nearly impossible to achieve. That’s why they sought a “more perfect” union. We have our flaws, but I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

Racing to a better future

By Mark Marchand

(Cover photo: The author, running a cross-country race in fall 1972 at Chicopee Comprehensive High School in Massachusetts.)

As I turned our car right to leave Stanley Park in Westfield, Massachusetts, recently, that most precious type of memory sprang to mind. The memory hadn’t surfaced for nearly half a century, and it burst forth so suddenly and dramatically I momentarily forgot I was driving a car. I was lost in a vivid recollection of an epic road race I ran in that very park back in 1972. What mattered wasn’t the race itself or the outcome. Instead, it was the decision, for the first time in my 17 years, to drop the indifference of adolescence, look beyond the challenges of family life, push myself despite seemingly insurmountable odds … and prevail.

My wife, Elisa, and I were in Westfield for a Saturday afternoon lunch and visit with our oldest son Dan and partner Annie. Separated by pandemic restrictions, we hadn’t seen each other for seven months. We chose Westfield since it was located halfway between our homes. The visit was long overdue, and it was a joyous one. We ate lunch in the outside dining area of a downtown Westfield pub before heading to Stanley Park to stroll through the woods. We caught up on each other’s lives for over four hours before heading back to our cars. Then, Elisa and I headed west back to the Saratoga, New York, region. Dan and Annie drove east back to Boston.

I backed our car out of a parking space and headed toward the park exit, where I turned onto Western Avenue to work our way back to the Massachusetts Turnpike. I gazed at the campus of Westfield State University to our left, casually glanced back at the park on our right, and for a few moments I was no longer in the car. I’d gone back in time to 48 years ago.

The scene was exactly the same: rows of trees on both sides of the asphalt sidewalk. equally spaced on short-cropped grass. A low wall of slate tiles. An afternoon sun casting shadows from the utility poles and lines across the street. I returned to the present after a few minutes, but I thought about that day all the way home. And for days and weeks afterward.

(From the same race as the cover photo. I’m the last runner with the white jersey.

***

I was a junior at Chicopee Comprehensive High School. I was a rail-thin, shy, introverted kid who was more concerned with deciphering the meaning of “2001: A Space Odyssey” than with making friends or earning good grades. A group of classmates convinced me to try out for the cross-country team to help get me away from science fiction books and pave the way for actual friendships. My family opposed the idea, but after a long battle over the summer my parents granted tentative approval for me to try out. I think they thought I wouldn’t make it. With some coaching from a few classmates who were long-distance runners I trained over the summer. I found that my thin frame was well-suited to the standard 3-mile races run in interscholastic cross-country in Massachusetts. I made the seven-man varsity squad. The last student to qualify, I was given a team jersey and shorts and proudly wore them home.

As the fall season unfolded in 1972, we were a high-flying squad. We easily won most of our meets. Our team was a mix of personalities, and amazing long-distance runners. There was the friendly, white-haired Jimmy Ashe, who lived with his family next door to our high school. He was our top runner. He was also a mentor of sorts to me. When I struggled to improve my times, Jimmy would talk to me in the locker room, smile, and say he was convinced I could keep up with the other varsity runners. There were the two Dillon brothers who, like me, had lived in various places around the world because their father was in the Air Force. Both were fast. One, Dan, went on to a successful collegiate career and competed in marathons. His brother John, bigger and quicker to smile, was a little less serious but a very talented athlete. The Dillons and I ran together a lot over the summer as we prepared for the 1972 fall season. I have long since forgotten my other three teamates. I just remember I was always the last guy on our team to cross the finish line. Sometimes I beat one or two runners on the opposing team’s seven-man squad. Other times I’d huff and puff and finish fourteenth. Still I loved the sport and began reading tales like “The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner.” That 1959 short story dealt with a young man who escaped his terrible life by running. My life wasn’t that terrible, but I identified with the writer.

As our yellow school bus pulled into the parking lot of Stanley Park for our race against Westfield High School that October weekday, we knew we had another win in the bag. Westfield was having a tough season, and most of their runners turned in times that didn’t come close to ours. As we limbered up next to the starting point, our coach, Alex Vyce, told us not to take anything for granted. He wanted fast times to prepare for regional and state tourneys later that fall.

Aerial view of Stanley Park

One of the trails in Stanley Park

Our seven lined up with Westfield’s seven competitors at the starting line. An official raised a gun, called “set,” and fired, dispatching 14 high school athletes onto a 3-mile race through the woods and back along Western Avenue before a final right turn into the park and the finish line.

My teammates quickly dashed into the lead. I tried to keep up. Within a half-mile, all of us were well ahead of the opposition. Soon, I lost track of my faster teammates but I remained in front of Westfield’s runners. I settled in at my usual pace of about 17 minutes for 3 miles. I began thinking that we might accomplish the cross-country team’s version of a complete shutout: all our runners finishing before everyone on the other team. It was a rare feat. I knew if I let someone on the other team finish before me, I’d be in for a good deal of razzing from my teammates on the way home.

About 2.5 miles into the race, just after leaving the woods and turning onto the Western Avenue sidewalk for the homestretch, I started to ease up. No sense wasting more energy than I needed to, I thought. I passed houses to my right before approaching the final stretch. My confidence soared.

That’s when IT happened. For months and well into college I’d remember those next few moments as a pivotal point in my life. Out of the corner of my left eye I spotted a bouncing shadow keeping pace with me. It could only mean one thing: The late-afternoon sun was alerting me that Westfield’s top runner was closing in. Fast. A few seconds later I could hear his heavy breathing and the “clop-clop” of his running shoes hitting the sidewalk. The size of his shadow grew. I had reserves left so I sped up and turned my gaze straight ahead. I checked back for the shadow a few seconds later. It was larger! His breathing was louder. I could hear the swish of his shorts against his legs. A wave of fear swept through me. I couldn’t let the Westfield runner pass me. I summoned more reserves and ran faster. Ahead, about a quarter mile away, I could see our final turn to the finish line.

My opponent fell back a little, and I began to feel better. Seconds later my hopes were dashed as he closed in on me again. I had no reserves left. It seemed like he was so close his shadow was blending with mine. He started to pass me. I leaned forward and struggled to stay in front. My breathing was labored. I was thirsty. Sweat poured into my eyes, making them sting. His shadow fell back a little. Seconds later he was right back with me. I began to panic. I pumped my arms in a desperate effort to stimulate the rest of my body, especially my legs. They began to suffer under the stress, and my muscles cramped.

The scene kept repeating itself for what felt like 10 minutes. This drama probably took only about one, maybe two minutes.

Assessing my physical state, I checked back for the shadow one last time. It was still there. The situation felt hopeless. I was making giant, hoarse noises when I inhaled. I had no physical energy left. I now doubted I could even finish the last eighth of a mile. Then came the turning point. I began arguing with myself. The contest became a mental one. I had absolutely nothing to lose by scratching, clawing for any ounce of energy I could find, even if it meant tearing muscles, ligaments, or tendons. I would happily accept a ride in the ambulance to nearby Noble Hospital and months of recovery rather than giving up. To this day I don’t know how I did it, but it was the first time in my life that I reached deep into my body to summon adrenalin. I pleaded with my heart, my muscles, my bones for something … anything that could keep me ahead of Westfield’s lead runner. I experienced something I had never felt. My entire body began to tingle. Waves of renewed energy swept into my legs and my lungs. I realized I had been hunching over. I now ran erect and sprinted forward as though my life depended on it. I risked one more glance left. The shadow was growing smaller. I was pulling ahead.

My exhaustion evaporated, I felt like I could run 10 more miles. I made the last right turn into Stanley Park. My teammates and coach were screaming. They had given up hope for a shutout until they saw me. I didn’t know it then but the reason I didn’t see the other runner’s shadow any more was because we had changed directions. I could no longer see the shadow of anything behind me. That runner, my team yelled, was closing in on me. I gave it my all and made one last sprint, crossing the finish line 2 seconds before him. I tried to shout but had no wind. My teammates were clapping me on the back. I fell to the ground and tried to catch my breath.

The other Westfield runners began crossing the finish line a few minutes later. I stood back up and walked over to my opponent. He was bent over, breathing hard. I reached out with my right hand. He looked up at me. We shook hands. I mumbled something like, “Nice race.” He said nothing. I never even got his name. He walked back toward his team, slowly.

I don’t remember much else about the day. I was quiet on the bus ride back to Chicopee. When someone asked how I felt I said something stupid like, “I guess I proved I’m better than all the runners in Westfield.” Some teammates laughed. They said that might be true for high school, but there was a bevy of runners at nearby Westfield State College and elsewhere in that city who’d leave me in their dust. I nodded agreement and went back to being quiet.

It took a few more weeks for me to digest what happened that day. Our team celebrated the rare clean sweep. I began to reflect on what the race meant, and it had nothing to do with running. For the first time in my life I had proactively decided against giving up when faced with adversity. I thought of a physics principle I had learned in a science class that year: Electricity and water generally take the path of least resistance. Until that day in Westfield that path had been my choice when faced with a challenge, whether it was a difficult exam or my desire to talk to a cute girl. I’d settle for a 70 on a test rather than invest hours poring over a textbook or the few notes I took in class. I’d walk by the girl in the hallway, saying nothing. Whatever the easier road, I took it.

But the Westfield race changed things forever. It represented that most precious of personal assets: I had proved to myself I could overcome an obstacle, without someone else showing me the way. I would no longer have to accept the status quo. I had a template to draw on in the coming years. I would use it over and over as I struggled to get into college and earn a degree. I would use it at the dawn of my professional life first as a newspaper reporter and then as a mid- to upper-level manager in a large corporation. The memory of the race itself faded rather quickly but its lesson never left me.

***

The sun was slipping below the hills ahead of us as Elisa and I sped along the Massachusetts Turnpike west into the Berkshires on the way home. I continued to replay the race in my head. I decided I needed to write it down.

As we neared home, I was left with one question that may remain unanswered: What happened to the runner who pressed me so hard that day? He probably never knew he pushed me beyond my physical and emotional limits and changed my life forever. I’d like to thank him.

###

Remembering my Meeting With John Lewis, the Iconic Civil Rights Warrior

Below is a link to my guest column in today’s Daily Gazette newspaper in Schenectady, N.Y., recalling my meeting with John Lewis in 2013 and reflecting on his career. He was a guiding light for me, and he will be missed. I also pasted in the text below.

https://dailygazette.com/article/2020/07/29/guest-column-a-brush-with-greatness-john-lewis-was-a-guiding-light

 

GUEST COLUMN: A brush with greatness: John Lewis was a guiding light

Late civil rights leader shared his wisdom

Mark Marchand

July 29, 2020

For The Daily Gazette

When civil rights icon John Lewis died July 17, I couldn’t help but think about how the flow of time relentlessly severs links with the past.

Congressman Lewis was the last living speaker from Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s famous march on Washington and his “I Have a Dream” speech.

A young man of 23 and already an ardent civil rights activist and follower of Dr. King, Lewis was the youngest person to speak on the steps of the Lincoln Monument on Aug. 28, 1963.

For him, it was an important stride forward in a long career of fighting for civil rights and against voter suppression and racism.

I was far too young at the time to understand the significance of that event.

I learned more about it during my studies at the University of Massachusetts Amherst.

My eyes were opened up then to the plight of Black Americans through the writings of author James Baldwin, the courageous works of Dr. King, and the leadership of Presidents John F. Kennedy and Lyndon Baines Johnson, and U.S. Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy.

Sadly, the younger Kennedy was assassinated while running for president in 1968, a mere two months after King was murdered in Memphis.

I was old enough in 1968 to grasp the crippling blow both assassinations dealt to the civil rights movement.

As the Vietnam War and the turbulent 1960s wore on into the 1970s of my college days I was left without someone who could provide me with vision and hope for the future.

Later, Lewis became one of those guiding lights for me.

I had the good fortune to meet Lewis and talk with him much later.

He came to the Capital Region in 2013 to deliver a commencement address at RPI, where I worked in press relations at the time.

Matt Ryan, then the leader and anchor of the WMHT-TV news program New York Now, knew a good story when he saw it.

He asked about coming in to interview Lewis.

Entering the conference room in the RPI library where I sat with Matt waiting to do the interview, Lewis walked a little slower than he did during his decades as a civil rights lion.

He was slightly stooped over but he greeted us warmly, took a seat across from Matt, leaned forward and got right into the interview.

Dressed in a dark-blue suit and white shirt adorned with a blue tie, he locked eyes with his interviewer and spoke softly yet firmly.

His dark eyes and often piercing gaze never strayed far from the questioner.

Lewis made us feel that nothing else in the world was happening for him that day.

His only focus was listening to Matt, answering questions, and regaling us with stories of his long career—during which he often suffered serious, life-threatening physical attacks.

I’ve long forgotten much of the interview (It’s still posted online at: https://video.wmht.org/video/new-york-now-civil-rights-pioneer-john-lewis/)

I distinctly recall three points Lewis made.

STUDY THE PEACE MAKERS

First, he studied those who preached non-violence as a core strategy for activists.

He studied Gandhi and others to adopt non-violence and passive resistance as the most effective means to effect change.

Peace and love, he said, were at the very core of his being.

FIGHT VOTER SUPPRESSION

Second, he was emphatic about finding ways to battle voter suppression, especially those efforts targeting minorities.
It was about as close as he came to anger during the interview.

Registering to vote and casting a vote, he said, “should be as easy as getting a drink of water.”

JOY AND SORROW

Finally, he was asked about the first Black person to be elected president: Barack Obama.

Lewis didn’t miss a beat.

“I cried,” he said, and “then I cried some more.”

They were tears of joy for witnessing an event he never thought he’d live to see, Lewis explained.

But they were also tears of deep sorrow for the fallen leaders—JFK, Dr. King, RFK, and others—who didn’t get to live to see that moment in late 2008.

While Lewis’ passing does break one last significant link to that history-changing march in 1963, he inspired me and thousands of others to help continue what the distinguished congressman, his compatriots, visionary leaders and so many others going back to the beginning of our republic started.

I am reminded of the words of fiery Boston-based abolitionist William Lloyd Garrison who said near the end of a mid-19th century essay on slavery:

”I am in earnest, I will not equivocate, I will not excuse, I will not retreat a single inch. I will be heard.”

I think of John Lewis when I read those words.

He never gave up, and neither should we.

Mark Marchand is a writer and adjunct professor in the Journalism Program at the University at Albany.

 

The Walking Venture and Road Trip as Salves for the COVID-19 Blues

By Mark Marchand

The notion of solo walks and road trips as a cure for the pandemic blues occurred to me as I saw an uptick recently in readers visiting my blog here. Most navigated to posts on some of my personal travel exploits, especially New York City walks across the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges and a hike from Penn Station to the Guggenheim Museum on the upper East Side. Many visitors pointed their browser to the post on the book I wrote about my long, itinerary-less drive down U.S. Route 1 from Northern Maine to Key West during the summer of 2014. Were readers, I asked myself, searching for uncomplicated, easy ventures to escape months of home confinement as we fought the spread of COVID-19? I’ll never really know since those visitors didn’t leave any comments besides the breadcrumb trail they left to and within my blog.

But since I’m always on the lookout for reasons to write about travel, I thought I’d cobble together a little guide on ventures as—at least in the Northeast—the pandemic slows and we emerge from our cocoons into the warm, humid days of summer. An alternate theme might be: How do I start getting around without having to deal with the airlines and seatmates who often wear their masks over their eyes as a sleep aid?

First, consider those ventures that lie right under your nose. Here’s an example from one of my sojourns. During the summer of 2005 I decided to walk the 20 miles along State Route 9 from my home in Clifton Park, N.Y., north to one of our favorite destinations: Saratoga Springs. My family and I had made the trip via local Route 9 and the nearby interstate hundreds of times. But if you asked me any questions about the scenery along Route 9, I would have been hard-pressed to come up with anything interesting save for some ramshackle motels and a few convenience stores. So, one Sunday morning I set out from home to walk the route. I walked on the west side of the road, against southbound traffic. That’s always the safer approach. I ended up on sensory overload. Tiny grasshoppers jumped toward me from swaying brush alongside the four-lane road. I noticed for the first time varying types of guardrails, steel cabling, and fences just off the breakdown lanes. I discovered previously unnoticed, sleepy hamlets. I saw many buildings abandoned by businesses who fled when traffic was siphoned off onto nearby I-87. One new scene after another jumped out and helped me understand what I had been missing from the cozy confines of my car. Birds I had never noticed swooped up and down, some finding roadkill. There was little or no shade. I began to wilt under the blazing sun. I made repeated forays into my backpack for ice-cold sodas.  And the hills. I had never noticed some of the steeper slopes that slowed my pace. Two-hundred horsepower automobiles render those inclines invisible to the hurried traveler. It took me twice as long as I expected, but about six hours later I called my wife and she drove up to rescue me in downtown Saratoga Springs. I had given some thought to making it a round trip, but the blisters on my feet and aching back said otherwise. Live to walk another day, I thought.

Second, when asked if he would run for president, former New York Governor Mario Cuomo was fond of saying, “I have no plans, or plans to make plans.” After decades of various, whimsical meanderings on foot, via bicycle or driving, and on the airlines, I have arrived at one conclusion: the fewer plans the better. I’m not saying you should go into any venture cold, without benefit of a little advance research or a reassuring Rand McNally Road Atlas by your side, but give yourself the latitude to simply experience the trip, without resolute focus on your destination. Adopt the simple mantra of, “It’s all about the trip itself; not the end point.” Make time to stop and absorb something you hadn’t anticipated seeing. On more than one occasion, I have whistled by something interesting while driving, only to pull off to the right, turn around, and return for a closer inspection. I was never disappointed, although I angered a few drivers with my erratic course reversal.

(The cover photo above is an image I snapped this week as I exited Interstate-88 in Cobleskill, N.Y. Which one of these signs would you follow to an unplanned destination?)

Third, familiarize yourself with Google Maps. One of my favorite hobbies is to launch this software on a browser, point it to a location I’ve never visited, and explore it from the satellite images Google so graciously provides for free. I use it for some advance planning, but I also use it to daydream about where I’d like to go. It was on Google Maps years ago that I noticed the local highway that roughly parallels I-95 from Maine to Miami. A few years later, I launched my 2,400-mile drive down U.S. Route 1, making unplanned stops to visit interesting sites or just talk with people I met. Often, I find that hours of my day have evaporated after starting with one silly little Google Map venture to, say, Los Alamos, New Mexico. Yes, that’s the site where we developed the first atomic bomb…but that’s a subject for another post.

Fourth, don’t talk about it. Just do it, as the Nike marketing folks started telling us decades ago. If you think about it too much, you’ll find a reason not to go. Faced with a looming pandemic in March, for example, I took off on a road trip through central/northern Vermont and back home through upstate New York. I had zero advance plans and my decision to go was spur of the moment. I was so inspired by the trip I wrote about it on my blog.

Fifth, take notes, take pictures, and maybe even record some audio on your smartphone. You’re probably not planning to write about your venture but why not have some material in case you want to tell others about it? Often as I sit in museums and other interesting sites people eye me suspiciously as I scribble notes or snap a few shots. I ignore them. You’ll be thankful later when you decide you do want to write something but can’t remember everything.

Sixth and finally, try and accept that this type of travel has one goal: a temporary change of scenery. Nothing more; nothing less. You’ll be refreshed. You’ll be inspired. And maybe you’ll tell us about it.

By the way, if you’re interested in one of my own lengthy, involved adventures of this ilk, once again here’s a link to the book I wrote about my solo drive down U.S. Route 1 in 2014. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about how wonderful that trip was. Even though I’ve done a lot of amazing things in my life, I still treasure every moment of that trip. I’m planning another one like it soon.

Last chance drive…

By Mark Marchand

“Church closed. Keep praying.”

The sign on the front lawn of the Pittsford Congregational Church UCC in Pittsford, Vermont said it all. As the pandemic expands, social distancing is a must, more gathering places are closed—but keep the faith. So few words, but so much meaning.

I glimpsed the sign driving north March 18 on U.S. Route 7 during a solo, mental-health sojourn through Vermont to the Canadian border and then south toward home through Upstate New York. I needed a change of scenery and succumbed to my persistent wanderlust to drive somewhere without any purpose or destination. And it was a beautiful day—in stark contrast to the turmoil surrounding us as we fight an invisible enemy.

When I spotted the sign driving past the church, I quickly found a place to turn around. I wanted a picture. I parked and another car pulled up behind me. A woman emerged. Congregation member Nicha McCuin walked up and greeted me warmly, while keeping a safe distance. I explained why I stopped. She was there for a different reason: Updating the sign to indicate the closing was because of the virus.

“I’m not sure I need to do that, though, because I think everyone knows by now all of these closings are because of the virus, right?” I agreed. We chatted for a few more minutes. She lamented the speed with which the world changed.

“Just a week ago we were making plans for future events. Now everything has changed so quickly. I don’t know when we’ll re-open.” We engaged in a mutual head shake. She walked to the church building. I took a few more pictures and sauntered back to my car.

The front lawn of the Pittsford Congregational Church UCC in Pittsford Vermont

During my drive through rural Vermont I planned for little personal contact and expected panic, deserted streets, and xenophobia toward a car with plates from New York. We were now the state with the most COVID-19 infections. I was in for a surprise. For several miles before Pittsford, workers in lime-green vests walked both sides of the road picking up trash. I spotted a “Litter Patrol” sign. How bad could things be, I thought to myself, if workers were still picking up litter?

I stopped at a convenience store to use the restroom. I walked in prepared to buy candy bars and soda so I could be allowed restroom access. The clerk didn’t even look at me. I used the bathroom. I still bought a package of cupcakes and a Coke on my way out. The clerk smiled. I walked out in a daze. I began wondering: How long would this last before everyone was ordered to stay home? I sanitized my hands before resuming my drive.

***

Farther north, I stopped to stretch my legs in Burlington, Vermont’s largest city. It was a little grittier than I remembered. The waterfront along Lake Champlain—normally a popular gathering spot during nice weather—was nearly deserted. I pressed north. Nearing Canada, I angled west to cross several bridges across Champlain into Rouses Point, New York. I texted a photo to a friend, showing the sign for the border. He texted back, “Make a break for it.” I declined and stopped to eat my prepacked sandwich and to rest.

South along Route 9 and into Plattsburgh at the northern edge of the Adirondack Mountains I grew tired and lost patience with slow traffic. I headed to I-87 southbound and sped toward home in Saratoga County. During stops, I kept reading more bad news on my phone so I just wanted to be home.

It was on the interstate that the mildly good mood I acquired in Vermont disappeared. Fast. For over 50 miles on the major two-lane highway I didn’t see one other car. I only saw six tractor trailers. To my left, dozens of cars were heading north. I had read earlier that the U.S.-Canada border would close soon. I let my imagination get the best of me. Were those northbound drivers fleeing the country before the closure and the only other traffic allowed southbound was supply transport? My stomach was a mess. Finally, as I neared Lake George Village, more cars appeared but the feeling of uneasiness remained.

Some 40 miles north of home, Bruce Springsteen’s famous post-9/11 song “The Rising” poured from the radio. I screamed along with the words, hope surging through my veins as it did when I first heard the tune 18 years ago. And then the tears came. I cried for the situation we were in. I cried for our country. And I cried over the possibility of my wife and I not seeing our grown sons again soon. The episode lasted but a few minutes, but it allowed my bottled up, wildly gyrating emotions to escape.

I pressed on for home. We needed to make dinner plans.

 

 

The Opioid Crisis: Words Matter

By Mark Marchand

Words and language are powerful tools at our disposal. That’s why I’ve spent a fair amount of my life writing, reading, teaching, and studying our amazing English language. Coupled with multiple platforms we use to exchange words – ranging from print to social media to the internet itself – we swap ideas, information, thoughts, multi-media and so many other forms of communication instantly and effectively. It’s an amazing world, and we have all benefited.

But there can be some downsides. The language we use to describe and discuss the opioid crisis is one example. Last year I had the good fortune to spend time with some terrific scientists who have trained their research efforts on the language all of us use when discussing the crisis. Their results show us that words do matter. The wrong words and phrases can lead to stigma, and public “shaming” of victims. This, then, creates widespread misunderstanding of the problem and stands in the way of better public policy and more effective treatment for those suffering from opioid use disorder. BTW – that’s the phrase researchers suggest we use to describe patients dealing with addiction to opioids.

One researcher in particular stood out. Her name is Emma Beth McGinty Ph.D., a scientist at Johns Hopkins University. I was so impressed with her work and that of others, I crafted an Op Ed commentary on the subject, which ran this week in the Times-Union daily newspaper in Albany, N.Y. If the embedded link above doesn’t work, here’s a full URL:

https://www.timesunion.com/opinion/article/Commentary-How-we-talk-about-opioid-crisis-15121333.php

 

 

 

Beware the Broken Heart

By Mark Marchand

There is such a thing as broken heart syndrome.

This realization followed a recent New York State Writers Institute event featuring cardiac expert Sandeep Jauhar, M.D., Ph.D. I enjoy listening to and talking with scientists and doctors who have a knack for helping the masses understand science and medicine. I wasn’t disappointed by Jauhar’s talk. I came away with new appreciation for an organ so complex that it was the last holdout for organs that could be surgically repaired. For centuries, doctors found ways to operate on almost every organ in the human body—except the live heart. Stitching or cutting a tough, constantly moving and electrically stimulated muscle with a network of chambers wasn’t even attempted until the late 19^th century. In 1893 Daniel Williams of Howard University surgically repaired the heart of a man dying from a knife wound. Two months after the stabbing, the patient walked out of the hospital and lived a normal life. The march toward the last frontier of lifesaving organ surgery was on.

Dr. Jauhar, left, talks with New York State Writers Institute Assistant Director Mark Koplik

Jauhar’s new book “Heart: A History,” is filled with fascinating information about the heart—some good, and some scary—that underscores the importance of the muscular organ. Consider this: From birth to death the human heart beats about three billion times. Each heartbeat generates enough force to push blood through about 100,000 miles of vessels. And the amount of blood that passes through an average adult heart in one week could fill a swimming pool. Some bad news: Cardiovascular disease claims 18 million lives annually, earning a place as the No. 1 cause of death in America.

Jauhar became fascinated with the human heart growing up in his native India. His paternal grandfather died of a sudden heart attack at age 57, 15 years before Jauhar was born. The suddenness of the death and accompanying decades of grief became part of family lore and fueled an obsession that eventually led Jauhar to a lifetime of studying and practicing heart medicine. So many causes of death, he says, play out over time, such as cancer and Parkinsons. Not so with heart attacks, which swoop in and rob a family of a loved one in an instant. In his book, he says, “…I grew up with a fear of the heart as the executioner of men in the prime of their lives. Because of the heart, you could be healthy and still die; it seemed like such a cheat.”

Jauhar recalls lying on his bed growing up, watching the revolutions of a ceiling fan while listening to the thudding of his heart. “I’d adjust the speed of the ceiling fan to synchronize with my heartbeat, in thrall to the two competing oscillators, so grateful that mine never took a rest.”

So what about that broken heart? Jauhar loves to talk about two hearts: the biological, never-resting organ and the metaphorical heart—the center of humanness that for centuries was viewed as the core of our bodies. The metaphorical heart encompasses love, depression, a soul, character, fear, courage, and so many other aspects of our lives relating to who we are and how we live. That heart inspired poets, painters, and writers. Of course, we now know that’s not physically true, Jahaur says, but, “…we nevertheless continue to subscribe to the heart’s symbolic connotations.”

Dr. Jauhar, during his Writers Institute talk at UAlbany

Along with other heart failure specialists at Long Island Jewish Medical center, Jauhar has focused on empirical connections between the biological and metaphorical organs, especially the impact of sudden, severe stress on an otherwise healthy heart. It has a medical name: takotsubo cardiomyopathy. The word takotsubo comes from the name of a vase-shaped Japanese octopus trap. The name was chosen because sudden stress causes the left ventricle of a heart to change shape, resembling the trap. The changing form and enlargement of that heart chamber rapidly degrade heart performance. Thus, the condition results from the close intersection of the metaphorical heart with the biological one.

Jauhar says the primary mechanism for sudden cardiac arrest in someone experiencing intense emotional disturbance lies in the human autonomic nervous system, which regulates unconscious movements like heartbeat and breathing. Within that system are two divisions. The first, sympathetic, is responsible for reactions like the rising heart rate and blood pressure of “fight or flight.” The second, the parasympathetic system, has the opposite effect of slowing respiration and heartbeat. What Jauhar and others have learned over the past several decades is that intense stress causes an autonomic “storm” on the heart, emerging from the sympathetic and parasympathetic components. The result—whether it’s caused by a sudden release of adrenaline or longer-term grief—leads to cardiac events in the wake of the patient learning of a sudden death, the end of a close relationship, or another type of emotional loss or fear. In one year studied by researchers, Jauhar explains, there were 22,000 U.S. patients documented with takotsubo. These cases were traced to events ranging from widespread, destructive weather events like tornadoes and hurricanes to emotional upsets.

The link exists and heart doctors like Jauhar say they need to focus on understanding or simply recognizing patients’ emotional states, stresses, worries, and fears. “Stress management is clearly associated with a reduction in heart problems,” he told his Writers Institute audience. “It affects survival more than most realize.”

Beware the broken heart. Learn to better manage stress or your reaction to sudden fright. Your life just might depend on it.

Drawing Inspiration From a Very Old Autobiography to Tell the ‘Superbug’ Story

By Mark Marchand

Really good writers who can explain complex scientific or medical topics are rare.

Scientists and/or physicians who are really good writers are even rarer.

Ever since Columbia University physician, biologist and oncologist Siddhartha Mukherjee crafted the Pulitzer Prize-winning “The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer,”  I’ve been on the lookout for the next breakout scientist/physician who could help us learn more about the science of our world.

Thanks to the New York State Writers Institute and the University at Albany’s RNA Institute, I recently discovered another gem. Meet Matt McCarthy, MD. He’s a staff physician (hospitalist) at New York Presbyterian Hospital and an assistant professor of medicine at Manhattan’s Weill Cornell, a leading medical and graduate school. He recently visited the Writers Institute at the University at Albany to talk about his craft and his new book: “Superbugs: The Race to Stop an Epidemic.” It’s a scary, detailed look at the battle against new antibiotic-resistant bacteria.

Dr. Matt McCarthy during his talk at the University at Albany

Like Mukherjee, who drew on his early days at Massachusetts General Hospital and Harvard’s Stem Cell Institute, McCarthy delves into his work with patients at Presbyterian and medical college students to apply a personal touch in telling his story about the search for new treatments. I haven’t finished his new book yet, but the afternoon and evening he spent with audiences here in Albany revealed a lot about how and why a busy doctor and medical college teacher came to devote so much time to sharing his story.

I have always been fascinated about the creative process and the spark that launches a creative endeavor. Artists like Norman Rockwell and the song-writing duo of Lennon/McCartney are two that drew my recent interest.  I wasn’t disappointed with McCarthy’s story.

His decision to begin writing can be traced back to his days at Yale University and his short career as a college and minor league pitcher. Yes, he pitched in the minors and even wrote a book about it…but more on that in a bit. The lifetime musings of a famous statesman and inventor who helped found our republic kick-started McCarthy’s desire to read and then write, as he began his final year at Yale.

“The book that really changed it for me was the autobiography of Benjamin Franklin,” he explained. “Until then, I thought he was just a boring old fart. He proved to be a really provocative and interesting guy who wrote about his life in a unique way. For me, that was the first real American memoir and I’ve been fascinated with American memoirs ever since. I also started taking some survey courses (at Yale) on 19th and 20th century literature.”

After graduating from college, the left-handed McCarthy was drafted and began his minor league pitching career at the Provo, Utah, affiliate of the Anaheim (now Los Angeles) Angels. It was there, on long bus trips through Utah, Montana, Idaho and elsewhere, that his love of reading memoirs and novels grew.

“I got that list of 100 greatest novels of the 21st century and just started reading them,” he says. “There wasn’t a lot to do, so I read a lot.” McCarthy realized during his second year in the minors that he probably wouldn’t have a successful career on the baseball diamond. He decided to return to school and started along the path to become a doctor at Harvard Medical School. But he never forgot his experience in Provo or his newfound interest in reading and, now, writing—especially memoirs. In 2009, he published his first book, a successful, revealing memoir on his baseball career: “Odd Man Out: A Year on the Mound with a Minor League Misfit.”

Memoirs continue to fascinate him. “A memoir can give you something no one else has…the writer’s story. It could be some random person, but if it’s well done it’s interesting.”

As he moved through medical school, internship and residency, McCarthy remained fascinated with reading and telling “a story” through his writing. McCarthy’s approach also continued to evolve. When he started work on his newest book, he wanted to write the history of antibiotics, but decided it had already been done. Instead, he approached the topic by telling the stories of his patients at New York Presbyterian. The result is a unique look at an epidemic through the eyes of McCarthy, an infectious disease specialist, and his patients, some of whom were facing death. e also began to adapt some of what he learned in the writing world to working with patients. Today, when he finds himself talking to a difficult, upset patient, he often steps back and employs a literary approach.

“I remove myself from the situation for a few minutes and think of the patient as a sort of character in a book,” he says. “I ask myself, ‘What is the back story here? Why are they angry?’ ” The end result, he says, is a better understanding of the patient’s reason for frustration.

McCarthy also pushes writing as a creative means for medical students and physicians to cope with long hours and difficult medical situations. “As I have found, it’s a terrific way to handle the stress we face each day.”

***

I have just started to read McCarthy’s new book. I’m looking forward to learning more about how we ended up in a situation where highly effective drugs, like the battery of antibiotics developed in the 20th century, are increasingly ineffective against bacteria that have developed resistance. McCarthy takes us into the hospital and labs where he is involved in the clinical trial of a groundbreaking new drug that might have one of the answers.

Our current situation, he explains, is partially the result of over-prescription of antibiotics—especially for illness rooted in viruses, against which antibiotics are ineffective. It’s also the result of decisions by pharmaceutical companies to avoid pursuing new antibiotics in favor of other drugs that will provide steadier income streams because patients take them every day.

“But I want to make sure readers know I adopted a very hopeful approach in writing this book,” he says. “There is hope on the horizon.”

McCarthy says one source for new classes of drugs that could fight drug-resistant bacteria is in the soil around us. The ground contains thousands of microbes that many scientists believe could help us. The problem is the time and resources needed to test them.

The next time I turn over some dirt with a shovel in my backyard I might ask myself: “Is there a microbe here that could kill MRSA?”

The 50th Anniversary of Landing on the Moon – A Personal Reflection

By Mark Marchand

It’s been a half century since we landed on the Moon. It was an important moment in my life and, I suspect, for millions of others. I have spent years studying the nine-year NASA program, leading up to the Apollo 11 landing on July 20, 1969. During that time, I have read hundreds of historical records, books, and other accounts of this amazing achievement for humankind, attempting to find some sort of personal meaning. I wrote about it in this Op Ed published last weekend in the Times-Union daily newspaper in Albany, N.Y. If you get the time, leave a comment and tell me what it meant for you and where you were when it happened

Commentary in Times-Union of Albany, N.Y.