Motorcycle and blackfly traffic signal Memorial Day holiday
In the spring of 1974, when I was just a boy growing up on Limekiln Lake, I enjoyed taking short trips along the local roadways on my bicycle.
Every day after school I would hop off the bus, climb on my bike and head off to the bordering state campground.
I considered the campground roads to be my personal speedway.
I would travel every pathway to bathhouses and between every site, trying to find mud holes to pedal through or rocky out crops to jump over.But in late May, just as the Blackflies started to get thick, the campground came to life in the most awful and crazy way.
It was the Friday before Memorial Day weekend and I found myself held captive on the little yellow school bus on Lime-kiln Road.
We were caught in traffic—jammed between a long line of campers, pop-up trailers, vans, and random groupings of motorcycles.
All were waiting their turn to register at the gate for a relaxing holiday weekend at my personal bike paradise.
The swarming swirl of millions of black flies mixed with the roar of the motorcycles’ mufflers in an odd way, making it seem as if it was the annoying bugs making the rumbling sound.
I knew my bike ride would be much different that day, but first the bus had to deliver me home.
My bus driver waited patiently for the row of campers to creep forward, but it seemed the last 400 yards took almost an hour to complete.
Once I finally got to the house, I dropped off my books and lunch box and off I went to cruise the campground that was crawling with new life.
I pedaled as fast as I could, weaving my way down the campsite road.
I sped past the entrance booth on the wrong side and sailed downhill to the boat launch.
I had to keep my great speed going as the Blackflies were in their full glory.
As I took the turn towards the first campsites I slowed down a bit to take a good look at all the motorcycles parked every which way.
The air smelled of lighter fluid and wood smoke, oil and spent gasoline.
It is an aroma that I refer to as Bike Smell. And to this day, a single whiff reminds me of that time of year when thousands came to invade my once-quiet bicycle paradise.
Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller, Lves at Big Moose Lake ltmitch3rdny@aol.com
