In May 2024, three of my siblings and I returned to our small hometown of St. Marys, West Virginia for the county’s beloved annual high school Alumni Weekend festivities. It’s a decades-old tradition that draws former St. Marys High School graduates home to reconnect, celebrate and relive the days when life moved a little slower and friendships were promised to last a lifetime.

But for me, this visit was about more than nostalgia. It was about retracing my childhood on a bicycle, just as I had done in the 1960s when my world was defined by little league baseball games, day-long swims at the county pool, quiet streets with neighbors sitting on their front porches, and the freedom that only a bike could provide.

My recent journey began with a borrowed bike, graciously loaned to me by Al Thacker with an assist from his brother, Tom — both old friends who still reside in the area.

As I set off, the memories came rushing back, especially of my very first bicycle, a shiny red one my mother gave me in the fall of 1963 when I was nine. She had saved ‘reward stamps’ from the local A&P grocery store for two years, and when she had enough, she redeemed them for that spectacular bike. It became my passport to adventure, a means of escape and my way of exploring every part of my hometown. From the ages of 9 to 12, I pedaled along the town’s tree-lined streets, past the familiar storefronts on Main Street and to my friends’ homes, where summer days stretched long and endless.

The Ride of My Life

The day following our 2024 Alumni Weekend parade, after the crowds had dispersed and Main Street was quiet once more, I set out on my own. The bike rolled smoothly between the train tracks that were laid down the middle of Main Street more than a century before — a unique feature that has long defined the heart of St. Marys. With no one in sight on this quiet, sunny Sunday early afternoon, I rode between the seemingly endless rails as if time had folded in on itself, bringing me back to the days when the sidewalks were filled with shoppers and the store windows gleamed with the promise of new discoveries.

Before national grocery store chains became the norm in many towns and cities in the country, small markets dotted the neighborhoods and provided the essentials for families. The most popular for me and those of us living on our side of town was the Economy Market, owned by Doug and Peg Dale. It was a small wooden white clad corner store only a few blocks from our schools. I’d sometimes stop there to buy a 3 Musketeers bar or a pack of gum on my short walk home. Mr. Dale seemed to know all the kids in town, even a shy one like me. I’d rush through the store’s squeaky screen door — excited to be free from a day of being imprisoned in a classroom — and Mr. Dale would respond to the racket it made and say with a smile, “Hi, Joey, tough day today?” Returning his smile, I’d nod and reply, “Yes, always.”

On weekends, I would joyously make a trip to the now-vacant Ben Franklin store where I would sometimes spend my saved-up nickels and dimes on toys and candy. It was here, in those aisles packed with small treasures — including baseball cards, Silly Putty and army men — that I first learned the joy of independence.

A few doors down from the store was Phillips Pharmacy, an anchor business which remains today, where I would climb on a stool at the end of the long bar on hot summer days, lay my quarter on the smooth, worn Formica countertop and order a root beer float in a frosty mug. I’ve never tasted a better one since.

Further down Main Street, where major purchases were often made by local residents, was the Ellis and Maxine Boyles-owned Western Auto store. The spring before my second year of little league baseball, after a year of saving $8.00 to buy a new glove, I began searching for a new one — a replacement for the oversized mitt I had inherited my first season from my older brother, John. Ready to make the most expensive investment I had ever made, I walked inside, beelined to the sporting goods aisle, and stopped in front of the gloves. I tried several on, pounded my fist in the pocket to replicate the feel of what a baseball would be, and went on to the next. After several minutes of research, Mr. Boyles walked over, observed my plight, and asked if he could help.

“There are just so many to choose from that I don’t know which one to buy,” I said. “What position are you going to play this season?” he asked. Proudly, I replied, “centerfield for the Red Sox.” He set aside three options, handed me a Rawlings outfielders glove with the red embroidered logo on the leather strap at the top and said, “I think you should try this one; you’ll like it.” In an instant, I knew I’d found the one. But there was just one more thing. — the price.

“How much does it cost?” I asked, hopeful it wasn’t more than the money I’d been able to save. “How much do you have?” he smiled. “Eight dollars” was my somewhat pessimistic reply. “Well, that one right there just happens to be eight dollars,” he grinned. Having made the transaction, I raced outside, jumped on my bike and went to play a game of catch with my teammate and best friend, Doug Olds.

I used that glove all through little league and college intramurals, and even when I played outfield in corporate softball tournaments in my twenties. It was likely the best eight dollar investment I’ve ever made.

An Island of Dreams

As the hours passed on this Alumni Weekend day, my ride took me beyond Main Street, across a connector bridge to Middle Island — a bar island which separates the Ohio River from Middle Island Creek — where nature has beautifully overtaken nearly everything except the carefully groomed road. This decades-old gravel passage wound through tall trees that provided a canopy allowing only reflections of sunlight on the road’s surface.

To the west, the Ohio River peeked through the branches as the waters flowed gently past. Overhead, the sky stretched blue and clear, just as I remembered it had when I was a boy. Here, time seemed to stand still.

On that afternoon, I rode through my past, retracing the routes that had once defined my world. And although decades have passed, I felt — at least for a moment — just like that 9-year-old boy on his red bicycle, discovering the endless possibilities of where two wheels could take me.

Some say you can never go home again, but I found that if you have a bike, you can always revisit your past, one quiet street at a time.