Careful readers of this column, or just those with too much time on their hands, will have noticed that I am a keen outdoorsman. I count many outdoor activities as hobbies, and I am glad to be able to indulge them in Pennsylvania. Here and elsewhere I have schussed down steep ski slopes, hacked my way through dense forest, braved raging waters. Adventure, it might be said, is my middle name. My mother had her heart set on “Edward,” but my father insisted on Adventure, and I have the birth certificate to prove it.
For true adventure, however, it is rarely necessary to leave my home here in Philadelphia; if you seek excitement and danger there are few cities that can beat it. I had counted myself uninjured and unscathed after many an exploration – a fortunate man, cheating death or dismemberment more times than I can count (with a pair of mittens on I can barely count past three) – until I managed to break both my arms at the same time while bicycling on Kelly Drive, along the Schuylkill river. It was not my fault – another cyclist, moving at the breakneck pace of 1.5 miles per hour swerved in front of me – but it was enough to get me to lock up my brakes and fly over the handlebars with a form that the great Dick Fosbury would envy. (It was on Kelly Drive, not long ago, that a car careened off the roadway, barely missed several pedestrians, and flew into the middle of the Schuylkill River. It can seem a bit like the latest version Grand Theft Auto out there. The driver, recovered from the river, explained that he was in a hurry to get to court to answer an outstanding warrant.) Another time, I was hit by a car making a left turn in front of me near the Art Museum, and managed to hit the windshield of the auto with my (yes, helmeted) head. One of my favorite places to ride a bicycle is a lovely spot where a wide, well-marked bike lane suddenly ends, depositing the cyclist in the middle of two converging three-lane roadways. The city designs it this way, no doubt, to keep us on our toes, or perhaps to remind us of our mortality, and it works.
Even off a bicycle, opportunities for adventure are not hard to find. Those accustomed to paddling kayaks up raging rivers might nonetheless be cowed by the prospect of walking the length of Walnut Street near Rittenhouse late on a Saturday night…the experience of mating salmon swimming up the Columbia River might be a closer analogy, for any number of reasons. Similarly, you can try getting past the bouncer at your favorite watering hole in Old City, but be sure to hone your tae kwan do skills first.. It is not for nothing, as we say, that there used to be a judge stationed in the stadium for Eagles games – one remains on duty, but now across the street – and a poorly-placed word on the merits of the Dallas Cowboys will quickly require one to demonstrate the fight-and-flight skills of Indiana Jones. Be sure to pack a bullwhip. It was not long ago that a trial ended over the case of a man beaten senseless in an argument over who makes the best cheesesteak in Philadelphia, but not all food-related adventure in Philadelphia need be so violent: Philadelphia must be considered the eating-adventure capital of the United States, and the annual “Wing Bowl” eating contest draws gastronomically-inclined adventurers from around the world in a test of peristalsis that makes the exploits of, say, John Glenn or Neil Armstrong seem like child’s play. Piloting the X-15 is all well and good, but how would Chuck Yeager have fared if he had also eaten 241 chicken wings in a sitting, as Joey Chestnut had done?
Some men (and women) choose to mush dogsleds to the South Pole; others pilot rafts down raging rivers, or jump off cliffs attached to flexible cords. But for the truly daring, the streets of Philadelphia offer all the adventure a person could ask for. Come to the city and take your life in your hands: you don’t even need to change your middle name to do it.
-JEO.
