To my surprise, the path kept going.
This wasn’t what I expected, pedaling my bike along the Woonasquatucket River Greenway in the old industrial neighborhood known as “The Valley.” My brain had shifted to auto-pilot; I’ve passed this Price Rite dozens of times, then shimmied between old factory buildings toward Eagle Street. I knew exactly where to slow down, how to watch for a blind turn, and when to veer onto grass, because tree roots have warped the pavement. In a few more seconds, I would stop, look both ways, and cross over to Kinsley Avenue, which has lately looked like a war zone.
But then I saw it: The new path was open. After months of chain link fences, orange cones, pneumatic drills, stakes, string, and cement mixers, a fresh ribbon of pavement suddenly stretched out in front of me. The two-way trail is smooth and straight, running parallel to the Woonasquatucket. It whisks past Farm Fresh Rhode Island’s headquarters, a Cumberland Farms, and the old Providence Journal printing plant. A mile later, the path slices beneath the Providence Place Mall, and cyclists emerge in Downcity, just a block from the State House.
As I write this, this segment isn’t quite complete, but it’s close. When the last stretch of asphalt hardens, the Fred Lippitt Woonasquatucket River Greenway will connect Downcity to Johnston, via a brisk four-mile journey on foot or bicycle – or, for that matter, wheelchair, skateboard, or inline skates. With only a few exceptions, this route avoids roads, so that cars and humans interact as little as possible. The Greenway isn’t perfect, but it’s about as close to perfect as an old Northeastern city like ours can hope for.
There are many people to thank for this new corridor, from planners and politicians to activists and volunteers. The Greenway has gradually come together since Fred Lippitt and Jane Sherman proposed revitalizing the corridor in the early 1990s. An entire nonprofit, the Woonasquatucket River Watershed Council, is dedicated to its enrichment. I’m grateful for all their efforts.
But there’s another group I think of every time I coast down a bike path: road workers. A world away from City Hall, far from any desktop or boardroom, these are the people who are physically there, on the ground, putting the thing together. And they, as much as anyone, deserve our gratitude.`
Every spring, New England roadways roar with machinery. We all know this. The construction vehicles roll out, the orange barrels are set down, and the air turns pungent with steaming bitumen. Workers in hardhats and fluorescent vests labor in the chaotic margins. Worksites are a typhoon of noise and dust. Drivers trundle past, braking slightly when they spot the signs marked, “My Daddy Works Here.”
To commuters, a road worker might be a mere set piece, an extra, an NPC. From behind their windshields, drivers grumble about the racket, the confusion, and the crewmen’s perceived idleness. Traffic builds up. Detours emerge. Police lights flash, and bored-looking workers flip signs from “Stop” to “Slow.” These scenes are tense and tiring. When we arrive at work, ten minutes late, we exclaim, “Ugh, so much construction!” And everyone nods in agreement.
The trails feel different. I still pass workers on my bike, but nothing divides us. I’m outside; they’re outside. We can plainly hear and see each other; the only difference is that these workers are at work, and I’m at play – or I’m just going somewhere, thanks to the trails that they maintain.
The tasks are diverse, but they’re also clear as day: Workers repave. Workers landscape. Workers mend fences and install new signs. As I pass a truck or team, I’m reminded that the grass on either side of the trail doesn’t mow itself. Shrubbery isn’t trimmed back by magic. Human beings do this work, and without workers, most of these trails would fall apart and revert to forest.
Our interactions are always brief, maybe a nod or a wave or a cursory greeting. When trucks appear on the path, they slow down so I can pass. When workers cross in front of me, often bearing tools, we maneuver around each other. There’s no traffic jam here. The rare detour is logical and well marked. There’s no reason to interrupt their work, but I always want to stop and thank them. These are the crews who clear fallen trees after windstorms and plow snow in the wake of blizzards. The same way we intone “Thank you for your service” to veterans, I want to thank road workers for all they do, whether they’re on the path or the highway. Do I know a single Rhode Island road worker by name? No, but it doesn’t matter. To me, they are unsung heroes.
It’s not just that workers have built Rhode Island’s 60-plus miles of multi-use trails and then keep them tidy; they do the work no matter what. This is their job, whether they like the trails, or use the trails, or even think about the trails in their off-hours. They maintain the 14.5 miles of the East Bay Bike Path, the 11-mile Blackstone River Bikeway, the 19-mile Washington Secondary Bike Trail, and so many other routes I regularly ride. This doesn’t even include the bike lanes that snake their way through Providence and connected suburbs, a literal life-saver for bike commuters.
The biggest force for trail maintenance is the Rhode Island Department of Transportation (RIDOT), in tandem with the Department of Environmental Management (DEM) and the help of myriad smaller groups. Some of the workers they employ, I imagine, love the trails and spend weekends riding around with their families. Others likely clock out without a second thought. Whatever their personal feelings about this kind of infrastructure – whether they see them as visionary, community-building assets or an underused waste of public funds – workers go out there every day, in baking heat and passing rainstorms, to get the job done. And from their labor, people like me benefit beyond description.
That’s what I think about, as I pedal this brand new trail along the Woonasquatucket. I’ve biked this way more times than I can count. Today, it’s safer, greener, and faster than ever, and thousands of runners and riders will come here in the coming months to test out their new playground. This kind of project requires vast networks of people, more than I could ever know. But every one of them has my thanks, for what they’ve already given us – and all the miles ahead.
Robert Isenberg is a writer and filmmaker based in Providence. His latest book is Mile Markers: Essays on Cycling, and he produces the YouTube series You Are Here.
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