Thunder Mountain: Reading's Historic Hillclimb

On June 22nd, in the oppressive triple-digit heat, the sound of cackling engines and squealing tires can be heard from Reading’s “Hill of Mt. Penn”. The source of the maddened motoring is the first of two yearly hill climb races—underway, despite the weekend’s hellish heatwave. One by one, racers tackle the historical twists and turns leading to Reading’s iconic Pagoda. Attentive and full of anticipation, I watch eagerly from the wooded side-line of turn 2. The screaming of high gear shifts announces that the action has begun. Through each corner, drivers pilot their cars with surgical precision, the low repetitive whir as gears transfer seamlessly during deacceleration—an acoustic monument of motorhead appreciation. I consider the feelings that weigh on me in this spectator’s moment. As a Reading resident for much of my childhood and into my adult life, I feel deeply connected to events that portray the rich history and culture of the city. Admiring how each driver attacks the turns with fervor, I can’t help but feel my mind wander to the roots of this event, both for the city and for myself.

The Duryea Hillclimb harkens to a time of economic prosperity for Reading, so much so that its train station remains marked in infamy upon the notorious Monopoly Board. In 1900, Charles Duryea added to Reading’s booming industrialism of the early 20th Century through his founding of the Duryea Power Company. Duryea was manufacturing automobiles in Reading, and each vehicle, for its final test, had to make a journey up the unpaved twists and turns leading from City Park to the top of Mt. Penn. The road was eventually paved in the 1930s, and in 1941, it was renamed “Duryea Drive” in honor of Charles. A decade later, in 1951, the MG Club hosted the first sanctioned hill climb race on Duryea Drive—it has been a tradition ever since.

 I know much of this history from visiting the races with my grandfather as a child. I can remember riding passenger as we zipped along the backside of the mountain in his little red Mazda Miata. I must confess, an unprecedented amount of red tape was tiptoed past— the expedition spirited by my grandfather’s ceaseless thirst for adventure. For every question I had, he would seek answers. The officials would answer enthusiastically when they caught wind of our unbridled interest, even when shooing us from various restricted overlooks.

Duryea Drive: Reading, PA

A quiet breeze rustles the air as the boxer-four motor of my Subaru hums with anticipation. At the base of the hill, deer graze along the tree line unfazed by the business of Reading’s evening commuters. I let my eyes linger on the Pennsylvania Blue historical marker— the quiet, lone sentry casting its angular shadow over the pavement cracks. The race teams, having long since “vacated the premises,”— their stickered trailers leaving little more than subtle imprints in the grass. The orange fencing still outlines the edge of each bend, the glaring plastic linkage offering the only warning to the imposing drop below.

Only two sanctioned races are held yearly on Duryea Drive, enticing drivers across the East Coast to challenge its sharp corners and unruly paved straights. However, the straight-and-narrow is not the only kind of fun held among these bends. Almost absent-mindedly, I flip the torque adjuster into its high-performance setting. My foot hits the floor, igniting sixteen pounds of turbo-charged motor. As I’m hurled toward the first bend, I settle into the apex quietly, letting the momentum whisk me through my private carousel. This series of corners has cultivated a rich car culture in Reading— unfortunately, often riddled with violence and drug activity, the community is challenged with the same pressures of mainstream nightlife. I ponder how many of life’s delights bear a double-edged sword. The temptation to drift from joyful activities to daring, from daring to violent…seems to be all too much sometimes. Unfortunately, the toll our pastimes take on both our social and even our natural environment appears insurmountable. The resolving thought I hold as I gently guide my purring Subaru STI over the sunset-painted hilltop is words of my grandfather: “All in Moderation”.