Wet Ohio

Twice yesterday on the ride from Xenia to Columbus, I got soaked. The first time I pulled out my rain jacket and, when I got to Cedarville, OH, I took shelter under the town’s library portico to wait it out. The second time, a few miles from home, I didn’t even bother with the rain jacket. If I were to give a name to the day’s journey, I would call it, “The ride of the pruned hands.”

A few miles after I left Xenia I was passed by a group of men in matching jerseys and pants. They were firemen from the west coast doing a Los Angeles to New York ride to take part in the 20th anniversary event for 9/11. They were all riding their lightweight road bikes, their gear packed away in a SAG (support and gear) vehicle, which meets them each evening at the hotel. I dropped back to the end of their paceline and had a pleasant chat with a firefighter named Rich who lives in Ellensburg, Washington and commutes to work 100 miles away in Bellevue, a Seattle suburb (he can’t afford to live there, he said). Then the skies opened up and when we reached Cedarville, I peeled away to the library while they kept on riding.

OK, let’s hit the rewind button. Or if you are of a younger generation, let’s slide the cursor on the playback app to the left.

I was able to cross Indiana quickly. After dodging the rain the evening I crossed over from Illinois to Indiana, I rode on US highways from Kentland to West Lafayette, where I met up with Joanie. We spent the night and a rest day at Prophetstown State Park. Prophetstown State Park commemorates a Native American village founded in 1808 by Shawnee leaders Tecumseh and his brother Tenskwatawa which grew into a large, multi-tribal community. Tenskwatawa was known as “the prophet” You won’t be surprised if I tell you that it didn’t end well for the Indians.

I continued to ride across empty (but decently paved) county roads across Indiana. I stopped at a park in Kokomo (population 58,000) and then, in search of a coffee shop, came across a 3-on-3 basketball tournament organized by the city and local sponsors. A three-block section of Main Street had been closed off and multiple half-courts had been set up, with games going on simultaneously. While I saw players of all ages, most of the games going on were being played by middle aged men. Earlier I had been riding on empty county roads; now I was witness to a fun Saturday event in a small city, with the colors and fanfare and the obligatory radio station DJ with the made-for-radio voice encouraging the crowd to support the sponsors. I sat on the sidewalk, sipping my cappuccino, absorbing the scene. But I was happy to get back where it was quieter, though I did have to stop for a funeral procession and, a few miles later, passed a cemetery with a burial ceremony in process. Then I passed another cemetery where I saw a couple of workers in bright yellow shirts placing a gigantic headstone on a gravesite. One was operating the vehicle with the winch while the other guy, right as I passed them, was trying to shove the headstone over for what I assumed was a proper fit. I saw his muscles tighten and bulge as he attempted to move that massive piece of stone. I thought that there was no way one guy could get something that heavy to move. They were out of my eyesight before I could see if he succeeded.

East of Kokomo I passed through the small town of Greentown, where the city had placed signs showing pictures of “Hometown Heroes,” local residents who had served in the military, from WWI to the present day. Now I have great respect for the men and women who have served, especially in combat, but to call everyone who donned a uniform a hero cheapens the term. What if some of these guys spent their service as a driver or a supply clerk? Does that make them heroes? And speaking of heroes, nowadays you see signs outside of medical facilities that state, “Heroes work here.” I agree with that. In my opinion, if anyone deserves the hero moniker these days it is our nation’s teachers. They are paid relatively poorly; most work in districts that are woefully underfunded, but all have jobs loaded with responsibility. And I don’t only refer to the educational subject matter they are paid to instruct but the influence they have on their charges. Every one of us remembers a great teacher. Why? They treated us like human beings and were able to make us feel valued. And bad teachers? Well, my opinion is best summarized by the following joke:

What’s the difference between a bad teacher and a bad doctor?

A bad doctor can only kill one person at a time.

Later in the afternoon, when I was flying down an empty country road on my way to the day’s destination — Gas City, Indiana — I saw vultures circling above a corn field. Under crisp blue skies and aided by the wind, I mimicked them, flapping my arms like wings, and then leaning forwards on my seat with my arms swept back as I rolled down a short, gradual descent.

Yes, doctor, I really did this.

A few miles before Gas City I saw a car approaching in my mirror and moved over. As the car blew past me I could hear the passenger yell, “Get out of the middle of the road, you idiot!” In response, I tipped my helmet and said, “And a good day to you, sir.” My sarcasm was lost in the wind.

This incident, by the way, has been the exception. The absolute majority of drivers are courteous and give me a wide berth.

The following day I left the county roads for a 24 mile stretch on the Cardinal Greenway, a trail that runs from the village of Gaston, through Muncie, and southeast all the way to Richmond, Indiana. At first I relished riding in the shade, but southeast of Muncie, with the sun overhead, the rapid shade to sun to shade transition became an annoyance. This strobe-like sensation blinded me to the bumps or holes, so I would receive an unexpected jarring buzz on my butt or hands whenever I would hit one of these obstacles. When I left the trail and rode on an empty county road with a tailwind, I actually enjoyed the ride more, despite the lack of shade.

Also, when I crossed into Ohio on one of these narrow country roads, there was no “Welcome to Ohio” sign. The only sign of jurisdictional transition was the change in the asphalt (the Ohio road was in better shape).

That night was the last night Joanie and I stayed in Olympia, our motor home for the summer. Joanie drove directly home the following morning while I headed for Xenia. We found a private campground west of Greenville (Wildcat Woods) with very clean bathrooms and showers. The downside was that the campground was surrounded by poultry farms, and therefore there was a rather dense fly population. Even with the screens, they managed to get in to the van, annoying uninvited guests. We, of course, went to work on them with the fly swatters. To quote Ogden Nash:

The Lord in His Wisdom created the fly
And then forgot to tell us why.

And, in keeping with the title of this post, it poured almost all night, accompanied by flashes of light and the deep rolling growl of thunder. Fortunately, the next day, as I rode towards Xenia, despite the menacing clouds, I did not get wet. I enjoyed riding on one of the Miami Valley trails from the Village of Verona to through the city of Brookville and southeast into a Dayton suburb of Trotwood. Unfortunately, I had to ride on city roads to connect to another trail in Trotwood, which turned into a theater of the absurd scene where I was presented with road closures and detours in quick succession. At one point, in downtown Dayton, a large and bulkily attired Metro Park ranger prevented me from joining the trail because a local politician was about to be filmed on the trail and they had cleared the area. Which meant I had to ride for several miles on busy urban streets, with a level of urban noise I had forgotten existed.

I rolled into Xenia under the same omnipresent, low, grey clouds served as a low ceiling to the day. I checked in to the locally owned and operated Ramada Inn, where I discovered, as I got into the shower, mold in the corner of the tub as well as the bathroom ceiling. And the ice machine was broken. And where you see a small sign announcing that you must be masked in the hotel’s public areas, but no one, including the front desk clerk, was wearing a mask.