After my trip to St Thomas, I was dying to go on another such trip. I examined my calendar, looking for a weekend with nothing scheduled. The next such weekend turned out to be the weekend of October 9-11. I jealously guarded this weekend as various events tried to land there, and I watched the weather reports closely and hoped for good weather. On the Monday before my weekend, the extended forecast called for rain, and I was in agony. As the week went on, the weather predictions improved, and by Thursday sunshine was predicted for most of the areas I might possibly ride.
I kept my plans for the weekend deliberately indefinite. There was a sweet joy in knowing that no one was expecting me anywhere, and that I could therefore go wherever I chose without anyone becoming worried or disappointed. I know, it's not considered safe to take off alone without telling anyone where you are going. So I took precautions. I borrowed a cell phone. I arranged for Michael to call on Sunday night, to confirm that I had made it home, so the cats wouldn't starve if I disappeared.
I thought of several options for this weekend, and I enjoyed fantasizing about each of them in odd moments, and watching the weather reports for cities I might visit.
My friends Marna and David had recently bought a new house in Ottawa. Ottawa is nine hours away, via the most direct freeway route. Imagine their surprise if I turned up on their doorstep unannounced, and asked for a tour of the new place! Especially since they hadn't given me directions. I went out on the web and used Mapquest to locate the house. I could set out for Ottawa, and stop in Toronto if I decided I'd bitten off more than I could chew, and since I would be arriving unannounced no one would be disappointed if I didn't make it. I have another friend in Toronto I could drop in on... err... visit.
Uh oh... this was the weekend of Canadian Thanksgiving. Suppose they weren't home, that they were visiting their relatives? I cooked up a reason to call, and then casually asked what their holiday plans were. They were planning to stay home, and have friends over for dinner. This plan could work.
A friend of mine who lives in New Hampshire was playing a concert at the Ohio Valley Filk Fest (a convention for science fiction folk music) this weekend, in Columbus, Ohio. Columbus is four hours from Ypsilanti. I could ride to OVFF, see my friend's show, and maybe join her for dinner. I hadn't reserved a room in the hotel, but there would be many people I knew, so finding crash space shouldn't be that big of a deal. If I couldn't get a room in the hotel, and I couldn't find a bed in someone else's room, I could ride to Newark, Ohio, and stay with some childhood friends, the Flemings. It would be fun to see the Flemings. This plan could work.
I would see many of the people from OVFF, and my friends from Ottawa too, the following weekend at ConClave (an SF convention in Lansing, Michigan). Did I really want two convention weekends in a row? Did I really want to see anyone? Maybe I should ride around one of the Great Lakes! I could follow the Lake Huron shoreline all the way around, take one of those circle tours. Of course, that would be close to 1100 miles for the weekend, and I've never been along the north shore of Lake Huron. I didn't see many towns on the map. Would there be enough gas stations, especially at night? Would the cell phone work up there if I needed it? There might not be enough cell towers in such a remote area. It could get awfully cold up there at this time of year. Reluctantly I decided it wouldn't be a good choice.
Saturday morning dawned clear and sunny. I dawdled over my packing, savoring the fact that nothing had been decided. Finally, I decided against Ottawa, because it was so far away that there wouldn't be time to explore along the way; I'd just have to hit the freeway and ride hard both ways. Besides, the weather predictions for Ohio looked warmer and sunnier.
Out in the sunshine, packing the bike, it felt nice outside. I stopped for gas at the station near my house, and noted my mileage, 24325.2. Once I got on the highway, it was pretty cold. There were big fluffy clouds overhead as I rode down US23 towards the Ohio border, and whenever I passed under one, I shivered. I decided to stop at the first rest area in Ohio, to put on warmer clothing and to acquire a map. I crossed the Ohio border and started looking for that rest area. Finally, I saw a sign: "Rest Area - Tourist Information - 10 miles." The next sign said "Bowling Green - 10 Miles." I shivered, and looked forward to that rest area. 9.5 miles later, as I approached the first Bowling Green exit, I saw an orange sign that said "Left Lane Closed Ahead." Just up ahead, on the other side of the exit, traffic was completely stopped. I decided not to try for that rest area. Instead I exited the freeway. I pulled into a gas station, and dug out my neoprene ski bibs and my turtle fur neck gaiter. I took off my jacket, chaps, and boots, pulled on the bibs and the turtle fur, and put the leathers back on.
Back on the bike, I examined the traffic situation from the bridge. Traffic was barely crawling. I decided to take the back roads. I rode on over the freeway and off into the countryside.
The northwestern corner of Ohio is known as "The Black Swamp." When the first European settlers arrived, the area was a gigantic swamp. The settlers installed drainage tiles and dug hundreds of miles of ditches, to drain the black swamp, and they were rewarded with some very fertile farmland. You can see their handiwork today. The land is as flat as a pancake, and there are lots of little tiny paved roads, usually running along next to a deep ditch. Some of the ditches are deeper than the roads are wide. There are sturdy-looking bridges over the ditches, wherever a farmhouse is on the other side of the ditch from the road. The crops come to the very edge of the ditch on one side, and right up to the edge of the road on the other side. There's no shoulder; the road almost blurs into the ground next to it. The fields are a patchwork, with the farmhouses mostly hidden under trees here and there along the road. In October, uncut corn stands like a wall on either side, too tall to see over. Where the corn has been cut, or the field is devoted to some other crop, you can see across the fields to a few big woodlots. If it weren't for these little forests and the clumps of trees around the houses, you could see for miles. It looks alien to me. The landscape I'm familiar with has a randomness and texture that's absent in northwestern Ohio.
In Michigan, most of the smaller rural roads are gravel. In Ohio, gravel roads are rare. It's easy to find completely untraveled paved roads out across the flat lands, places where it's just you and the corn and the sky. Before long, I found myself on a narrow southbound road, and I was alone except for an occasional tractor kicking up a cloud of dust in a field. I passed a place where three men were harvesting corn, and there were corncobs and pieces of cornstalk all over the road. I slowed down, since the pavement was not even visible. The corncobs felt strangely crunchy, rolling under my bike tires as I rode. The men waved and I waved back.
Suddenly, my red warning light started flashing, saying I needed more fuel. I looked at the odometer, and found that I'd only come about 70 miles since I filled my tank. I knew I shouldn't need gas, but just in case, I decided to get back over to the freeway, where gas stations would be more frequent. I chose a westbound road. This road was only about six feet wide. After about a mile, I saw railroad tracks on the horizon. The railroad roadbed was built up like a dike, about six or eight feet above the level of the surrounding countryside. I couldn't see what the road did on the other side, in fact I almost feared it wouldn't continue. I slowed down, almost stopping, as the road ramped up very steeply to the tracks. From the height of the railroad tracks I could see the freeway. The road wound down and under the freeway, going under a bridge with a drainage culvert. The road reminded me of nothing so much as a bicycle trail, or perhaps one of those two-rut trails along the edge of a farm field. It wasn't the sort of place you'd expect to find motorized vehicles. I felt vaguely furtive, like I didn't want to be caught riding my motorcycle on a sidewalk, or trespassing on someone's farm. After going under the freeway, the road intersected with Dixie Hwy, an old four-lane highway running parallel to I-75. I followed Dixie Hwy south until it merged with the freeway, and started looking for gas stations.
I soon found a gas station, and I stopped and filled the tank. It took less than two gallons, and I'd traveled 84 miles. This matched my usual experience; the bike has consistently gotten 45 mpg ever since I rebuilt the carbs. But even with the full tank, my gas gauge only showed it being half full. Something to keep an eye on, definitely! I already knew that the trip odometer was unreliable, so I wrote down the mileage on the main odometer.
Since I'd missed the earlier rest area, I decided to follow the expressway to the next rest area and get a map there. I continued south, through Findlay. I passed the exit for US23 Columbus, but followed I-75 towards Dayton, still in search of that rest area. A little past Findlay, I found it. I visited the restroom (what a nuisance, to be wearing a leather jacket and chaps over ski bibs over street clothes!) and started looking for a map. I didn't see any. There were some vending machines, though, and I was hungry, so I decided to rest a bit and have a snack. I made my choices. As I left the vending machine building with my armload of leather, there was a woman cleaning the glass on the door. I nodded to her, and muttered some pleasantry about the nice weather.
"Aren't you dressed a bit warm?"
"At 70 mph it gets cold riding the motorcycle!"
"How far have you ridden?"
"From Ann Arbor."
"Oh my! You're a ways from home, hon!"
"Any idea where I might get an Ohio map?"
"Oh, sure, I'll get you one, dearie. Just wait right here!" She
wandered off, and came back a few minutes later with a map. "How long
did it take you to grow your hair that long?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe five years?"
"When was the last time you had it cut?"
"Three or four weeks ago."
"Wow, my hair, it just don't grow, it's curly you see" long digression
into her hair, her sister's hair, her niece's hair, while I made
conversational noises. She followed me out and sat on the bench with me
while I unfolded the map.
Usually I'm pretty talkative, but I've found that motorcycle riding makes
me quieter, more introspective. I just wasn't feeling very much like
talking, even though this woman was very friendly. Maybe it was just
that I have conversations about hair all the time; strangers are always
using my hair as an opening gambit for chitchat. I kind of wished she
would shut up and go back to what she was doing, but I couldn't figure
out how to end the conversation.
Eventually she ran out of hair to talk about, and she started telling me
about the other people who worked in this rest area. This was a far more
interesting topic, and I recaptured the mindset that makes me glad of
every person I meet while traveling. She pointed out a little man
pushing a wheelbarrow across the lawn. He was wearing a hard hat. She
told me that he never, ever, takes that hard hat off, and that the rest
of the people who work there think he's weird, because there's nothing in
the rest area that might fall on his head.
Eventually I finished my pop and my chips, and started putting my
leathers back on. I went back to my bike, and the woman went back to her
glass cleaning. I stood in the parking lot folding the map to show the
right area in the window on the top of my tank bag. An elderly woman was
standing by the passenger door of the car in the next parking place. She
asked me about the bike, and we talked a bit.
"My boys both have motorcycles, they have such a good time with them!"
"That's nice. What kind do they have?"
"Oh, I don't know. They meet each other to go riding, it's so nice for
them to see each other."
As she was telling me about this, her son came back to the car. She told
him I wanted to know what kind of bike he had. As he opened the door and
helped his mother get settled into the car, he told me "I've got a 1995
Gold Wing. I've only ridden the bike 400 miles this summer, which is too
bad, because it's a really nice bike, it's the second one I've had, and
I've hardly used it!" I commiserated.
He continued. "Most every year I ride to Tennessee. My brother rides
his up from Florida and we ride together for a few days. Tennessee is
great for bikes, have you ever ridden there?"
I told him no, I'd just started riding this summer and hadn't yet had
opportunity to take such a long trip.
"I'm on the way to Florida to take mom down there to stay with my brother
for awhile. Wish I was on my bike instead. Where you headed?"
"Columbus. I've going to get off the freeway soon and take the back
roads. Know any good roads?"
"235 is nice."
Mother and son wished me well on my trip, and I wished them well on theirs.
As I rode out of the rest stop, the fuel warning light started flashing again. It would continue doing this all weekend. The gauge would go up to the appropriate level for the distance I'd traveled on the tank, and then it would sink to zero, and the light would flash. I'd push the reset button. Then it would waver back up to the true reading, and then back down, triggering the flasher again. This became very irritating by the time I got home!
I left the freeway at 235, and followed it south through the town of Ada, where I found myself behind a limo carrying a "Just Married" couple, cruising through town and honking its horn continuously. I waved and beeped my horn at them, and turned off into a gas station, where I drew stares from some children in a car as I used the paper towel and windshield cleaner to wash the bug juice off my helmet visor, without taking off the helmet. I rolled through several small towns. In Mt. Victory, the main street had red, white, and blue stars painted all over it, and there was a band playing in a vacant lot in the middle of town, with people clapping and dancing, some sort of local festival.
At this point I was almost to Columbus, and it was still early. I thought about my arrival at OVFF, and decided I wasn't ready to sit quietly watching people play guitar and sing, not when I could be riding through the countryside. I turned west.
Ridgeway was a town full of rundown homes, but they had a large, modern fire station. The sign at the edge of town proclaimed proudly, "Welcome to Ridgeway - Where every home has a smoke detector - Does yours?" The only building in town that appeared to have been painted in recent memory was the fire station. They must have one heck of a charismatic fire chief.
My map showed an assortment of tourist highlights near Bellefontaine. Highest point in Ohio. Zane Caverns. Valley High Ski Area. I headed in that general direction, and I wasn't disappointed. I left the flats for a land of curves, hills, and trees. The first maples were at their peak of color, luminescent reds and yellows against the bright green backdrop of the other trees. I didn't find the ski area, the caverns, or the highest point, but I must have passed fairly close to them. I headed south towards Urbana, thinking how odd it was to find a town called Urbana in a county called Champaign, and not be in Illinois. I stopped for gas in Springfield (another Illinois town). Springfield was a pretty town but very crowded. The traffic reminded me of football Saturdays in Ann Arbor. I was glad to escape.
By this time it was after five. I figured I'd better make a plan for the night pretty quickly, because it was going to get cold. I turned east, towards OVFF and the Flemings, and tried to decide what I wanted to do. To tell the truth, I wasn't feeling sociable enough for a large crowd, and besides, by the time I got to OVFF everyone would be out to dinner. I decided to call the Flemings. If they were surprised to hear from me, they hid it well. They told me they had relatives visiting, but I'd be welcome to join them.
The sun was fading fast as I got onto I-70. I decided to take US42 north towards Plain City, to go around the north side of Columbus. As I rode up US42, I noticed a hot air balloon up ahead. Then I noticed two more, closer, off to the northeast, that appeared to be landing. Who could resist? I turned off the state highway to see how close I could get to the landing balloons. I flew along the roads, now east, now north, now east again, trying to keep the balloons in sight. Eventually I was able to look across one field and see the landing balloons, and the dust being raised by the chase van as it bumped across the fields to the landing site. I wondered if the farmers get upset about that, if balloonists every get arrested for trespassing? I remembered a coworker I once had, whose dog was terrified of hot air balloons. Cattle are sometimes quite frirghtened by them, too.
I rode north from the balloon landing site. This road appeared to be parallel to the course of a stream or culvert of some kind. Probably a stream called the Big Darby; lots of things along the road were named Big Darby this or Big Darby that. I have a friend whose name is Darby. I decided that next time I saw him, I have to tell him about this place, tease him a bit and ask him if he is the Little Darby. A few miles farther along the road, I entered the town of Amity. In Amity I stopped to take off my sunglasses, and not a moment too soon because it was starting to get dark.
I rode onto I-270, to go around the north edge of Columbus. There was a lot of traffic, the road was under construction, and it was getting very dark. I overtook some people riding two-up on a Harley. They didn't even have helmets on. (Ohio doesn't require motorcyclists to wear helmets.) This was a scary place to ride, and the wind was cold. I couldn't imagine riding without a helmet in this situation. I rode on through the darkness, and finally exited 270 at Route 161. I was starting to shiver with the cold. Outside of New Albany I stopped and put on my ski sweater and my mittens. I considered putting some chemical handwarmers in the mittens, but I couldn't find them in the dark, so I pushed on without them. It seemed like a very cold eternity before I arrived at the Flemings' house. They were warm and welcoming, as they always are. I love the Flemings; they're like family to me, like my other parents. I was glad I had decided to visit them. We sat up late chatting and looking at photographs of their son David's wedding. (David and I grew up together; his wedding was last year.) The visiting relatives were Joe's mother and brother, and they were also hosting a foreign student, so they had a house full.
In the morning, I dawdled over breakfast with the Flemings, and looked at some more photos. Around noon, they had to leave for a tennis match. Joe's brother kept me company outside while I loaded the bike. He's an interesting fellow, sort of an aging hippie. We talked about living in primitive conditions. (He bought a house that didn't have electricity and lived there with his family for two years before he got the wiring in!) We talked about cohousing and communes and how much we both hate urban sprawl, and we discussed the PDR (Purchase Development Rights) millages that are turning up as ballot proposals all over. I told him about my pet peeve, people who move to the country and then are glad when a Walmart goes in only a mile away. "If you wanted to live a mile from the Walmart, why'd you move out of town? Me, I like having things close by, having a short commute, so I live in town. I like the country too, which is why I don't move there. If we all moved to the country, it wouldn't be the country anymore. Doh!" He agreed that it is silly to take on a long commute just to live in the country, and then to bring the city with you. I'd never much gotten to know him before, and I liked him more, the more I talked to him. A kindred spirit. We talked about our bikes and our pickup trucks. He pointed out something on my bike that I hadn't yet noticed. It was leaking, every so slightly, from someplace on the leftmost carb. I'll have to look at that more closely soon, figure out where it's leaking, and probably replace a gasket or something. By the time I rolled out of the Fleming's driveway, it was early afternoon. I figured I should have time to take the back roads, but that I should try to take a more direct route. I picked a road heading northwest.
I stopped for gas and snack foods in Centerburg (the geographic center of Ohio). At the gas station, I met a Harley rider. We chatted a bit about how perfect the day was, about the roads, and about our bikes. He had gotten his bike used from a dealer. He told me that the first owner was frightened by its speed, and so had brought the bike back to the dealer with only 700 miles on it, in pristine condition. I expressed a proper degree of admiration. The bike was gleaming with chrome, and had leather accessories all over it, including those long tassels on the handlebars. He invited me to sit on it, so I did. It was really low! I felt like I was sitting on a miniature motorcycle. It had a cushy bucket seat, and foot pegs up front. I asked the guy if the tassels on the handlebars didn't whip his arms and legs when they blew in the wind (two hobbies in one!) but he insisted they didn't. He said the tassels make the bike much more visible. I nodded politely but I have to say I took that explanation with a grain of salt.
I continued picking my way northwest, looking for a nice place to stop for my snack. I rode through Mt. Gilead, but I couldn't make up my mind quickly enough to make the turn into the state park, so I decided to keep going. A few miles north of Mt. Gilead I stopped at a small country church, and sat on the steps to read my book, eat my potato chips, and drink my orange soda. Distracted by my book, I probably sat there for at least an hour, during which time the sun dropped significantly, and ants swarmed all over my pop cap. I decided I'd better make tracks for home, and I picked up my pace.
Outside of Bucyrus, I overtook a couple on a Harley. I slowed down just a little and followed them. I figured they were heading in the right direction, and if they were local they might lead me down a nice curvy road I wouldn't otherwise find. Unfortunately the roads they led me down were straight as sticks, and in Bucyrus they turned off into a subdivision. I waved them goodbye and found my out of town along Route 100 towards Tiffin. I skirted the south side of Tiffin and went on to Fostoria. Coming out of Fostoria I picked up Route 199. The sun was so low by this time, that I was mostly in the shade. I rode as fast as I dared, hoping to make it to Perrysburg before stopping to bundle up in more clothing. I didn't make it. By the time I got to Route 6, my fingers were icicles. I stopped and put on my mittens.
As I entered Perrysburg, the last of the light was fading. I saw something strange in the air. I couldn't tell if it was a huge kite or a skydiver. It looked like a parachute, complete with dangling skydiver, but it wasn't coming down very fast. Maybe it wasn't coming down at all, I couldn't really tell. It was too far away for me to identify it, and I was freezing, so I didn't investigate. Now I wish I had, because I'm still curious.
In Perrysburg, I stopped at a gas station. A police car pulled in right after me. The clerk had called the police because someone had driven off without paying. I used the restroom before putting on the ski bibs this time. While I was still messing with my layers of clothing, the person who'd driven off came back to pay. Apparently they hadn't had enough money, so they'd gone to the bank machine and come back. It seems to me they should have told the clerk so, instead of scaring him like that. The police left. I filled my tank (and paid!) and hopped on the freeway for home. At this point, it was fully dark.
Brr!!! It was really really cold, even with the ski bibs, turtle fur, and mittens. By the time I got to the Michigan line I was a frozen lump. I stopped at the Michigan welcome center and put on my last bit of extra clothing, a big fluffy ski sweater. I could hardly zip my coat. I wanted to use my chemical handwarmers, but I still couldn't find them. (I found them at the bottom of my luggage when I unpacked.) I continued north to Ypsilanti. The flashing red fuel warning light was annoying on the freeway in the dark; it threw a glare on my helmet visor and made it harder for me to identify brake lights up ahead. But when I pushed the button, it never stopped flashing for long, and reaching out to push the button allowed cold wind to go up my sleeve. Brrr!!! I thought about looking for some mittens with bigger gauntlets, to block wind from going up my sleeves. Gloves are useless in winter; mittens are the way to go. I feel the same way about winter bicycling and downhill skiing, mittens are so much better. How can people stand to wear those big gloves? Don't their fingers freeze, when they're all held apart and can't share warmth? Brrr!!! I was very glad to get home to my warm house and my warm kitty cats. Total trip distance was 511 miles.