Indiana Is Empty

Every time I do it, I'm impressed all over again by the fact that I can pack my tent in this bag that fits in my hand.

After extinguishing my picnic table this morning, I rode off on route 33 toward Indiana. It's been easy miles today, on long straight open roads with speed limits of 70. I stopped in Wapakoneta for gas, and met a woman who had moved there from Dallas (I'm not clear how she found the place) and a young guy who said to me, "You're about the sexiest thing ah ever seen rahdin' a bahk." I thanked him any asked if he thought that looked like rain in the west, but he couldn't see it well enough to offer an opinion.

 This is the town (in it's entirety, I believe) of New Hampshire, Ohio.

I got back on the road, decided it was rain, and stopped to tarp my gear. I made sure my rain suit was handy and rode on until I felt actual rain. Then I put on the rain gear. Then the rain stopped. I stopped for gas again and met a pair of guys who were putting water into a steaming pickup. I removed the rain jacket and rode on. It started to rain again. I put the jacket back on.

Thinking I'd get lunch in Marion, I was disappointed to find it a ghost town. I rode on, wishing I had asked the guys with the truck where to eat. There's not a lot else to say about the road from Marion to Lafayette, where I finally found a Panera to eat at and blog from. I intended to eat locally and not in chain restaurants, but everything in every town is closed except for this place, the Tippecanoe Mall. It's like a ghost world. I don't know where all the people have gone.

Day 3 - Pittsburgh to Avondale

I spent a wonderful Friday night and Saturday morning with cousin Carl, his wife Alisia, and their little daughter Viv. We went to a hot dog joint in Pittsburgh and had delightfully awful food, fries covered in cheese and bacon and dogs with accessories.

 On Saturday morning, Carl painted Viv's face in preparation to go to a comic con. Then she helped me get ready, and I took off west again.

Leaving Pittsburgh was difficult. I found 376 without trouble, then saw a sign that said "expect delays" and exited immediately. Idling in a parking lot studying my map, I was approached by a man named Stu, who wore a spectacularly bushy grey mustache. His truck was broken down and while he waited for a tow, he explained the best way out and wished me luck.

Unfortunately his suggested route was also full of construction, so I grabbed a random road and decided to keep the sun on my left until I found another westbound highway.

 That worked out, and eventually the signs said I was 6 miles from the state line. Ohio, ho!

... And then I entered West Virginia. Certain enough of my map reading to keep going, I drove on through tiny, dusty towns that apparently contained nothing but auto shops. Eventually I entered Ohio and felt triumphant that I hadn't, in fact, completely failed at navigation. I stopped at a farmstand for peaches.

Eventually I did miss a road sign, but the wrong turn was the right choice. To all bikers, I highly recommend Ohio 209. It's hilly and curvy, like riding a rollercoaster through beautiful farmland. One hill was even sharp enough to give me butterflies in my stomach.

Here is a building that looks like a giant basket. I can tell you no more about it, except that it says Longaberger on the front.

And here is the fire department in the town of... There are so many jokes, I can't pick just one.

Realizing I was getting tired and starting to do stupid things, like attempting to turn around in a small space at the fire department and nearly dumping the bike, I pulled off when I saw a sign for a scenic overlook.

Of all the sights I've seen in the last few days, this was about the least scenic. There was a roundabout, a shelter occupied by a gathering of people who all seemed to know each other (family reunion?) and some grass. No shade, and it was hotter than hell. I say on the grass, ate a peach, took a photo of the least scenic not-overlooking-anything ever, and left. Unfortunately the photo disappeared, but you're not missing much.

Some miles farther on, decidedly unrefreshed by the scenic overlook, I stopped for gas and a break. As I was considering gearing up again, a man and his wife pulled in on a Honda Goldwing. I approached and asked where they were from, and we chatted until a pair of guys approached me and asked about the Madura.

"You know the Madura!" I said, surprised. My bike is a weird, rare cult classic that most bikers have never encountered. These two, however, were former Madura owners themselves, and they told me never to sell it because they regretted getting rid of theirs. We talked bikes for quite a while, and then they left and I set out again.

 I camped for the night at Indian Lake State Park in Avondale, OH. It was one of those "camp" sites to which people drive their brand-new RVs 40 miles and "camp" for the night with all the luxuries of home. It's fun, and it's better than never leaving home at all, but camping it is not.

On the bright side, my neighbors were super friendly and I joined them at their fire for s'mores and chatting. There were two couples, one retired and one with the husband a year from retirement. While I was packing up this morning, they gave me coffee. And then I set my picnic table on fire.

There are not pictures. Fortunately the picnic table was made of something heavily treated, so after the white gas I'd spilled burned away, the table was fine. I cooked my breakfast on the pavement after that.

 P.S. apologies for the awful typesetting, the mistake pictures, and the typos - blogging from my phone is pretty difficult.

The Smell of Biking

One of my favorite parts of motorcycling is the smells. If you've never experienced the world at high speed without a bubble of metal and glass in the way, the smells are rather startling at first. They're so intense, and so fleeting.

Here's a wisp of woodsmoke. There's a pine forest. There's a skunk, in all its glory, oh god - but the next breath, it's gone, like it was never there. This air is so fresh. That's something burning. (Are my pants catching fire on the radiator? Nope, feet and legs are still in the non-smoking section.) Someone's doing laundry. There's a farm full of cow manure.

And on it goes. It's one more way in which biking is a more intense experience of the road than driving a car.

Day 2: Catskills and Pennsylvania

I spent this morning toodling through the Catskills, enjoying the scenery, averaging about 35mph and taking a couple of wrong turns. One was a dead end, and the other took me through the center of the mountains when I had intended to exit to the south. Can't say I regret it; it's a stunningly beautiful place, with wonderful twisty roads perfect for cycling.

There's even a castle! Really, I found a castle.

 Over every hill and around every curve I found a reason to think, "Wow, look at that." When the highway warns you of possible crosswinds, prepare to stop and take photos, like I did here at Neversink Reservoir. (Strangely, there was nothing floating on it.)

Speaking of funny town names: Coxsackie NY, please explain yourself. Are you home to the derby player known as Calkin Balls? Because you should be. Also, Nanty Glo, PA? What?

Anyway, after I crossed into Pennsylvania I stopped at a farmstand and got some really excellent peaches. The clerk and a customer both wanted to talk bikes, so we did, and the customer said he would pray for me when he heard about my trip.

I got a lot of raised eyebrows at home about going alone, and I'm continuing to get them as I progress. It doesn't bother me, but the one question that stopped me in my tracks was, "Why?" Why am I going alone? Because... I am. No one else can go with me, and I didn't really want to plan my trip around anyone else, either.

Riding through Pennsylvania Dutch country on a beautiful sunny afternoon went into what I call a "bubble of perfection." Life isn't perfect, but some moments are, and when those happen, I picture them being captured in a shining soap bubble and floating into the happiest parts of my memory for safe-keeping.

This countryside is one of the many possible epitomies of gorgeous. I passed several wagons containing Amish people, being drawn by horses along the side of the highway. One of them had a pair of children, a boy and a girl around ten or twelve, waving at me from the back. I waved in return and then rode around them.

Getting lost in the mountains may have been beautiful, but it ate up time, and I hit the interstate for an hour or so to get around Scranton. That was a hot, traffic-filled, unlovely experience that I do not recommend.

So back to the good roads on routes 45 and 22. Take those; they're worth seeing, particularly 45. Twenty-two turns into a lot of pavement eventually, and I ground out the last 80 miles (for a day total of 428) to Pittsburgh with rocks where my shoulders used to be. The views were still beautiful, though. I knew my camera wouldn't do them justice, so I didn't try.

You're coming down a stretch of sandy colored pavement, a four-lane highway that leads straight down into a valley. There are steep grassy embankments on both sides, and maybe a  hundred miles in the distance is a range of blue mountains. The sky is covered in a flat layer of grey clouds, except for a strip slightly off to the right, where pink rays of sunshine cascade downward and give depth to the dark green rolling hills that fill the valley from here to the mountains.

Bandits

I was lying in my tent in Kenneth J. Wilson Campground in the Catskills last night when I heard the sound of leather on leather. Someone was opening my saddlebags.

I grabbed my lantern and jumped out of the tent (a relative term, as there were two zippers between me and the outdoors), ready to have a fight. From the seat of the bike, a small masked face stared back at me - a young raccoon.

I had a laugh, but after an entire night of the damn things pulling on my saddlebags, rattling around on the picnic table, and snuffling and grunting around my tent, I wasn't amused anymore. Especially when I found my plastic-bagged roll of toilet paper on the edge of the camp site.

Cat, Skills

Saw this guy in Catskill NY.

This Is How You...

I had a hard time leaving home, so Abel gave me some encouragement.