textfiles/fun/CAA/gecaa-33

From slcpi!govt.shearson.com!mjohnsto@uunet.UU.NET Mon Jan  7 17:30:46 1991
To: wordy@Corp
Subject: chapter-33

NOTES FROM OHIO

#33 in the second online CAA series

by

Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)

Pymatuning Lake, Ohio side; 12,819 miles.

August 1, 1987

copyright 1987, Steven K. Roberts





     The most effective way to make it rain is to pitch camp.  For eight riding

days, the sun has baked our hot flesh into sweat- glistened tan, streaked with

the stark white of belly wrinkles and tinged daily with a hint of fresh pink.

For eight days we have gulped hot water from plastic bottles, rested in odd

patches of roadside shade, and nodded at the obligatory "hot enough for ya?"

from those who stop to gawk.



     But now we're camped at Pymatuning, our last stop in Ohio -- the northeast

corner.  All the equipment is linked together into a single massive

human-powered motorhome:  the bikes side-by-side under a dripping brown tarp;

the trailers behind them disappearing into the rear vestibule; the tent itself,

grand and imposing, issuing staccato rainsounds and billowing gently in the

breeze.  Inside, I lean back against my trailer (the parking brake locked) and

patter droplets of text into my trusty HP, perched on a camp stool.



     Outside, we have the usual demographic mix of alluring and depressing.

Right next door, a pleasant family with more camping gear than many young

households wakes us with artificial kid-oriented enthusiasm.  Dad does the

talking:  "Oh boy!  That's a good one.  OK, 1-2-3-4, yayyy!  Wow!  Alright,

would you stay in the car with the doors locked, say 'no thank you' and walk

away, call 911 for help, or -- what?  No honey, you have THAT one.  Right.  Now

remember, the first one home wins.  It's your turn..."  The blonde girl looks

around, a plea in her pretty brown eyes, sees me, smiles.



     Across the street is mini-Rambo, a blond guy who walked over, offered to

help with the tent, then said, "well, I just wanted to look at the bikes

anyway."  On his belt is a 9-inch killing knife, very businesslike.  I comment

on this.  "It's the same one they used in the second movie," he says.  The

second movie? I ask.  "First Blood, part 2."  He edges his voice with

reverence.  "Sylvester Stallone TOUCHED this knife, man."



     His sweet little sister, 13-going-on-6, seems semi-retarded -- but she's

tan and beautiful with honey hair and wide lips, as charming and innocent as a

kitten.   Maggie saw her in the shower building, smiling dreamily, standing in

a puddle drying her feet left, right, left, right, left, right...



     In the other direction, scowling this way and that, is a dark, ponytailed

guy with scars, muscles, tatoos, and an oilhaired kid who never smiles.  When

he shakes water from his hands, it looks like a karate chop.  I try to imagine

the lessons he passes along... "the only way to make it in this world, boy, is

to kick ass."  Late last night, after everyone was asleep, they rolled in and

pitched camp, loudly hammering stakes and clattering poles with no interest in

becoming good neighors.



     (There are some four-legged skunks too -- soft, tame little beasties who

amble down the lane and nose about the campsites for food.  I catch myself

nodding a subtle hello on the assumption of sentience, just like I do with

dogs.  But with humans I'm more careful, for a wave or smile is an implied

invitation.  Time!  I want to write; everybody wants to talk.  Ever notice how

much of a door- opener a laptop computer is?  I suppose I shouldn't complain...

that's how I met Maggie.)



     Let's see.  Next to mini-Rambo and his clan is a good-looking group, the

women leggy, the guys cleancut and healthy.  They're Cleveland yuppies,

friendly folks, too much like my old friends and neighbors to make a colorful

story.  They got almost-busted for exposed beer:  it's OK to drink here, but

not if the cops' supervisor can tell.  Kids skip rope, pedal, or run around the

campground.  A fat guy in a hammock has a glittery T-shirt that says "Rocking

Wrestling Connection"; his son is a perfect miniature of dad.  A pleasant

family from the Twinsburg area visited us last night, passing along tidbits of

the region and subscribing to the JOURNAL... and an endless stream of traffic

flows into the campground, for it's a weekend and people are determined to have

a good time come hell or falling water.



                                * * *



     Yep, we're on the road.  312 miles since Columbus, eight different beds, a

slowly evolving Ohio from flat to hilly... then back to flat... and back to

hilly.  We've been through Amish country, farm country, and the linked bedroom

communities of Cleveland.  We just missed Climax, scanned the To Do list in

Reminderville, and visited two Claridons.  We've had unexpected 14% grades,

roadside sweet corn, 429 mosquito bites <slap!> make that 430, and answered a

thousand questions ranging from the clever to the staggeringly naive.



     It's difficult to capture Ohio culture for you... for unlike the wild

west, nothing around here seems exotic.  But that's entirely subjective:  if I

had spent my life in California, Ohio would seem fascinating, alien, and full

of curious twists.  I think it was Gilbert Keith Chesterton who said:  "The

purpose of travel is not to set foot on foreign land, but to set foot on your

own country as foreign land."  So let me tell you about this exotic

northeastern quadrant of Ohio.



     Corn.



     It's everywhere, rolling over hilly fields, a uniform seven-foot layer of

vegetation that blankets all available land.  The tassles, bronze in the sun,

take on a burnished look at sunset like waves of gently-moving metal, a husky

armor on the smooth body of earth.



     Clearings in the cornfields harbor oil wells, cemeteries, and houses with

crudely lettered SWEET CORN 1.00/DOZ signs.  A ramshackle shack selling fish is

called "A Taste of Class."  (Hey -- could a password-protection scheme for

computer memory be called a ramshackle?)



     Anyway.  The towns are small, some only crossroads with a slightly higher

population density than the surrounding land.  Linking the named places are the

roads we've chosen -- tiny farm lanes with ragged surfaces, tar and chip,

potholes, asphalt ravaged like teenage skin by the freeze-thaw cycles of Ohio

winter.  Our maps, detailing all this, fail to mention road closures, gravel,

and rough grades -- making the eventual route a convoluted thing indeed.  Most

of the direct alternatives, of course, involve heavy traffic -- especially near

Cleveland where the volume of urgent commuters is enough to cause frequent

panic.



     It's no wonder, then, that we reacted with delight upon finding a bike

path around the city.  But even that turned out to be impenetrable:  the gate,

designed to keep out motorized vehicles, also manages to keep out recumbents,

loaded touring bikes, trailers, and fat people.  The cycling community has a

long, long way to go...



                                * * *



     I suppose it IS possible to wax poetic about Ohio, my last column's

rantings about Columbus notwithstanding.  As we pedaled northeast, the land

gradually evolved from changeless to picturesque. (Picturesque... think about

that for a second.  When reality is spectacular enough, we compare it to a

reflection of reality.)



     It was lunchtime in Hayesville, fresh from a boiling 300-baud pay-phone

upload in the hot sun.  A woman in her 90's walked over. "I'm just fascinated

by your motorcycles."



     "They're bicycles," Maggie told her with a smile.



     "Ohhhh, then I'm even MORE fascinated by your bicycles!"



     North.  Next stop was the home of the Rooks in Spencer -- about 25 miles

from Akron.  On the road, the family of a friend feels like a family of my own,

and within minutes we were relaxed and comfortable in this country home.  Edith

is an artist in the kitchen, and we sat in the sweet torpor of hunger

eloquently fulfilled and swilled coffee, swapping tales of life, kids, and the

nearby Amish.  In the garage the bikes stood at the focal point of obsessive

neighborhood curiosity -- for in a small town like this, people take the time

to know each other's business.  By the time we left the next morning, Spencer

felt warm and cozy:  one lady, hugging us goodbye, was on the edge of tears.



     Yes, Ohio does have its moments.  We pedaled slowly through miles of Amish

country, riding up Firestone Road in Medina County along with horse-drawn

buggies -- watching women in long dark dresses working around farmhouse yards,

men in traditional hats and long beards practicing 1900 farming techniques.

Yet... none of it is for the benefit of tourists, though at first glance the

Amish seem too culturally pure to be anything but a re-enactment of an earlier

time (a strange commentary on life in America).  Their technology is frozen in

the past, quite capable of outliving ours but startling in its blatant denial

of available tools.



     The effects can be extreme.  When the Amish buy a house, they pay off the

mortgage and then rip out the electricity and water -- along with all connected

frivolities like washing machines and trash compactors.  I tried to grasp the

spectrum defined by the extremes of my Winnebiko and their stylized farms,

tried to imagine how they would react to the HP computer, the GEnie network,

packet radio, and my tiny TV set.  Then I realized that I couldn't bundle oats

in weather- resistant shocks any more than they could type in ASCII... nor

would either of us particularly care to swap idioms.  We are aliens,

representatives of cultures that can, at best, only eye each other in

disbelief.



     Onward.  We rode with a Medina friend to our second hostel since Columbus

(the first being Malabar), a classic old farmhouse north of Peninsula.  Needing

a break, we took a dip in yet another unfamiliar culture...



     I lay on my back, half-naked, clutching a foam pad around my body as cool

water washed over me and threatened to carry me away.  "Five!" cried a

bikini-clad girl on the tower, her amplified voice echoing from concrete and

trees.



     This was my cue, the number emblazoned in black on the walll beside my

head.  Heart pounding, I pushed off, watching wide-eyed between my legs as the

blue chute swallowed me like a coin in a vending machine.  On the first turn, I

whipped against the sidewall and loosed a startled shout; on the second, my

knee touched dry fiberglass and instantly lost a square inch of skin with a

burning screech.  Faster.  Left, right, losing track, my body flying luge-like

through wild curves, brain locked in a sort of terrified glee until the final

plunge swept me underwater -- losing the mat, losing all perspective,

sputtering to the surface with a laugh and a shout to find Maggie giggling at

the ludicrous image of her man totally out of control.



     After the Dover Lake water slides, we pressed on.  The Chaneys in Chardon,

cycle touring in their 70's, activists in cyclists' rights. East, east, sensing

change, past a township hosting both a tent revival and a psychic fair on the

same weekend.  Onward through Montville, where an ancient black man pumped my

hand and exclaimed in a thick accent: "I seen you on TV, but I never dreamed

you'd come through Montville!"  And finally... here... the Pymatuning terminus

of our Buckeye meanderings, a confusing swirl of campground humanity ranging

from the despicable to the delightful.  But everyone is good- spirited and of a

mind to play.



     And that's what it's all about.  The only people who scare me are the ones

who never take a break.



NOTE:  Do you work for US Customs?  One of my readers does ... and he wrote me

a note after the story about the hassles at Port Townsend, Washington.

Unfortunately, I've misplaced his GE mail address, and am now about to cross

into Canada again.  If you're out there ... please drop me a line.  Thanks!