Mr. G gets to Great Lake Erie

Preview: Time to wheel it in and wrap up about this Underground Railroad Tour adventure. I'm done. Access to broadband terminals (and free time) was sketchy on the road but I want to finish these notes. This post will catch me up to Lake Erie. One more will describe my gentleman's tour camping through the northeast's wine country and getting to Niagara Falls. A last post relating the pros and cons of my experience seems in order. Since I'm online again, I'll also field any questions.

I awoke rested, warm and dry after surviving semi-rig alley to get to the motel outside of Mansfield, OH. I was also off route, even off the map I carried showing the way to Oberlin. The Adventure Cycling Assoc. route required backtracking and a big left turn to get going the right way (North). I decided on freelancing the hypotenuse of the triangle on county roads into and through Ashland and picking up the route 20 miles later. A free county map at the desk helped me sort out a plan.

The sun shone brightly after the prior day's rain. A 15 to 20 mph head wind out of the north, though tough, now seemed a bargain compared to yesterday's weather. You just tuck, get as sleek as you can, use your gears and grind it out. A fast and easy downhill on U.S. 42 toward town seemed a good omen. Climbing up the other side of the gentle valley, before reaching Ashland's city limits, had me pay for every fun foot in altitude I used in that downhill. My friend David "Bump" Runge interchangably refers to these as "altitude and/or attitude adjustments" and anyone who's ventured farther than a 6-mile fun ride knows what he means. Soon after getting off the highway onto the main road into town (Claremont Ave.), I saw a one-horse Amish buggy coming towards me trotting at a spritely pace. I marveled then, and many days afterwards, about what "one horsepower" was capable.

Also reaffirmed was what poor judges of distance most people are. After passing a major intersection, I pulled off into a car dealership to double check my route. The owner was cordial, said he had passed me on U.S. 42 on his way to work, and assured me the downtown intersection for which I was looking was only a mile away. "A professional," I thought. He was off by almost 100 percent. Persistance found the interesection 1.8 miles later. This happened so many times it was noteworthy how people were wildly off in their estimates of distance, often by miles. So, check as often as you need but don't obsess. Making my way through 30-plus more miles into the wind also tamed me of watching the computer too closely. Like waiting for the tea kettle to boil, the miles don't pass if you're constantly watching them.

It was a long afternoon and no towns had cafes for a lunch break (an unfortunate fact related to our car-dominated modern life) until I got into a small burg called Sullivan with an intersection sporting a park, Masonic lodge, antique store and post office on one side and a small grocery store next to the volunteer fire department on the other. Good food becomes a hallmark of each day when cycling and the Sullivan Market delivered with a more than respectable ham and turkey sub dressed with fresh tomato and lettuce on a bun the girl assured me was "baked right here every day". A couple of root beers out of the cold case and I was revitalized for the final run to Oberlin. A 42-mile day mostly against the wind had me delighted to reach this destination, home of the first college in America to admit women and blacks and today still a beautiful, historic town crawling with students happy the school year had just ended. I downed a pint of Newcastle Ale at the local watering hole and then, sitting on the deck of my B&B host, called home to share the good news. That evening I pored over maps with my host, an experienced sailor and outdoorsman, considering a turn westbound along Lake Erie to make a loop homeward. We agreed, despite the logistics of getting back home, the one way route to Canada was more open-ended, adventuous and in keeping with the spirit of my trek.

I awoke with aches. While nothing seemed wrong, I could feel every muscle bundle in my thighs. Never having done a trip of this magnitude, discretion seemed wiser than pushing to an injury. I arranged a late morning hour with a massage therapist and left just after noon. Considering it a "recovery day", I pedaled only 30 miles through scudding clouds and occasional light drizzle to Medina where I treated myself in a fine restaurant on the town square to a great sushi dinner to celebrate Kathy and my wedding anniversary. I felt blessed but deeply missed her, our girls and home.

Under sunny skies next morning, I started east bound for Cayuhoga National Park and points beyond. Just five miles out of town I ran into some steep uphill rollers that I handled without strain, confirming the prior day's "easy mode" was a good decision. Later, after a delightful lunch in Peninsula with a couple cycling the tow path (Nate and April who posted a picture here earlier) there was nearly a mile long climb out of the valley. My legs felt strong and the break had done me good. Unfortunately, the skies darkened with threatening clouds and lowering temperatures soon after I reached Hudson, around 5 p.m. Several trys for lodging at local guest houses proved fruitless this Sunday evening, and I quickly moved on to Streetsboro where I could get a motel with breakfast thrown in. I was playing safe, but having left the National Park also meant all opportunities to camp were well behind me. Only 37 miles for the day, but I was out of the weather and able to get a nice diner before hitting the sack.

The next morning, Monday, the sun shone again and I was determined to get back on pace as I headed north. The weather held as I travelled through truly beautiful countryside east of Cleveland and into Amish country towards Ashtabula. I had my eye on a campground on the edge of town, but when I called ahead to inquire for a site with trees for my hammock, they said I "had to have a tent" to camp there. Unfazed and with sunny skies, the miles slipped away as I pushed on. Long lines of drying clothes at the Amish homes suggested they too were glad for sunny weather after the past three days of threatening skies. Blue jumpers, bib overalls, sheets, towels, T-shirts, bed spreads, most anything washable in the house was strung out taking advantage of the clear day. Sixty-one miles later, the last 8 on the Greenway Reserve Trail, I pulled into Austinburg and made arrangements for the night. A great day.

Tuesday, it was only another seven miles into Ashtabula on the shores of Lake Erie. I had to pass through all the town before getting to the rather industrial looking port and bridge over the Ashtabula River, but the wide, flat, green expanse of water as far as the eye could see was a major milestone in the trip. I stopped at the Hubbard House, one northern terminus of the Underground Railroad from which fugitives would have to cross only one quarter mile to the family's portside warehouse before catching a steamer (like the Indiana or Sultana) with a sympathetic Captain to be carried across to Canada. Today a historical museum, I was disappointed to read on the door it wouldn't open until Memorial Day, the official beginning of summer in these northern parts. I pushed off to see the lake and head eastward for lunch in Conneaut ("Conny-aut") another 11 miles out and ending the day after 50 miles in Erie, PA, where I stayed with a gracious family who hosted me with a cookout, visiting friends and a taste of the finer wines I could expect in the coming season. All along the day's ride, I was surprised by flowering redbud trees, dogwoods, lilacs and rhododendrons and cool breezes off the lake. The wonderful Spring weather just added to the delight of having made it without serious mishap 721 miles from home. (Knock on wood) with