Since I'd filled and checked my tyres the night before, I saved some additional time. The sun was out and the day was very clear; ideal for riding a bunch of miles. I decided to cruise to the west by leaving the hotel on the little highway connecting it to the interstate. US-11 shanked back along the Pocono mountains running parallel to the Susquehannah river. This far north, the river was just a heavy-flowing stream that carried the melting snow and rainfall from the Poconos south towards Delaware.
There was little traffic as I cut through the tiny towns behind Wilkes-Barre. I was occasionally caught behind a slow driver, but that was just fine; as a warm-up, I enjoyed puttering though the tiny towns and looking at people going about their business. No matter hwere you are, you think you're the most important thing going. But there's some town bigger than you and some town smaller than you where someone who's just like yourself thinks they have it even better. Or bigger. Or harder.
While passing several little restraunts and cafes, I toyed with the idea of getting a little country breakfast. I resisted the temptation to do so, though, and figured it would be more rewarding to make time and get someplace good.
This was a great day for riding: the sun filtered down through hazy, slim clouds. There was a cool breeze from the river, and the scenery was of rolling hills and rugged landscapes. I passed junkyards, construction sites, and prisons. There was a quarry or two. The road undulated with the path of the river in the shallow valley. When there weren't quarry trucks or the threat of cops, I got on the right hand grip.
Riding is immensely satisfying to my person. I drive the bike aggressively because I love to ride. Riding is fun because I think about the physics involved. I think of how the shape of the tyres turns me, how they slip gently when I add power to my turns. The camber of the road makes me think, and I like to fight away my fear of going too fast.
Years of driving agressively, years of riding hard. I've learned one thing: I don't think I've ever walked away from a situation thinking I was going too fast. But I can't count the times I thought I might have been going too slow.
US-11 cut through tiny mining and farming towns on its way to meet with I-80. The towns were really just my type. Quaint, because they were small and earthy. They had nothing to do with the pastel, insincere New England quaint that filled the towns in Connecticut. They were blue-collar, and honest. Men worked, women cooked. Everyone drank a little on Saturday, and goin' huntin' in the woods where your brother-in-law had a cabin was where the best memories came from.
Inside my helmet, I smiled at all these little towns.
I decided to have breakfast, or lunch, or something, once I hit I-80. And none too soon: I rode the highway for about three exits, figuring I'd cut south. Or maybe not. I saw a sign that said there were some restraunts at one of the little exit towns, and I was going to pull off there and pick a place to eat. But about a mile from the exit, traffic was snarled. There was a terrible, and fresh, accident: thick skidmarks traced the path of two cars that got together—apparently, one didn't yield the right to merge to the other, and they got tanled. One rolled, the other was stuffed in a ditch. There was some terrible looking equipment, and as I rode by one of the firemen was dragging the hydraulic jaws back from the rescue support truck.
Fortunately, I didn't actually see any of the carnage. And things didn't look as bad as the mess of metal implied. I could imagine the drivers saying "I didn't see you". Open your fucking eyes.
My indecision about the meal caused me to eat at Denny's. The food is always mediocre, but you can get anything you want: a steak, a burger, a hot sandwich, or breakfast. And it was snappy, and clean. Plus, you could sit at the breakfast bar. Nothing says "leave me alone" louder than wearing a motorcycle outfit and sitting at the breakfast bar.
A big glass of lemonade and a Moons Over Myhammy later, I stepped into the parking lot and fired the bike up. There was a huge gravel patch at the end of the "exit" side of the lot, and I had to carefully drag through it to not dump the bike. I hopped onto the highway, and noticed that the accident was cleaned up except for the troopers, who looked like they were still measuring and photographing.
I decided that I'd hop on I-80 and keep it stuck there. Pennsylvania has amazing side roads, which trace the path of the original settlers and flow with the rivers and mountans that define the state. They're not always in perfect shape, but they offer some of the most breathtaking riding you can find. The problem is that they follow the land a little too closely. That is, they run along the crevaces in the terrain and don't always go where you want them to go. The exception is, of course, I-80, which cuts the top third of the state away from the southern two-thirds.
Following it along to Ohio, I rode at an aggressive pace. I didn't see many cops, and the rolling hills usually allowed me the chance to see any traps before they could be sprung. Plus, there were plenty of people driving fast today and I could use them all as rabbits to warn me of any upcoming pigs.
As I got close to the border with Ohio, I got a little nappy. I pulled to the side of the superhighway and slept under a bridge for about 25 minutes. I wondered more about why I needed to do this so frequently. I thought about my allergy medicine, and my drinking. But I figured neither could do it alone. I was tremendously relieved to not have the sneezing and sniffling fits I had on previous years. My eyes weren't itchy, and I could go into any restraunt without first stopping in the restroom to blow my nose and wash my face.
After my nap, I pounded back on the highway. I was surprised to find I was already running low on gas, so I stopped at one of the first stations I could find. I was flabbergasted at the price: I paid $1.829 per gallon for super. The tiny satation only had a full-serivce pump, and that was probably why it was so expensive. But, of cousre, the pump jockey didn't want to pump my bike and I had to do it myself. What's the use?
I cruised into Ohio and almost passed a police officer in an unmarked car. He and I played cat and mouse for a while. I dropped off his rear for a ways, and was almost passed by three college chicks who were speeding. I beeped and got their attention and made the go slow signal. They didn't seem to catch on, and continued to ease up towards the officer. Just in the nick of time, he decided to stop a car ahead of him and the girls were saved. When I passed them again, they all gave me thumbs-up signs. That's fine; but I wondered why they didn't flash ther tits.
Plowing through Ohio was easy. I can't really remember most of the ride; I was just in the zone and making all the time I wanted to. When I reached Youngstown, I stopped and had a soda. Studying my map, I realized that I wouldn't be able to make sensible progress much further. I-80 became a toll road and cut too far north for my tastes. The other obvious alternative was I-71 but it cut too far south. I figured I could use US-224, so I hooked up with it in Akron.
These towns were odd; they had a couple of fast food restraunts and gas stations, and that was it. What really supported them?
In the outskirts of Akron, I was struck at how quickly the area became more residential and how quickly the farms followed. Since I was only a few dozen miles south of Cleveland, I somehow thought the traffic and sprawl would still be a part of my ride. It was nice to be out in the country. Aside from a couple of construction sites, I really had nothing to worry about here.
I nearly missed the getoff for US-224. I made it, though, and followed the state road directly west towards the other side of the state. I passed through a town named Sullivan and there I took some pictures at the town line because I know a guy named Walter Sullivan. He could hang the pictures on his wall and pretend he's the mayor of the town!
US-224 was soothing and empty. Farm after farm, little town after little town. These places made me more wary of running out of gas than the rides I took out in the desloate desert or in the high planes states. The repetitive scenerey can lull you to not think about the necessities of the road, and you can find yourself two dozen miles from a town before you think you need one. Plus, the services aren't alway so well marked and not necessarily as obvious as they should be.
US-224 bent towards a town named Findlay, and I gassed-up there. There were lots of cops on the way out of town, so I was careful to feather the throttle for a while. Finally, I reached a little town named Van Wert and caught US-30 there.
US-30 cut back north towards Fort Wayne, Indianna. The sun was touching the horizon and I'd put in a good, honest day of riding. I figured I'd find a nice hotel there and drink up all night before I hit the hay.
The city was surprisingly desolate, though. I passed the state line and saw signs for a town ironically named "Monroeville". That's the name of the town where I grew up, in Pennsylvania. There's only four or five towns named "Monroeville" in America--which isn't a lot, compared to towns named "Springfield".
I guess the east side of Fort Wayne is its industrial center. My plan was to wait unti US-30 was at the intersection with I-69. I'd grab the interstate south for a few hundred yards and hop onto US-24, which dipped south and then headed through Illinois. IT seemed like an arbitrary route, but would be a neat way to cut through all the farmlands and small towns—the reason I take these trips!
After carving through factories and warehouses, I finally found what looked like a main road. There was a little traffic, but I eventually found some signs for the interstate and a Ramada appeared. Great! I checked in, cleaned up, and sat at the bar.
The place was almost empty, but I had the fortune to sit next to this blowhard who thought he knew everything about computers. He blathered on and on. He thought he was huge because he'd been in computers since the 386 was popular. I placated him, until he asked where I worked. I gave him a business card and told him that he should be careful about spilling noise that's not factual because you never know who might be listening.
I went to bed.
Posted on 28 May, 1999.