After paying the tab, I hopped back on US-36 and continued east, towards Hannibal. The undulating hills were pierced by my narrow highway. Just after leaving Macon, the divided highway became only four lanes, then two. Traffic was surprisingly busy, but I was able to find enough gaps in the oncoming lane to blast past a few cars a time.
My wrist was still twitchy. I was squarely in the mid-west, and aggressively making progress towards the eastern United States. The more crowded towns and bigger cities I was riding through all brought there share of danger and police. I had to become a little more gentle and avoid getting tagged in one of these towns. I was becoming more aware of the vast difference between the open farmlands and the little burghs that dotted the highway.
US-36 met US-150 at the eastern edge of Indiana. I was making great time, but I still stuggled with being so drowsy. As I neared the crossroads, I noticed there was a gas station, now closed for business and for lease, at the corner. I parked my bike under the canopy and slept against the front door. When I awoke, about 40 minutes later, I felt fresh again. I walked around the property, examining it. Out here, where there's not much competition (except for the Texaco across the street), why wouldn't this gas station still be open? It seems like there must be many people who really can't run a business very well. The inside of the station was stripped—there were some pegboards and a few shelves. The window sills around the switchboard and displays that controlled the pumps were covered with Post It notes about emergency phone numbers and bad check-writers.
For a little while, I allowed myself the fantasy of retiring here. I'd buy a farmhouse close by, maybe even right behind the station. I'd hire teen-aged kids to work druing the day, and maybe a retiree or bored wife or two to help through the days. I'd run the show myself at night, sitting around and reading and giving simple directions and pumping gas. It would be so refreshing to simply coast through without the worries I have now. Of course, I knew that the worries I have now would be replaced by other things. Taxes for my employees, or the Frito-Lay truck that was always late, or something.
I hopped on the bike and continued east on US-36. There were still many miles to cover, and it was nearly noon. The road became just a bit windy, allowing me to have the slightest bit of fun with handlng and driving the bike. The scenery as just beautiful: the little towns here were much quainter and felt more complete than the towns in the previous states. There were more trees, and I had already seen several covered bridges.
My little highway continued through more small towns until it ran into the heart of Indianapolis, right at the center of the state. Some of riding across country is about timing; you want to wake up and catch the bigger cities along the way at a time when they're not swollen with their rush-hour. I was worried that I'd meet with Indianapolis when it was crowed with lunchtime traffic, and then the next city I reached would be bustling with the true evening rush hour.
But it looked like I just missed it. I arrived into town around eleven in the morning and had little trouble getting lunch. I rode US-36 until it met the beltway around Indiana, and I caught US-40 on the way out of the town.
Despite being just a little sleepy after lunch, I decided to continue on. At this point in the trip, I was really develpoping some sort of rhythm; I felt that I could ride and ride for a very long time without really feling burdened by the task. I was thinking clearly and knew that my schedule would bring me to my destination efficiently.
The sweeping little towns were just wonderful to pull through. They each had young guys dressed in footbal varsity jackets, feed stores that still only sold feed, Cheverolet dealers, and McDonald's. This was truly the core of America, and I was right here to sit and look at it.
On the way out of Indianapolis, I got a little disoriented. I was sure that US-36 would connect to US-40, and I didn't really feel like riding on the interstate. I avoided signs for I-70, and ended up pulling around on some side streets in an expansive industrial area trying to find US-40. Just as I was about to give up, I lucked out: there it was.
US-40 ran parallel to I-70. My finicky approach to the highways was my own business. I didn't really need to make time, so I had the luxury of riding wherever I wanted. The late afternoon traffic was with me on US-40, though. As I edge towards Richmond, the little road became more congested with school busses and cars. I still made decent time. There were no stoplights, unless we were crossing another major highway.
When I hit Richmond, I was a little hungry again. I stopped for gas and looked at my map. It was about 330pm, and I decided to make it to Dayton, Ohio, before I called it a day. I sucked down another Mountain Dew and left the filling station. US-40 swirled around a river and then caught I-70 just on the east side of town. Within a few minutes, I was at the Ohio State Line.
Riding on I-70 was surprisingly refreshing. There was surprisingly little traffic, and what there was moved along just right. I kept up, passed a few people, and tried to ride teh bubble between groups of cars. Essentially, that would give me the highway to myself with all the benefits of following people who were near enough to see as they swerved or braked to avoid problems that would effect me.
Everything was nice until I got to Dayton. Coming down a big slope into town, I noticed that I was driving into some clouds that were moving towards the northeast. I toyed with the idea of riding further, maybe to Columbus. But there was no reason to push. I watched the signs and billboards and found a Holiday Inn.
And it was the right thing to do. After I snaked down the offramp and back around under the highway, I rode up into the Holiday Inn. After parking the bike under the canopy, I could see that traffic around the bend from my exit on I-70 was absolutely stacked! It gave me great reassurance to know I was optimally saving time and avoiding the weather. Fine by me!
The chick at the checkin counter was completely stunned by my appearance. She stood there looking blankly at me and I had to snap her out of it. I checked in, and they finally announced they had a room after I had already signed the credit slip. There were signs all over the lobby about the hotel's lounge and how they had a live act tonight. That amused me; I figured I'd try it.
The check-in carinval over, I hopped on my bike and rode around to the corner where my room was. There was a liquor store and a couple of gas stations within sight of the room, and that indicated my possibilities were still open. I parked the bike right at the door to the hotel and pulled off some of my gear. Rather than struggling with everything, I figured I would make two trips.
But the stairs nearest my enterance (and my room, too) had just been painted and there were Wet Paint signs all over the place. So I hauled down the hall until I found the elevator. The doors slid open and revealed a tarty-looking bimbo with a stretchy minidress. She was carrying a guitar case, and leading a guy with really stubby legs on a wheel chair. I held the door for them, and then got into the elevator. But I couldn't figure out what floor I was on; the button for the 2nd floor said that it was on the lobby level, and I was pretty sure that I wasn't on the lobby level even though my room number began with a two.
A few flase starts later, and I was in my room. I decided to avoid the hastle of the elevator again and took the stairs; the paint wasn't wet anymore, so I slunk down to the bike and got my other two bags.
From my room, I called my old neighbors back in Pittsburgh. The plan was to . I had the TV volume down and was watching a breaking news story about a shooting at the Capital Building in Washington, DC. That waas a little scary, and I talked with my neighbor about it. Soon enough, we agreed on a plan for dinner and went from there.
After I showered, I went down to the bar. I had a beer and was looking at the menu. Few things are worse than sitting in a bar, feeling committed to it, and realizing the menu is crap. There were about nine choices, three of which were different kinds of burgers. I thought about scrapping the hotel lounge and getting fast food and beer from the gas station. Instead, I ordered a wrap and got it, eventually. By the time it was served, the band was warming up.
It turned out that there were two midgets. They piled on stage with the bimbos, who sang. The midgets made short jokes between songs and played their instruments through two of the most elaborate MIDI racks I'd ever seen.
What a trip! These two bimbos sang their hearts out and the midgets tweaked their MIDI gear ceaselessly. I stared at the guitar player, trying to figure out exactly how a MIDI guitar really workred. The keyboards were obvious. The guitar player even had a stand (which looked like it was really meant to hold a drum. But, instead, there was a laptop on it and he tapped at the keyboard and used a trackball mouse. Undoubtedly, it ran the sequencing for all the rest of the gear on stage.
They played about five rock songs, and then went all country. I was trying pretty hard not to laugh at the whole thing; I mean, they were up there giving it their all. There were a few folks who'd been there all day—the bartenders were teasing them about drinking for so many hours.
I thought about my decision to stay. I certainly would have had better food almost anywhere else I went, but I certainly wouldn't have had this experience. It was amusing, but the endless country tunes were getting to me. After a few more beers, I called it quites and went upstairs to watch TV and doze off. Pittsburgh was only another 300 miles, or so. I could sleep in and have an easy day of it.
The band raged on. What a country!
Posted on 26 May, 1999.