The weather would have been perfect for riding if it wasn’t
for the headwind I had to contend with most of the day. Riding
into the wind is very similar to going up a hill, except that there’s no
getting to the top (and no free downhill ride as a reward for all the hard work). But, I knew headwinds would be part of the
deal, so I just put my head down and plowed ahead as best as I could.
I was making my way along the alternately ritzy and
white-trash coast of Lake Erie and didn’t encounter anyplace to get breakfast –
not even a gas station convenience store.
It’s a good thing I’ve been carrying enough emergency supplies or I’d
have to resort to raiding chicken coops along the way! As lunchtime came and went, I was beginning
to get desperate. I switched to a road
that paralleled the one I was on in hopes that it might have food, but after
about five miles of nothing it ended up merging back up with the road I had
abandoned. Just as I was about to turn
to my emergency rations again, I sudden came upon an oasis: The White Turkey Drive-in! It was packed with customers, partly due to
it being Father’s Day, and partly because it was the only place to eat within a
hundred miles.
I got the Large Marge turkey sandwich, fries, and a root beer
float. The food would have been average
on a good day, but as hungry as I was it was a royal feast of delectableness
the likes of which I hadn’t dared dream of only an hour earlier.
Shortly after I got going again, I spotted a loaded
long-distance rider coming the opposite way.
He veered across the road to say hi and exchange road knowledge. He was from the U.K. and had been biking around
different parts of the world for the past two and a half years – and he looked
like it, too. He was very lean and had
the deeply tanned skin of someone who spent all their time outdoors. The unhealthy looking scab on the bridge of
his nose reminded me to be sure I was applying my sun block every day.
He had ridden across Australia, Eurasia, France, and was
about to complete his trek across the U.S. from west to east. He had a plane ticket out of Boston in two
and a half weeks and wanted to know if I thought he could make it in time. Since it had taken me a little over two weeks
to get to where we met, I assured him he’d make it easily. I gave him a couple route options while
looking over his bike. It had definitely
seen a lot of miles (and not a whole lot of maintenance). I was surprised he could still pedal the
thing with all the rust on the chain and gears.
As we chatted, I noticed that he wasn’t wearing a helmet,
didn’t have on bright cyclist clothing, and no GPS or maps were in evidence. This guy was really going old school. I began to wonder if he was an adventure
cyclist or just a hobo with a bike! His
route was more of a southwest to northeast one, so he didn’t have any input for
me on my northerly trajectory. With
mutual wishes of good luck and safe riding, we continued on in opposite
directions.
For that night, I found a quiet little campground behind a
golf course. I checked in, and I was the
only tenter there (as I am at most of these RV-dominated places). I threw in a load of laundry and headed down
to the game room, which was the only place you could pick up the WiFi
signal. While hanging out there, I met
Jessup.
Jessup and I got to talking; me about my trip and him about hunting. I asked if he knew whether the no beer sales
on Sunday was a campground rule or a local ordinance. It was a county thing, so I was out of luck
beer-wise. I mentioned how the advantage
to brewing your own beer was that you always had a ready supply on hand no
matter what day it was. That’s when he
gave me a sly look that came along with a conspiratorial grin.
“I brew m’own stuff, too,” he said. “But it’s a touch stronger’n beer.”
“Are you talking about the kind of stuff you’ve got to hide
from the G-men?”
“Wait raht here.”
With a wink he was gone. A minute
later he was back with a jug and two shot glasses. Yep, genuine homemade moonshine. Pure alcohol distilled from corn and
sugar. Jessup poured me a shot. It smelled like jet fuel. I downed it and wheezed my way through the
ensuing choking fit. This made Jessup
very happy.
“One hunnerd and forty proof,” he claimed. To demonstrate, he flipped off the light and
flicked his Zippo over his shot glass. A
clean blue flame dance atop the ‘shine.
“You only git that kin’a blue with the good stuff.” He blew out the flame and threw back the shot
– sans the rookie coughing fit.
He cajoled me into one more shot, but I had to turn down his
repeated offers of a third. We talked
for almost an hour about his moonshining exploits. He was very proud of his product, and I
couldn’t blame him. Jessup was a true
craftsman. As I floated happily back to
my tent, I reflected on the fact that I would have never had a unique
experience like I’d just had sitting at home in my cozy living room watching
TV.
What I Learned: There's a profound difference between living and existing.
Distance Today: 37 miles
Total Distance: 731 miles
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