Draw a north-south line through the spot where I live in central Ohio. About 98 times out of 100, when I’m venturing more than a few miles from home, I’m going somewhere east of that line.
There are plenty of reasons for that. Most of the people who are important in my life live along that line or east of it. If I’m riding for fun, I can ride east and the Appalachian foothills begin just miles from my flatland home. There, nature is largely in control, people become less numerous and the roads mostly follow the hilly contours, which evolve into mountainous contours and approach my version of motorcycle-riding perfection somewhere around the West Virginia-Virginia border.
Riding west leads to monotonous interstates or backroads that are often long and straight and lined with the monoculture of U.S. agribusiness. Corn in the field this year, soy beans next year. Essential stuff, if we care to eat. Less exciting to ride through.
I recently had reason to ride west, however, and I decided I’d make the most of it and try to see some of the countryside I’d neglected in that direction. I was riding over to meet with Teri Conrad, who is the editor of Accelerate online magazine and therefore my “boss” when I’m writing for that publication, which I do every issue. She was riding through western Ohio on her way between two rallies where she represented Riders of Kawasaki. We took advantage of a rare opportunity to meet face-to-face for dinner and to discuss plans for future issues of Accelerate, as well as get caught up on all the other things happening in life, since this is one “boss” I also consider a friend and a kindred spirit in the motorcycle world.
Knowing I’d need to blaze my way home from the Dayton area in twilight and darkness on Interstate 70, I left early so I could meander westward, not knowing how long it might be before I crossed that imaginary north-south line again. A series of vectors through small towns and farm country took me to Caesars Creek State Park, which includes a reproduction “pioneer village” consisting of several buildings that demonstrate life in the early 1800s, when Ohio was still mostly unsettled by people of European descent. The photo below would be more period-correct if the early-19th-century cabin didn’t have a Versys parked out front. A mule, maybe.
Ohio has more lakes than some people imagine, and while Lake Erie is the big action, smaller lakes, like the one at Caesars Creek or picturesque Lake Logan nearer my home, draw people for fishing. During colder winters, Buckeye Lake near me roars in the dreary dead days of February with ice racing by ATVs and motorcycles, about as far south as that sport can survive.
That’s me with Teri, and before any guy out there thinks to ask that age-old ill-advised question, yes, she rides that 850-pound Vaquero herself. Coast to coast and north to south, representing Riders of Kawasaki. She’s one of us.
My real destination took me back into the relative bustle of Dayton’s suburbs. At least it felt like bustle after the cornfields and small towns of the afternoon. The talk over a simple pizza dinner was stuff of deadlines, story ideas, travel logistics and editorial policies. Slightly interesting only because motorcycles are peripherally involved and nothing anyone would care to read about here. And then I did my blaze-home-on-I-70 thing, slaughtering about 1.2 million late-summer insects in the bargain.
I got home reassured that even a routine ride can be fun. Even when it crosses the line and it’s on the wrong side of Ohio.
