Part One
It's 5am and I'm wide awake. People close to me would raise in eyebrow in surprise. I am a vampire by nature and hate the rising dawn. But anticipation and adrenaline are providing a natural coffee high in my veins. I'm hitting the trail this morning, after much delay.
I dress quickly, minimizing the noise I create, but hoping the faint sounds will wake my brother. I am riding alone, but a small part of me still wants David to come with me. I hope he will hear me and rise to get dressed and follow me.
The thought is a fantasy. David does not stir. I whisper, "David, I'm going to the bike trail. I'll be back later."
He acknowledges me with a faint grunt and returns to dreamland.
The trailhead is only two miles from the hotel. I stop at Ms. Cheri's Donuts for a snack and coffee on my way there. The owner is busy putting all the morning's creations into the display case. I see all the familiar donut favorites; glazed, chocolate, frosted with sprinkles on top. I want something different from my go-to favorite glazed donuts and ask the owner, whom I presume to be Cheri, for her recommendation. She smiles and I cannot think of anything else. It is one of the best smiles I've ever seen. A side hustle in Crest commercials is something she would just slay.
She recommends the glazed croissants, and I grab three to go with my coffee. The recommendation is on point. The croissants are light and fluffy, and the sweetness of the glaze is primo. I wolf my three down in the car in short order and finish my coffee as I pull into the trailhead parking lot.
The sun peaks through the clouds as I hit the trail and then its lost behind the tunnel of trees along the paved bike path. The air is chill, and a faint fog lingers along the path. It does not take long before I see the glow of bike lights from other riders on the trail. I pass—or get passed—by every biker type you can think of. Seniors on bikes straight out of the 1950s, overly serious cyclists decked out in full racing gear on carbon fiber bikes, bike tourers with stuffed panniers, and casual riders like me.
I ride through wooded areas, past extensive fields planted with crops or clover, and see a total of six deer feeding along the edges of the trail. Sections of the trail snake past decades old homes looking down on the trail from atop hills. One house has an immense garden in front of it.
I exit the trail to go back and get a better look. The street adjacent to the trail has no shoulder. It is a textbook place for a car to hit a cyclist, so I rise on my pedals and book it down to the house I saw. I pull into the driveway, but do not linger. I take a quick glance, and then turn around. It is private property and I do not know how the owners would react to seeing a random person in the early morning standing in their yard. When I turn around, I see a no trespassing sign that I missed, confirming my good sense. I make a mental note to look on my way back and see if the owners are tootling around the garden. If they are, I will say hello.
The trail also goes through Loveland, Ohio. It is a charming small town with adventure shops, restaurants, and coffeehouses on either side of the trail. Every business in sight has signs welcoming cyclists. I realize the path is a primary conduit to commerce for the town. I make a mental note to drive to it later for lunch.
I check my phone for the time when I reach the blockade. I've been riding for a little over an hour. It feels like a half hour. As I suspected it would be, the ride is a tease; a mere glimpse of what I am hoping to experience for the rest of the trip. I turn around and zip down the path. My spirit lifted above the treetops.
I glance to my left when I reach the street, I exited the trail from earlier in the morning. As luck would have it, I see a man walking his dog and headed toward his mailbox. It is the owner of the home with the garden, and true to my promise I turn around, hit the street again, and head over to him.
I introduce myself and compliment him on his garden. He is a little standoffish but shakes my hand before asking if I have ID on me. Without a second thought, I pull out my wallet and show him it. Surprise appears on his face, and I find out it's because bikers always stop at his house. None ever have ID on their person, and unfortunately many have just walked into his garden and helped themselves to some veggies.
I am shocked at the revelation. In the short time I have been engaging with the biking community, I expected better behavior and manners. My openness and honesty-his words-melts away his wariness. He tells me to come on and inspect what he has growing.
Tom has been living in the house for fifty years. He has had a garden the entire time. Right now, it is filled with broccoli, tomatoes, kale, potatoes and carrots. We walk around the garden talking and I tell him about the community gardens I'm a member of back home. I show some pictures of them I have on my phone. I point to a few carrots with their tops just crowning about the soil and say "Looks like you got some ready. Better get them before any more rude cyclists show up."
He chuckles but responds, "It's this dog I have to worry about. He loves them."
Tom pulls a few from the ground. He throws two toward his dog, Dutch, and true to his word the dog chomps on them. Then he walks over to his hose, rinses off two carrots and hands them to me. Thanking him, I bite into one. Its crisp, and crunchy on a level never found in grocery stores.
Speaking to Tom was awesome and validated what I hoped to find in the heartland. Sure, I know many people, even those of good intent, would find a demand for photo ID a little off-putting. But, hey I'm a random dude showing up in front of his house at 730 am.
I'm in high spirits when I get back to the hotel. I have just experienced a morning full of what I hoped to experience in the next several weeks. Gorgeous views, fresh air, and strangers turned into friendly acquaintances.
I'm at a high point in the trip so far, but it soon turned into a diving board that cracked in two, sending me to the water below.
