Crispin’s
Guide to Stirling Cycling - Overseas
Cycling
in America - Crispin Bennett
In February 1993, a desire to work in America and some transatlantic
‘phone calls resulted in my arrival in Wooster. Ohio. Ohio lies smack in the
middle of the bible-belt and is the start of the mid-west. Wooster is a small affluent town, with a
population of 20000 and had been described to me previously as ‘Northern
Exposure ~without the moose”. I was
destined to spend nearly two years there.
Moving to a new area is always traumatic, even more so if you do not have wheels, and before my first pay-check (cheque?) arrived I had ordered a bicycle from the town’s new bike shop. I was never sure whether Ernie had opened his shop simply because of my arrival, but I must have been a significant factor in his calculations. I bought a Trek 520 Touring-bike because this was the only touring-bike the guy in the shop had ever seen and it also looked pretty in the catalogue. Now I could explore Wooster and its environs; all I had to do was remember to ride on the wrong side of the road.
Holmes County
Wooster was a good place for a cyclist to live. To the north was one of the flattest areas
in America, where the only climbs were the bridges spanning the interstates and
towns had names like Bowling Green. To
the south were the rough, undulating roads of Holmes County, home to the
World’s largest Amish community. The
Amish live life mostly as it was in the 17th Century, traveling by
horse’n’buggy, and speaking their own peculiar dialect of Pennsylvanian
Dutch. It was an incredible sight to be
out on a Sunday afternoon with buggies in front, buggies behind, and not a
telegraph line or car in sight. It was
an even more incredible sight when a buggy was spotted sporting pink
fluffy-dice or a CB aerial. Mind you, I
did not have to travel to see Amish, as I walked to work they would often
clatter past in their buggies and stare at the strange being traveling on foot.
For most mid-westerners cycling is restricted to summer, partly because
they are wimps and partly because the winters are very cold. Only a foreigner would be stupid enough to
cycle during the five winter months when the temperature hovers around freezing
and snow lies on the ground. When the
temperature dropped below 0oF (‑180C), as it did
for weeks at a time, cycling became an exercise in survival as there was a real
risk of frostbite, particularly with a 20mph wind-chill factor. Cycling in these conditions was not an
enjoyable experience, with nose-hairs freezing within seconds, but the shopping
had to be done. At least the local
supermarket used to clear the snow from the bike-rack for me.
Once spring came, however, bicycles would be dusted down and I would
have company on my rides. Never one to do
thing by halves, I joined two cycle clubs.
Stark County Bike Club was based 30 miles away but organised several
rides a day, even on weekdays, with every cyclists’ mileage being carefully
recorded for publication in the monthly newsletter. Wayne Wheels were based in Wooster and were a complete contrast:
they never rode if rain was forecast.
When rain did fall, as it was always inaccurately forecast to do, it
fell with a phenomenal intensity, the roads became rivers and the accompanying
winds blew in all directions, but half an hour later the sun had everything
nice and dry again.
Consequently, most of my cycling was done with an unorganized crowd from
the Wooster YMCA. Cycling to a ride was
unheard of: Americans drive everywhere, or they did until I started bugging
them. At least my friends did not have
shotguns hanging in the back of their pick-up trucks. Every ride was treated as a race and always followed the same route
- leading a ride through a scenic but not-normally-cycled valley would induce
weeks of whinging. The road surfaces
varied from smooth tarmac to randomly scattered rocks, which when coupled to
the continuous round of resurfacing meant that you could never be too sure
whether a particular ride would end up on terrain completely unsuitable for the
skinny-tyred road bikes everyone insisted on riding. Another lovable
idiosyncrasy was the fact that no one ever did their own bike repairs; even
fixing tubes was abhorred. Self-reliance was a
foreign word. I was out one Sunday when
I came across two Clevelanders who relied simply on a mobile-phone.
A popular form of cycling was the “patch ride, after the momento
cloth-patch riders received. A route of
15-l00 miles would be marked, with free food-stops and support vehicles also
being provided in return for $10 (£6).
All the rides have witty acronyms, like ‘‘LOST” (Little Ohio Spring
Tour) and “FOUND” (Fall Ohio Up’N’Downs), and were completed by several hundred
riders.
The highlight of summer, with a capital P in its ‘‘Patch”, was
the week long GOBA (Great Ohio Bicycle Adventure), which attracted 3000 riders
tempted by its circuitous 400-mile route.
We even got to cycle across a time-zone, although in retrospect this was
not a very weird experience.
High-schools and fair-grounds were used as temporary camp-sites, with
church groups supplying food for us starving transients. As GOBA took place in June, temperatures
often reached in excess of 100oF, and so most riders were on the
road by 6am, although many families did not finish each day’s 50-mile ride
until late afternoon. On finishing, my
first task was to search for my luggage: not an easy task as four lorries can
carry an awfully large pile of bags!
All I had to do then was erect my tent, and take a shower. As American High-Schools are actually sports
centres with classrooms added only as an afterthought, I should not have been
surprised to find the changing rooms capable of showering a hundred in a
standing, if that is the right terminology.
The rest of the day was spent gossiping with friends in air-conditioned
comfort in a local restaurant or watching the entertainments laid on by the
locals.
GOBA – A tented village once you’d found your bags
Summer always ends before I accomplish even half of that I had planned
when spring was in the air. To compensate,
riding the bike in Ohio during fall was a real pleasure, with every tree
turning to produce a kaleidoscope of burning reds and yellows, whilst the air
was cool and the sun warming.
And then, with frightening rapidity, another winter was upon us. Although, as my time in Wooster was at an end, I did not have to survive all the second one. I spent my final Christmas packing the bike, and the boxes of Country and Western CDs, and then flew home to my parents in time to join the local club for their New Years ride in the snow.
(c) Crispin Bennett, 1996