Youngstown

On Wednesday, after a day's respite at Mosquito Lake, I packed up and headed to Youngstown.

The heavy morning air gave way to rain as I pedaled away from the campground. I stopped to put on my rain jacket and then continued into the corpse-gray fog. A gauzy mist blurred the road ahead. Passing cars sprayed me with tidal waves of oily road sludge.

By the time I got to Youngstown, the rain had stopped, leaving behind a flat, monochrome gray sky. I tooled around briefly and then set up to paint next to the Youngstown Thermal Corporation Steam Heat Plant.

When I had finished painting, I went to check out a brewing company I had caught wind of -- the Rust Belt Brewing Company (so very appropriate). I locked my bike to a sign post outside the brewery and walked up to the door, where I was greeted with a 'Closed' sign. The brewery was only open Thursday through Sunday. Bummer. Still determined to try some of the Rust Belt Brewing Co. Product, I stopped at several local bars till I found one that served it. I ordered a bottle of 'Coke Oven Stout' (named after the Youngstown coal ovens of yesteryear). As I drank my beer, a blues duo performed on a small stage at the front of the bar. I got out my sketchpad and drew the musicians as they played. When I had finished drinking and drawing (sometimes a good combination, sometimes not) I packed up and headed to Pymatuning State Park to camp for the night.

Wednesday mileage: 61
Total trip mileage: 1070

Below:
Youngstown Thermal Corp. Steam Heat Plant

Painting and Plant together

The blues guys at the bar

Coke Oven Stout

According to several banners (and 'Entrepeneur Magazine') Youngstown is a 'Top 10 City for New Business'

Abandoned Building (maybe a good site for one of those new businesses...)

Mosquito Lake

On Sunday night I couldn't sleep. (I am plagued by occasional vicious bouts of insomnia.) I read, played 'Words with Friends' scrabble, took a shower, did some yoga, tossed, turned, read some more, tried not to panic about not sleeping. When 7am rolled around, I gave up on a visit from Mr. Sandman and made myself some coffee (good strong moka pot coffee with lots of cream, a luxury, as I can't have this when I'm camping).

Cotton-headed, I started packing my stuff and readying my bike to head out of Cleveland. I made a list of things to do because I didn't trust my brain to remember anything on its own. The list said: pack stuff, inflate tires, leave.

The stuff-packing went fine, although slowly. When I got to the tire-inflating part of the list I discovered that my back tire had mysteriously gone flat overnight, all on its own. I cursed and kicked the tire. This did not solve the problem. So, grumbling, I took the wheel off the bike and clumsily changed the innertube. Finally, after much bumbling, I had everything sufficiently put together. I got on my bike and zombied out of Cleveland.

After 58 miles of robotic, semi-conscious pedaling, I reached my destination: Mosquito Lake State Park Campground. Mosquitos are on my list of Things That Are Horrible And Shouldn't Exist (also on the list: skunks, biting flies, fat-free coffee creamer, Kelly Ripa, vagazzling) so I felt wary about camping at a place that used the greedy blood-slurpers as a namesake. But Mosquito Lake State Park turned out to be wonderfully absent of mosquitos...probably because of the recent twenty degree nosedive in temperature.

I parked my bike at the campsite and a sharp wind bit through my sweaty spandex. No longer pedaling, I immediately caught chill. I yanked my clothes out of my pannier and pulled on long underwear, socks, pants, t-shirts, arm warmers, hats, everything I had with me. I looked like a fashion-blind sausage bursting out of its casing.

Still shivering despite my technicolor layers, I set up my tent, inflated my thermarest, and unfurled my sleeping bag. I ate a quick dinner of canned refried beans, stale cheetos, and a mushy banana. (I've never been a picky eater, but my current bike-touring-induced willingness to consume anything I can fit in my mouth has reached goat-like levels.) When I had finished eating 'dinner' I dragged my tired body to the shower room. I stepped in the shower stall and was reaching to unzip my pullover when a sudden blast of icy water hit me between the shoulder blades. I yelped and spun around, hands poised to throttle the trickster who had snuck in and turned on the shower. No one was there. A small blinking red light next to the temperature knob caught my eye...the shower was motion activated. I backed away from the blinky light and plastered myself against the shower stall door, attempting to remove my soggy clothes without triggering another waterfall. Once naked, I stepped under the shower head. Nothing came out. I moved back and forth. A short burst of water erupted and then stopped. It turned out that when I actually WANTED water to come out, the sensor required a lot of constant motion to keep the shower running. By 'a lot of constant motion' I mean vigorous dancing with lots of side-to-side movement. 'Thriller' and 'Sexyback' both seemed to work pretty well...

Monday mileage: 58
Total mileage: 1009

Next up: Youngstown



Jen's Handy Camping Tips- Tip#1: Unless you make tiny dainty little rabbit poops, do NOT take a number two in a porta-potty because the germ-ridden, swampy porta-potty water will splash back up and hit you in the bum and then you will have to go to the shower to rinse off so you don't get some mysterious, festering ass infection. And if you happen to be at a campground that has motion activated showers you will have to move your butt back and forth in front of the motion sensor in a lap-dance-like manner in order to get it properly washed off and clean. (I am not saying this happened to me. I am just saying that it is a good thing to keep in mind.)


Below:
New bike shoe covers! (not exciting, but apparently the only picture I took that day...sorry!)

Cleveland

On Friday I rode away from the mosquitos and skunks and flies of Marblehead and into Cleveland. As I traveled east the roads unflattened themselves and the farms morphed into suburbs. After fifty miles I stopped to do a quick painting of the Avon Lake Power Station, and then pedaled the rest of the way to Cleveland.

The next day, well-rested and well-caffeinated (thank you, Laura, for hosting me) I biked downtown to the 'Cleveland Flats', an industrial area (and increasingly an entertainment and residential area) along the banks of the Cuyahoga River. The streets adjacent the river were cartoonishly steep, and threatened to backflip me as I granny-geared my way up and pitch me over my handlebars when I zoomed back down. I rollercoastered around looking for a drawing venue, and found a shady park perched on the edge of the river. I sat down on a bench and surveyed my surroundings. Bridges zig-zagged overhead, lacing together the east and west banks of the Cuyahoga. Across the river an abandoned railroad bridge jutted into the sky like a steel skeleton. I sharpened my pencils and began sketching the railroad bridge. As I drew, more people wandered into the park, sitting on the other benches and leaning against the railing at the river's edge. They all seemed to know each other, and most drank beverages from brown paper bags (I considered putting my water bottle in a paper bag in order to better fit in with the crowd). A man leaning against a nearby tree watched me warily as he drank his paper-bag-cloaked beverage. After a while he un-leaned himself from the tree and shuffled over to check out what I was doing. Head cocked, he peered skeptically at my drawing. "Fuckin' Michelangelo cracker," he mumbled, and plodded off.

An hour or so later, as I was finishing my drawing, a fellow who introduced himself as "Zachariah the homeless man" plunked himself down on the bench beside me. "Hey!" he said, putting his face between me and my drawing, "you drawing that bridge! And it's good! You sure know how to work that pen, baby-doll." (After a ten-minute conversation with Zachariah, I had been called 'baby-doll' more times than ever before in my life.) "You should put me in the drawing," he suggested, and jumped up to stand in front of the bridge, arms raised overhead in a 'V'. "Draw me holdin' up the bridge," he instructed, "and if anyone asks 'Who is that in your drawing?' you will say 'That is Zachariah the homeless man.' And then you will sell the drawing for a million dollars." Zachariah held up the bridge for a few minutes, taking frequent breaks to nurse his paper-bag-wrapped drink. "Hey, you ain't put me in," he cried, sitting down beside me again.
"That's because you keep moving."
"So what?" He bent over to pick a 'Milwaukee's Best Ice' can from the sidewalk and gave it a shake. A few drops splashed in the bottom. He held it out to me: "You want a beer?"



(Side note: several people have emailed me to tell me that the 'Support' button wasn't working on this blog. Well, the problem has been solved and now it is!)

Mileage for Friday: 88
Total trip mileage: 951

Below:
Drawing of the railroad bridge (sans Zachariah the homeless man)

Painting of another railroad bridge

Painting with its subject

Painting of the Avon Lake Power Plant

The Cleveland Flats (seen looking down from a bridge)

Another railroad bridge

A Day at the Beach

On Wednesday I pedaled out of Toledo and into the Great Ohio Wilderness, which turns out to be very...flat. And farmy. And flat. And farmy. Over and over*. I felt like I was riding on a stationary bike in front of a projection screen displaying a fifteen-minute loop of cornfields and ranch houses. After forty-six skull-numbing miles of pedaling past farm clones, I arrived at my destination: East Harbor State Park in Marblehead, OH. My plan was to take the next day (Thursday) to rest, recover from the half-cold I had, swim in the lake, tend to my 'Words with Friends' Scrabble addiction, and eat Sun Chips.

After tooling around the campground to make sure I had picked the Absolute Best Possible Campsite, I unpacked my things and set up my tent. As I made dinner (undercooked pasta with semi-rancid cheese and limp carrots) the sun drifted below the horizon and several armies of mosquitos emerged. I slapped at myself and did the Spastic Mosquito Dance (imagine a marionette operated by a drunk epileptic). Unimpressed with my dance moves, the mosquitos continued biting. So I busted out the big guns: no-deet lemon eucalyptus hippie bug spray...which the blood-suckers ate up like A1 sauce. Cursing (and still slap-dancing) I put on all of my rain gear. I pulled the hood of my jacket over my head and cinched it tight. After a few minutes spent fruitlessly poking at my rain suit, the frustrated vampire cloud mobbed my face, biting my eyelids, nose, and cheeks till I scratched at myself like a methhead.

Done with dinner (and done acting as Blood Buffet for the mosquitos) I withdrew to my tent. As I read about fun and exciting local tourist attractions (a drive-through African safari/petting zoo! Kids love it!) I heard a rustling near the picnic table. I set down my brochure and pointed my headlamp toward the noise. A small black-and-white striped creature stared back at me while sorting through my table scraps. Bravely, I shrieked and ran (in my underwear) to the bathroom to hide from the skunk. Pinned to the bathroom door was a helpful poster warning against skunks and advising campers to stow all food in their cars. This did not improve my mood.

After half-an-hour of cowering in the restroom, I cautiously returned to my campsite to find...TWO skunks. Fighting. I scurried back to my bathroom hideout. Fifteen minutes of self-pity later, I again crept back to my tent. The skunks had gone, and I cautiously inspected the wreckage: they had rifled through my handlebar bag with their dirty skunk fingers, pulled out a baggie of vitamins, and chewed through a packet of watermelon Pop Rocks. I hope they got indigestion.

Exhausted, I went to bed. I slept restlessly, visions of thieving skunks and tomato-juice baths dancing in my head.

I spent the next day at the beach; no skunks there. I laid out my washcloth-size 'quick dry' towel on the sand and surveyed my surroundings. Miniature waves lapped lazily at the shore. Rotund bodies wrapped in colorful swimsuits dotted the sand like a handful of spilled bonbons. A pair of bored-looking border patrol guards tossed ho-hos to a growing swarm of seagulls.

After swimming to my heart's content, I returned to my towel to airdry and do my only "work" for the day: writing this blog post. I had planned to write as I sat peacefully on the beach, enjoying a calm summer breeze. But the late afternoon retreat of the sun brought out gangs of stinging flies. I tried to ignore them. Unsuccessful. I did the Spastic Fly Dance (which is very similar to the Spastic Mosquito Dance). When that didn't work, I resorted to typing while half-running down the sand, squishing any sandcastles in my wake and playing a losing game of hopscotch with the seagull poop.

Exasperated with the flies and unable to concentrate, I left the beach and retreated to my fully-screened, insect-free haven (a.k.a. tent). As I sat cross-legged on my thermarest typing, a man and a woman walked past my campsite. The man paused to examine my pannier-laden bicycle. "Hello," he said with a German accent. "You are a bicycle tourist?"
"Yes."
"And you are...American?" (said with barely-disguised surprise)
"Yes."
"Well...it's just that we don't see so many cycle tourists here in the U.S. Many in Germany, but not so many here. So it's very good that you are riding a bicycle. More Americans should ride bicycles; it would solve many problems, I think."
I agreed.
We chatted for a while and then he (Clive) wrote his address in my sketchbook and told me that if I ever find myself 30 kilometers west of Berlin I have a place to stay.


*Yes, yes, I know not all of Ohio is flat farmland, but the section I biked through today definitely was. I look forward to meeting the un-flat/farmy portions of Ohio.

Mileage for the day: 46
Total mileage: 863

Below:
The beach (pre-black fly invasion)

Toledo

I spent Monday and Tuesday in Walbridge, Ohio (a few miles south of Toledo) painting and drawing and laundry-ing.

Most of Toledo's industry is concentrated along the river, so on Monday I biked next to the waterfront, eyes peeled for intriguing painting subjects. I cycled through a circuitous maze of construction, detours, and torn-up roads until I came to a network of wide, houseless streets. A snaking chainlink fence separated me from a zoo of factories, vats, and tanks. A few turns and a few streets later the fence ended and I spotted a Clanky Blue Machine with a "Toledo Shredding" sign. On one side of the Clanky Blue Machine sat a motley collection of discarded automobiles piled into a rusty deathrow. Jump-suited workers hoisted the creaky victims into the Clanky Blue Machine, which banged and hummed and thumped and spat out piles of shiny dust.

On Tuesday I did a quick painting of the SunOil Plant (whose inspired motto is: we make gas) and then readied myself to head into the Great Ohio Wilderness the next day...

Coming soon: thieving skunks, biting flies, and friendly Germans.

Below:
Drawing of the Clanky Blue Machine

Toledo SunOil Plant

Last day in Motor City

(A short post today so I can get my butt out the door and go paint!)

On Friday I tooled around on my bike looking for burnt-out houses to paint. Finding a burnt-out in Detroit house isn't exactly a 'Where's Waldo' experience; most blocks feature at least a couple house-shaped piles of charred lumber. The problem was choosing. Mirror, mirror, on the wall: who is the most depressingly scorched heap of rubble of them all...? I finally settled on a partially burnt-out house on the corner of Hale and Grandy Street. As I painted, a construction crew busily tore down another burnt-out house down the block. One of the workers, a stocky, muscular man with fair skin and a shaved head, walked over to inspect my painting. "I might look like just a big construction worker," he said as he approached, "but I actually really like art." He explained that there are 16,000 burnt-out houses in Detroit. (16,000!!) Burnt-out houses only become a priority for tear-down after they have been burnt three times (the fire department keeps track of the number of burnings). The house I was painting had only been burnt once.

I could paint these cremated echoes of homes for years and be happy. But, after a week in Detroit (thank you, Molly, for hosting me for so long!) I've finally pulled myself away. On Sunday I cycled from Detroit 74 miles south to Walbridge, Ohio (just south of Toledo). Today I'll paint in Toledo, and tomorrow I'll hop back on my bike.

Sunday's mileage: 74
Total trip mileage: 817

Below (from top to bottom)
Burnt-out house painting (6"x8")

Painting and house together (the boys walking on the street were very curious about my painting and visited me several times)

Another burnt-out house down the block

On my way to Toledo I rode down 'Easy Street'

Swimming break at Sterling State Beach

Flag house between La Salle and Erie, MI (thank you, house, for letting me know that I didn't somehow wander out of the U.S.)

Ohio!

(Stuffed) Animal House: The Heidelberg Project

Thursday I biked over to the Heidelberg Project in Detroit's
east-side McDougall-Hunt neighborhood. Artist Tyree Guyten has costumed most of the houses on Heidelberg Street with brightly colored paint, musical instruments, stuffed animals, and miscellaneous found objects. Sculptures created from discarded shoes, old furniture, and altered 'Camel' cigarette posters perch on the grass between houses.

I wandered up and down Heidelberg Street like a magpie with sensory overload. A house covered in old records and violins caught my eye until I saw the matching pink car and bicycle partially submerged in a lawn down the street. My attention flitted from one technicolor creation to another. After a few laps around the block, I sat down in front of a house that was ornamented with weatherbeaten stuffed animals. Teddy bears erupted from windows. An overstuffed frog with a thyroid disorder hung, open-mouthed, from one side of the house. Around the corner, a bug-eyed dog in a banana suit stared blankly at the street. Two stories up, a mangled rag doll twisted in the wind, suspended by her hair from the roof. A faded 'Garfield' hung by its paws, crucifixion-style, from an eave. "I wonder if PETA has a stuffed animal division," I thought. Simultaneously delighted and creeped-out, I began to draw.

When I had finished sketching the stuffed animal nightmare, I moved my operation across the road. I set up my easel to face a house adorned with brightly-painted plywood and posters. "Taxi," said several posters. "God," said another. As I began to paint, the sun slid behind a mass of clouds, muting the rainbow-colored house. A small girl who lived on the next blocked skipped down the sidewalk to watch me. "You're painting that house," she piped, craning her head toward my canvas. "I want to paint, too!" Can you give me some of your paints?" I looked at her spotless white dress and imagined it transforming into a wearable Jackson Pollock. "How about doing a drawing instead?" I suggested, handing her a piece of paper and a Sharpie. She crouched on the cement, clutching the marker in her fist to draw slow, deliberate lines. A woman's voice echoed from around the corner. I couldn't make out the words, but the little girl's face fell. "I gotta go," she said, carefully placing her drawing at the foot of my easel.

Below (from top to bottom)

(Stuffed) animal house drawing

Painting of the colorful house (6"x8")

Painting with the house

Little girl's drawing

(Stuffed) animal house

Musical instrument house

Pink bike and car

Found object house

Altered camel cigarette poster fence

"War is Antichrist"

Dr. Dee