Part 21: Bicycle Coast to Coast Across America—Heartland, Bikes In Bloom

By Frosty Wooldridge

“Funny thing about a bicycle journey riding by yourself. You think more and contemplate more.  You carry on conversations with yourself.  Solo bicycling allows you discussions with God, your parents, your old friends, some old enemies, old teachers and a slew of people who touched your life positively and negatively.  In order to shed any negative energy, best to forgive everyone and wish them journeys of greater understanding and joy.  Entrust them with greater spiritual frequencies from your heart.”  FWH

(Bikes in Bloom in Milfor, Ohio.)

Indiana: Riding through the Heartland of America offers flat land, farms, trees and country roads that lead into little towns.  I headed east into Cincinnati, Ohio.  I don’t mind saying that I got a little freaked out getting caught on several expressways where I couldn’t get off.

Finally, I crossed over the Ohio River to make my way onto Route 50 that would carry me all the way into Washington DC.  Route 50 proves one of the oldest roads in the United States since it headed west out of our nation’s capital way back when dirt roads crisscrossed the land.  Horse and buggies dominated.  Hard to believe such slowness of oxen, horses, cows and wagons prevailed when you look at our high-speed society today. 

On the outskirts of Cincinnati, I jumped off the freeway onto a local route that appeared to travel toward Route 50 to get me headed east.  I pedaled through entire ghetto neighborhoods with wrecked cars, trash everywhere, broken down homes and scattered trailer houses mixed in for bad measure. 

I look at my own very modest if not poor upbringing.  My parents didn’t make much money.  We lived in a Quonset hut at one point, a 30-foot trailer for a year and other marginal housing situations.  I didn’t think much of it because dad and mom kept us fed, we attended school and dad always kept us into sports. All in all, I think my youth turned out just fine.   But to maintain that kind of poverty would weigh on me.  To see it, depresses me.  I’ve seen a great deal of poverty in America and around the world.

To tell you the truth, I don’t know if anything can be done about it.  Poor people lack education or they lack much intellect, which condemns them to struggling financially. They drop out of school to guarantee their poverty without job skills.  No figuring it here or around the world.

(Pac Man Bicycle in Bloom in Milford, Ohio.)

As I pedal across America, I see some grand things and some bad things.  When I pedal through a ghetto, I am able to take it into my being, process it, feel bad, but then, pedal out of it into the countryside.  Can any American overcome his or her poverty and terrible upbringing?  Yes, many uplifted themselves with great effort.  Many failed. It may be the luck of the draw.

On Route 50, I quickly pedaled through cornfields, dogs, cows, horses, pigs and chickens on farm after farm.  John Deere tractors dominated.  Thick trees rounded out the countryside.

About 20 miles out of Cincinnati, I pedaled through a little 100-year-old berg named Milford, Ohio.  On the outskirts of town, I noticed a bicycle blooming with purple-white-pink flowers. I took a shot with a sign next to it:  “Bikes in Bloom”  Milford, Ohio. 

“Wow, what a beautiful bunch of flowers growing out of the bike baskets,” I said to myself.

As I pedaled down through town, I passed over a dozen bikes in front of storefronts with bicycle of every shape and kind—filled with flowers.

“I’ll be danged,” I said.  “This is a celebration of two wheeled beauty.”

Mother-daughter bikes with flowers in their baskets.  A unicycle filled with flowers.  One bike wrapped in rhinestones. Another bike hauled a trailer loaded with flowers.  Each storefront tried to outdo the other store with creatively flowered bicycles.

I met some guys at the local bike shop who took my picture telling me that my tour through town made the first rider for the season.

On the way out of town, an old guy sprayed Roundup weed-killer on some dandelions near a small creek.  “Why are you spraying poison into the creek?” I said.

“It’s only weed killer,” he said.

“You’re poisoning the ground water and creek,” I said.  “You’re doing great harm to your grandkids and other living creatures.”

“It’s not my problem,” he said.

“I wish there was a law to arrest you for such ignorance,” I said as I shoved off.

Later, I pedaled along Route 50 when a rainstorm popped up, headed toward me quickly. I jumped under a maple tree, set up my tent and fell asleep as the rain dumped out of the clouds.

Next morning, sunshine and blue sky!  Passed though rough Chillicothe to Coolville. Winding road, cars and farms.

(Camping out after a long day’s ride.)

Soon, the terrain undulated for the next 70 miles, which slowed me down considerably.  No matter how strong my legs, a six percent grade cuts my speed down to five miles per hour.  At mid day, I felt hungry so I stopped at an all-you-can-eat buffet.  Gees, Louise, I walked in on the Ohio version of “Biggest Loser” fat farm.  I just cannot for the life of me understand how people can allow themselves to blow up to 350 pounds.  Their weight debilitates them to a very limited life and worse as they suffer heart attacks and diabetes.

But you know, we each get to choose our lives. So be it.

As I sat there eating my salad, soup and fruit bowl, a lady wished she could go with me. Two farm boys, Tim and Bart, wanted to know more about my website they noticed on my bike when they walked into the restaurant.  Someone called the local reporter to come down and write a story about my cross continent trek.

After the interview and pictures, I headed east on Route 50.  At the end of the day, I arrived in a small town with a city park, picnic tables, bathroom and fire pit.  A couple of high school kids walked over with firewood and kindling. We fired up the pit.  I told stories while sipping a cup of hot chocolate.

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