North Canton, Ohio

Monaca, Pennsylvania

Monday, July 21, 2003

Westbound: Willard to North Canton Eastbound: Monaca to Uniontown

Not seeing anything better nearby, I had breakfast at McDonald’s and then headed east. With the benefit of studying the streets on my Dell, it took only a few miles to work my way back onto the Cardinal Trail. If only the rest of the day had been as simple.

While I was in the vicinity of North Canton and its closer suburbs, the weather was quite nice. AS I continued eastward, however, I encountered a few minor detours and increasingly heavier clouds. And then the skies burst. I got out my “pancho” and was not uncomfortable though I did get wet. While there was a hint of a more violent storm, it was early enough in the day that the rain as mostly vertical. The clouds went by, I began to dry, and continued apace.

After some thirty miles, it was noon and I came to an old, brick building labeled , “The Old Stage Coach Inn.” I was hungry and it looked interesting. A bunch of guys pulled up on a truck at the same time and they teased me about the bike. In we went for a good, hot lunch. I was still damp from the morning storm but a wooden stool at the bar meant I was not threat to the upholstery.

By 12:40, I was a bit more comfortable but also a bit concerned about both the time and the weather. I took some pictures of the Inn, tried to call home, but abandoned that effort after the network dropped our weak connection tree times.

For the first few miles from the Inn the road heads south and the weather was fine, but that soon changed significantly. Shortly after I turned east again, very strong winds, thunder, lightning, and heavy rain attacked the countryside. I watched the homes to either side of me for television aerials and lightning rods. Arguably, I should have gotten off the bike and sought shelter, but no one seemed to be home. Several times the wind nearly tipped me over. The comparable weather I could personally recall was standing on the dock at my uncle’s place on Long Island during hurricane Carol in the mid fifties. And then the storm passed. Whew.

With the weather no longer an issue, I focused on trying to make better progress. For a few miles, the road was uneventful. Whereas most of the day’s travel had been through urban, suburban, or agricultural areas—all of which had decent signage, some semblance of a grid, and good roads—I had now come to a wooded area in which the road had narrowed significantly. I reached an intersection where none of the turns made compelling sense. The road I was on reached a tee. To the left was a long downhill with the pavement lost under another canopy of trees. The gates to heaven could be a mere five hundred yards to the north but they would be nonetheless wholly out of view behind the trees. To the right, I saw a steep but shorter uphill. Just below the corner, another road—displaced to the north by fifty feet—seemed to continue in the general direction I had most recently followed. The scale of my printed map was too tight to show such a small jog in the road. That was my error. The strip map from Columbus Outdoor Pursuits had blown away in the storm. That was carelessness and bad luck. With no great confidence, I took the quick left and right and continued more or less on the previous course. Soon I came to a bridge, a small parking lot, and what looked like a rail trail. As I tried to decipher the sign and relate it to my map, some teenagers emerged on the trail. Unlike the convenience store clerk in Canal Fulton, they knew the lay of the land.

I was at the Little Beaver Creek Greenway (trail map, background, vicinity map), and they could assure me that it would take me to Ohio 558, one of the highways I was seeking. In about three and half pleasant miles on good pavement distracted only by the blow down from the storm I reached Ohio 558. I was a few miles east of my intended junction but more than happy to be back on a road my maps could identify.

I followed 558 across open country, though the intersection with Ohio 164, my planning point of access, through the busier intersection with Ohio 7, and into East Palestine, where I interrupted some adults in a parking lot to confirm that I was on the way to Pennsylvania. Within a mile, the street narrowed, became Pennsylvania 165, and quickly joined PA 51.

Subsequent study of the maps suggests that I had made the correct decision back at the mystery intersection. Turning left would have been almost as good as the rail trail but likely less flat. Only turning right up the hill would have been a distinct error. That road appears to double back to the west.

The silly thing, in retrospect, is that I had lugged some fine tools more than 2, 000 miles for just such a problem. I could have set up the Dell and the GPS to establish my exact location. Perhaps I should have. I wonder if that is the real advantage to a hand held GPS: one will actually consult it. At least I wasn’t too proud to ask the teens for directions. Nonetheless, my crabbiness and my failure to use my tools both suggest the possibility of accumulated fatigue. Had I recognized that as an issue, I could have stopped as planned at Columbiana, spending one of my remaining reserve days. Instead, I pressed onward.

PA 51, a four lane divided highway, did not have the best shoulder but on a late Monday afternoon, it didn’t have much traffic heading toward the Pittsburgh metropolitan area. As I did elsewhere I used the shoulder when traffic approached from the rear but took the lane when I could. I made good time and reached Beaver Falls by about 5 pm. (Joe Willie)

I stopped at a large gas station-convenience store for a drink and asked about lodging. Like Ravelli, Montana, this was a location where every appearance suggested there should be good lodging, but neither my research, local lore, nor inspection on the ground disclosed any place to stay.

The lady in control of the store undertook to solve my problem. She made some calls and then with no success so far, looked me in the eye to ask whether I would stay at a place that catered to truck drivers. I said sure and she made the arrangements for me to stay at the Kubuta Hotel in Monaca. She called them to arrange a room, gave me directions, and sent me forth—all for a stranger! Between the time spent in the store, getting further down the highway, crossing the rivers twice, and climbing a pretty decent hill before descending back to the river level, it was sevenish before I arrived at the hotel.

From the outside, the Kubuta was not an inspiration. An older, square two storey, brick building, it was not imposing. The front was graveled not paved. I saw no tractor trailer combinations. Where were my trucker buddies? I was tempted to keep going, but I recognized (a) I had no other prospects, (b) I was on a bicycle (c) these folks were expecting me, and (d) the gal at the store vouched for them. I swallowed and entered.

I received a grand reception. My room was waiting, they had identified a safe place to leave the bike, the bar and dining room were open. What would I like to eat? Where would I like to sit. I fell back on the old reliable, hot roast beef sandwich, and this time was not disappointed. Generous in portion, with hot, dark gravy and adequate mashed potatoes, it was the real McCoy. It retrospect, it seems likely the cut of the beef was utility, the potatoes instant, and the gravy fortified with Gravy Master. No matter; it was the right stuff then and good value for the modest price.

I sat at the bar in the main room. It also had at least a dozen round tables, none occupied, and a side room, also empty but available. Had I wanted privacy, it was available. Both these rooms were old, dark, and full of character. I was happy to sit at the bar and join the conversation.

My clothing, of course, announced that I was not just another truck driver. While some folks had no interest in my journey, there were at least a half dozen, about half the crowd, that wanted to hear about th trip. After I gave that group the highlights, one fellow took the stool next to me at the bar, asked more questions, and shared some of his travels. When I had finished my beer, he asked if wanted another. I replied I couldn’t afford another—meaning that for clarity of thought I needed not to have another—and he immediately said he would treat. I clarified that it wasn’t the money, I really needed to finish some stuff upstairs and didn’t need a buzz. But I thanked him for his kindness. I went on upstairs, took my shower (down the hall), called home, and went to sleep.

About 76.83 miles.

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Westbound: Willard to North Canton Eastbound: Monaca to Uniontown