Day 67: Old Farts, Pigeon Show, Decline of U.S. Steel, Cle(A)veland

Day 67:  Monday August 11th, 2014.

Huron, OH to Cleveland, OH.  53.3 miles.

At 7:30 am, I awoke to the sound of raindrops on my tent.  It was brief, but more than a drizzle - enough to get my mind jumpstarted about exactly what I was going to do today.  On my phone, I pulled up the high-definition weather radar app, which updates every 2 to 7 minutes to get a better sense of what was going on.  I could see that the linear set of storms responsible for waking me up were on their way out.

But, behind them, a much larger line of thunderstorms with greater intensity were on their way.  By watching the display of their position, 60 minutes ago, then 40, then 20, 10, and 5 minutes ago, repeating in a loop, I could get a sense of how fast the storms were moving, and approximately how much time I had before they arrived (a technique forecasters refer to as "Nowcasting").

I estimated that I had about an hour.  My previous intention was to take the day off, hang out in the town of Huron, and check out the local points of interest.  But, I was in a bit of a quandry, re-evaluating my plan.  Situated in a campground 3.5 miles from town, I was sure to get wet traveling into town, through the town during the day, and probably on my return.  My other dilemma would be that my tent gear would be wet, and with a similar forecast slated for tomorrow, I would be packing up in the rain and riding through the rain tomorrow as well.

In the back of my mind, I knew that Cleveland was about 50 miles away.  If I can pack up now, within the hour before the next wave of storms hit, I will have dry gear protected from the rain in my waterproof bags.  I could then ride into town and look for a hotel in Huron, or at the very least, get some breakfast and delay deciding whether to stay in Huron proper, or move on to Cleveland in the rain.

I decided to go for it, leaving behind the isolated campground, heading into Huron.  I packed up just in time.  As I returned the gate key at the check-in booth, drops started falling.  About a half mile out of the campground, the steady rain turned into a heavy downpour.

Up ahead, a bridge crossing over the road I was on.  I pedaled fast to the bridge and waited.  The most intense color on the radar was right on top of me, but would pass in a few minutes.  After the rain lightened up a bit, I continued riding into Huron.

As I pulled into the main part of town, prominantly displayed on a busy street was the Donut Shop.

Perfect!  I'll head on in and figure out what to do next.  The next thing to do was eat donuts!  That was easy.  This was a cozy one-room place, with a typical donut counter on the right, and a horse shoe-shaped bar winding around the rest of the place.  There were only a few empty seats.  Most were occupied by a bunch of old farts giving each other a hard time.  I say "old farts" because that's what I heard shortly after walking in, when another gentleman entered and was greeted by a seated patron.

A nice man, Jack, 80 years old, chatted with me about my bicycle trip.  He was a character, and we laughed a lot.  He told me, "If you listen to these guys around here, you would think they hate each other; but, they would give the shirt of their back to you if you needed help."

Then, a few minutes later, Don, seated to my left, asked Jack, "Hey, how's the car running.", with a chuckle under his breath.  Then, Don proceeded to tell me that Jack had just bought a brand new Cadillac.  "You see, Jack has got to be different than the rest of us - We all drive Ford Focuses and he goes out and buys a Cadillac."  Joining in, I said to Don, "Well, you know, when you are a 2-time golf champion, you have to look good."  Jack had told me that the whole gang of old farts gets together once a year to do a golf tournament for charity.  "We all suck", he told me.  But, Jack got lucky and won the past two years in a row.  Don reacted to my comment laughing his head off, "Are you kidding me - he's already bragging to you about nothing more than a lucky streak!"  The banter went on and on.  It was incredibly fun.  I lost track of time, forgetting where I was, why I was there, or what the weather was doing outside.  Before leaving, Jack snuck over to the waitress and paid for my coffee and donut.  After he left, I continued to chat with Don and the others, ordering a toasted bagel with cream cheese, and then later a cinnamon-apple fritter.  My coffee cup was always full.  

Don, an avid breeder of show pigeons, had a lot to talk about.  He breeds the German Beauty Homer, and travels around to Pigeon shows across the U.S. to compete, and to sell pigeons as well.  I had no idea people bred pigeons, let alone entered them into competitions.  He attended the show in San Diego, and we talked about that.  He also told me that certain breeds of Homer pigeons are bred often for racing.  "When they race the Homers, they will let them go sometimes 3000 to 5000 miles away, and the first one back wins."  I asked him, "Don't they get lost that far away?"  Sometimes they do, he explained, but most will return.

Just then, another man walks in the door.  Don leans over to me and says, "Now you see that guy over there - he rides a Harley motorcycle."  Don continues, "He thinks we should call him Evel Kneivel."  Then, Don shouts across the bar to the subject of discussion, "Hey Awful Knawful - What's up?"

I could have stayed all day talking to these guys, and I think they were probably there all day available to talk.  But, I felt the need to move on.  It turns out that there isn't much to do, and not much in the way of lodging options in Huron.  Much more exists in the nearby bigger city about 11 miles to the West, Sandusky.  And, the town of Vermilion, 7.5 miles to the East along my route, has the cute charm and history attractive to tourists, with BnB's and bistros.  Huron, caught in the middle, lacked what I was looking for.  Already geared up for the rain, I decided to ride East to Vermilion to explore the lodging options there.

It rained the entire time, sometimes heavy. Arriving in Vermilion, I stopped at the chamber of commerce office to see what was available. I received a good lunch recommendation, and one motel reference that was the only cheap option in this somewhat swanky town. 

I had lunch at Suzie's cafe, then checked out the one inexpensive hotel in town.  It wasn't great.  Now situated closer to Cleveland, I decided to push on for the big city.  

The next big city I came to was Lorain.  I crossed the Black River, and made a stop at a gas station for a drink.  

While there a guy and his grand-daughter got out of a car and stopped me to chat about my bicycle.

Richard spoke for quite a while, telling me a little about Lorain and the steel mill he worked at in town since 1973.  "When I started, there were 11,000 employees at the mill - now, there's 2,000."  He retired 3 years ago, and was disappointed to say the least about the constant attacks on his pension before he left.  "Bush junior screwed us over.", he said with disgust.  "Just when a wave of us old-timers would near retirement age, the company would declare bankruptcy, putting our pensions on hold, and forcing a renegotiation of our pension and benefits as the new company took over.", he explained.

He told me that their pension benefits would be reduced each time this happened, and more employees would be laid off as production shifted to Taiwan and elsewhere.  While he worked there, seven bankruptcies were declared, one company leaving and another taking over, the employee benefits attacked each time.  "It was just a game to force a cheaper workforce, with no regard for the guy who dedicated his life to the company.", he said.

I told him about my bicycle being made in America, and how I had to struggle to find a bike manufactured with American-made steel.  He was really excited about that, and was impressed that I cared to seek out the Reynolds 725 steel.

Pedaling on, I approached the West end of the town of Avon Lake, with a massive towering smokestack, part of a coal-fired power generation plant, on the shore of Lake Erie.

The neighborhoods along the shore in Avon Lake were comprised of massive mansions.

Some of the homes were older, but have been restored to a perfect state, with professionally-manicured landscaping.

I stopped here at a park along the shore, a brief place where one could actually take in the view of the lake without having to stare between huge ostentatious houses.  I walked down a steep set of stairs to the beach.  Off to the East, I could see the Cleveland skyline barely visible in the distance.  Cleveland was about 14 miles from here, but appeared to be further away.

Working my way through the community of Lakewood, my route took me to Lakewood Park, where the fantastic view of the Cleveland skyline made it seem much more attainable.  I was getting close.

Just before arriving at this park, I suddenly felt like something had flown into my right eye.  A bug, or an eye lash, or maybe a flying rock or something?  I tried to blink it out, but it didn't seem to go away.  I then stopped and put saline drops in to flush out what felt like a foreign object.  But, nothing.  For the rest of the day, and through the night, my eye felt abrasive, and somewhat painful.  I can only guess that it was a bug or a pebble kicked up from a car.  Within 24 hours, it was healing, and felt much better.  I always wear glasses when riding.  But, I had briefly removed them during the rain as I rode slowly through the residential neighborhood.  

I pedaled into the city by way of residential streets.  Cle(A)veland, established in 1796, was named after Moses Cleaveland.  A story written about Moses in a newspaper article omitted the "a" from his last name to make room for the article heading within the column width of the newspaper.  Widely read, the general public quickly adopted the misspelled name, "Cleveland".  I reached my final desitnation for the day, the Cleveland Hostel on 25th Street, just before 7 pm.

It had a really nice, big communal kitchen and living room on the second floor.

The hostel was very nice, clean, and somewhat new.  I was now overdue for a day off, and looked forward to exploring the city tomorrow.

Before retiring for the night, I walked 2 blocks down the street to the Great Lakes Brewing Company for a beer crafted on-site and dinner.  The Edmund Fitzgerald Porter was outstanding.  For you beer afficionados out there, the lineup is pictured below.