The perfect storm...

Well rested from the night before, I set out Saturday morning eager to keep up the momentum I had begun the day before. Ohio, although not nearly as scenic as its neighbor to the east, didn't seem like it was going to give me any difficulties. Relatively flat compared to what I had experienced in Pennsylvania, I would be able to make good time, and I managed to keep myself entertained by recognizing landmarks along the way. Crossing over the Cuyahoga River, which became famous when it caught on fire in 1969 due to heavy pollution on its surface, made me immediately think of the R.E.M. song of the same name, and I found myself passing the miles by singing the song to myself inside my helmet. Later, I passed the exit for Kent State University, which made me think of the song "Four Dead in Ohio" by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young about the shooting on that campus of student protestors by the National Guard in 1970. By this time I had hit my full stride, channeling a Neil Young impersonation that even Jimmy Fallon would be envious of. (With almost six thousand miles of riding ahead of me, I'm going to have to find ways of entertaining myself...)

As I rode deeper into the state, the crosswinds on Route 80 started to pick up, and even though I was never afraid of losing control of the bike, it was a constant struggle that would last far longer than I would have liked. It was sort of like the kid in sixth grade that starts pushing you in the lunch line, and you find yourself pushing back in what becomes a prolonged reverse tug of war. Except this was on a motorcycle...at 70 miles an hour...on the highway...for five hours straight...

By the time the Indiana border was in sight, I was spent. The flat, endless highway, uninspiring scenery and relentless winds had taken their toll. I may have been imagining it, but when I passed the "Welcome to Indiana" sign, the sun seemed to break through the clouds, the landscape softened and even the winds felt welcoming; more like the girl in sixth grade that gives you a gentle push in that same lunch line. It's still a push, but it comes from a completely different place, and, in ways that you don't fully understand at the age of twelve, makes you glad it happened...

I made it past South Bend, about the halfway point of the northern part of the state, stopping at a rest area to give my rear end a well deserved break.The clouds were starting to change, and I instinctively took some pictures, marveling at the subtle shifts in color and value of the clouds.

Harmless, right?

Not twenty minutes later, though, after a quick power nap, refueling and a completely unexpected encounter with a man who felt the need to pray for me right on the spot, I looked toward the western horizon, and the sky looked different; not the deep gray color I am used to seeing before an impending storm back east, but more of a muted blue-gray with no indication whatsoever of direction, intention or intensity. It was as if the western sky had been blanketed with nothingness; the mid-west's version of a black hole. I had to make a decision with the fuel pump still in my hand; wait it out when it may turn out to be nothing at all, or put on the rain gear and take my chances.

I had the Gore-Tex suit on in less than five minutes and I was on my way.

At first it seemed like it wasn't going to be that difficult. It had started raining, but certainly nothing stronger than I was used to from previous experiences. But as the rain started getting heavier so did the winds, and it was then that I realized that I had taken on more than I was willing to gamble. I knew that there had been frequent overpasses along the highway, so I pulled under the first that I could find.

I waited for a minute, trying to determine if it was safer to remain where I was or try to press on. The weather was deceptive, changing intensity by the moment, fooling me into believing that I could continue. I gave in to the voices of the sirens, and pulled back out onto the highway. It didn't take long for me to realize that I had been deceived, as the sky immediately grew dark, visibility dropped to less than 100 feet, and the wind and rain picked up again. Soon after I pulled under the next overpass, every car, truck and tractor trailer on the highway had pulled over, and the sky was beginning to unleash hell.

 I dismounted the bike, thinking that I would have to take cover on the highest part of the incline that meets the road above, but this overpass (as well as all the others I had encountered) was only a two lane road above, leaving no real area for protection. Even standing directly under it, I was getting pelted by wind and rain. Instinctively, I held onto the bike, not wanting it, or its cargo, to go toppling onto the highway, as the wind reached a level I have never experienced before in my life. Standing to the right of the bike, I clenched the throttle grip with my right hand, my left hand clinging to whatever I could of my backpack and bags, and I leaned hard  into the storm with my head down, as the rains pelting my helmet and body, lightning flashed in all directions, and the winds felt as though I was going to be swept away at any moment.

Amazingly, what seemed like an eternity only lasted several minutes, and the storm passed as quickly as it had come. The rains were now all but gone, and I had decided that since the storm was moving east the safest bet would be to keep pushing west on the bike, hopefully leaving more of the bad weather behind me. All of the traffic was back on the road, and visibility was back to normal, but from what I had just gone through it was difficult for me to expect anything but the worst. The clouds above me were starting to form undulating webs of crisscrossed patterns, as if cotton candy had been loosely spun into netting and thrown across the sky.  For as remarkable of a sight as it was, though, I had no way of knowing whether this was a prelude to more horrific weather, so I kept pressing on. It probably didn't help when I passed the billboard that said in large, solemn type, "When you die, you will meet God". Not today, at least.

When I finally crossed into Illinois, passing Chicago and settling for a motel in the outskirts of the city, I had nothing more left in me. My hands ached, and I realized that I had been gripping the handlebars like a vice for hours. I didn't rest well that night, but I knew that regardless of how I felt the next morning, I wanted to be well into Iowa by the end of the next day...