Four Dead in Ohio

Erie, Pennsylvania to Ashtabula, Ohio. Tuesday, May 4, 2021

Another pretty uneventful day, skirting beautiful Lake Erie with views that were both stunning and fairly featureless, certainly nothing that would make a striking picture. In the late morning I passed into Ohio, which was jarring in a number of ways.

First of all, you can see how the shoulder abruptly disappears. So it would be for the rest of the day, with storm grates to avoid, and traffic a little bit less tolerant of bicycles. No big issue, however.

Secondly, Ohio feels pretty foreign to me, I think I have only spent two nights there in my life. It is the place my mother went to college, first at the Western College for Women (now part of Miami University of Ohio) in Oxford, later at the University of Ohio in Athens. I was recruited in 1992 to join the Cleveland Clinic, I’ll be talking about that later. It is my first Midwestern State, definitely not part of the eastern seaboard, and a perennial swing state. It is the home of aviation pioneers Orville and Wilbur Wright, and Neil Armstrong.

But the most jarring thing about it was an amazing coincidence. I’m sure you’ve noticed the musical theme to many of my entries and blog titles. Sure enough, the rhythm of Neil Young’s “Ohio” was thumping through my head as I crossed the line.

Tin soldiers and Nixon’s coming
We’re finally on our own
This summer I hear the drumming
Four dead in Ohio

It got me thinking back to when Kent State actually happened, I was in 10th grade. The students there were protesting the expansion of the Vietnam war into Cambodia, and after the shooting our high school student body decided to go on strike, both in solidarity with the Kent State students and for our own protest about the war. When we returned the next day, our stellar history teacher, Edna Jackson, expressed support of those who went downtown to protest, but excoriated those of us who just chose to take the day off, and treat it like a lark. Her words have stayed with me to this day.

Our high school, Woodrow Wilson, has recently been renamed. Although growing up I thought Wilson was heroic, with his leadership during World War I, the 14 Points, the League of Nations etc., it’s becoming increasingly hard to deny his overt racism and misogyny. Not perhaps the best role model for developing adolescents, and so the search for a new name was on. Many favored Edna Jackson, who was the first black teacher to join the faculty, and had bravely endured many political challenges, especially in the beginning of her tenure.

They ultimately decided to name it for August Wilson, undoubtedly a great playwright, but someone who had nothing to do with Washington DC, or the school. I guess they decided they didn’t want to change all the signs and logos. We can all still sing “Sons of Wilson”.

So why this lengthy digression? What was the jarring coincidence? I remembered the shootings happened in early May, so I looked it up: sure enough it was May 4, 1970, fifty-one years ago today! What are the chances?

The first town, Conneaut, had a railroad museum, so I went to take a look, as a long time fan of the romance of railroads. Unfortunately, it was closed.

A pretty pleasant day, low 60s with only an occasional shower. Although the 15 mph headwind was constant, it is bothering me less and less. I am getting more comfortable tucking down into my dropped handlebars or aero bars, it is not making my arms numb like before, and my gut is slowly shrinking, not getting in the way so much. That will be important in the great plains, when there won’t be any trees to block the headwinds.

The final town was Ashtabula, a historical marker mentioned it was once a port greater than Cleveland, and considered one of the roughest ports in the world, on a par with Shanghai and Calcutta.

For me, that unusual name, Ashtabula, had a personal connection. My very first “10 speed” bicycle, a Schwinn Continental, had Ashtabula cranks. That unique one-piece design has fallen from favor, but to me at the time, they were the coolest cranks in the world.

I loved that old Schwinn. On it I took my first big bike tour, my first century, and commuted to college on it every day until it was stolen in my sophomore year. I still remember that dark day, the loss of freedom. I was bike-less for eight months, my longest hiatus since I learned how to ride.

Quite a day of wistful memories.

Distance 52.5 miles, 772 total. Time 7 1/2 hours with stops. Elevation gain 1,062 feet.