Pulp Stiction: Mug bogs and gin buckets in Ohio

By Montana Miller

It took longer to get to Ohio than usual, because I got stuck behind a house.

I don’t like going to Ohio in February but my girlfriend is in school there, so every few weeks I have to head into the grey plains.

Fortunately there’s an awesome trail, Vulture’s Knob, just a few miles from the college in Wooster. Friday was barely above freezing, and alternating between rain and ice pellets. I still wanted ride. So I went out. 

And regretted it immediately. The wind is really unpleasant when it blows through an empty corn field.

When I finally got to the Knob the trails were in nice shape, frozen with a light dusting of snow. I got a lap in, winding around and around through the trees. Even though my Puglsey handled like a bus on the twisty trail, it was fun times.

That night, we went to a party where Katy Perry was rattling speakers in the dank basement. I refrained from drinking gin and soda pop from the Rubbermaid bin. My standards are low, but I still have them.

Next morning, I wake up late. I have a slight headache because I didn’t refrain from drinking other things. I roll over on the hardwood. I slept on the floor because the college-issued bed is barely big enough for a toddler.

A little later, I get on my bike and roll into town. It’s too warm to try to ride any trail today. They’ll be thawed, and riding mud in Ohio is like riding through wet cement.

I ride into the industrial part of town, where some cars are being crushed:

And the rest are rusting:

Bump down the railroad tracks for a while, then turn onto an illegal 4×4 trail. I follow it into the town mudding pits, which are frozen enough to ride over. Except for the random spots that aren’t:

Even though I’m right next to a busy highway, I try to pretend I’m having a great adventure. I go blindly under an overpass, hoping I don’t run over a meth head in the dark:

I make my way back onto the road, and pedal back towards town. It wasn’t the grandest ride, but at least I got out for a while. Then some teenagers in a beat pickup up-shift, bog-down their engine, and cover me in a cloud of black smoke.

They drop some cigarette butts out the window. I smile at them. How swell. The truck rattles off into the flat grey horizon.


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