Elyria, Ohio

It was around 10 a.m. on a late March afternoon that, with my hands full of toiletries, I stuffed the last couple of things that I was able to stuff into my car. My mom was hanging around the newly finished front hall of my childhood home and she looked sad and excited for me. I wish I could say that I felt the same way. But, it was more fear and nausea that had taken hold of me. I gave her one last hug (after putting all the toiletries down) and walked out the front door wearing a pair of overalls I had acquired at an outlet mall is Kenosha Wisconsin when I was 15 along with a heavy wool sweater.

My mom asked me to wait and she grabbed my dad’s camera. She took a couple of photos of my pulling out of the driveway and heading East (which doesn’t have the same ring as heading west).

Unlike the first time I drove to D.C., the ground was adorned with ice and snow. But, with every CD I owned sitting on the floor of the passenger side, I wasn’t too concerned that I would get bored.

My evening’s destination was Monroeville, PA. It’s a good location, about 9 miles from Pittsburgh and right off of the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Although, it does require driving the first 70 (or so) daunting miles of the Turnpike in the dark. I’m not sure who designed the PA. Turnpike, but it certainly wasn’t the same person who crafted the wide-laned, high speed raceway of its northern neighbor the NJ Turnpike. The Pennsylvania Turnpike appears to be modeled after the Argonaut’s sea journey where the cliffs nearly smashed their ship to shreds. There are high cliffs on either side, daunting curves, virtually no exits or rest stations, warnings of falling rocks (what the hell am I supposed to do if that happens?) a propensity toward extreme slickness, and of course the required regiment of ten big rigs per mile of road just to make drivers, who are unenthused like myself, a bit more nervous while driving on the friendly roadways of Pennsylvania. Also, there is the reputation of Gestapo-like law enforcement.

Before I would reach the friendly roadways of Pennsylvania, I drove the width of both Indiana and Ohio. Now, I don’t mean to offend anyone from Indiana, but that is a state that I wouldn’t mind driving across in the dark. Pennsylvania is able to redeem itself based upon scenic, panoramic views, but Indiana, at least the northern part of it really doesn’t have much going for it. Gary, home of the Jackson Five, is quite possibly the most horrible place on the face of the Earth. It’s the largest steel producer in the U.S. and when you drive through it, you can feel yourself developing lung cancer. I have long contended that maybe the best thing to do with Indiana is to relocate all the good, hardworking, sane people to some different state and give (back?) Indiana to the fanatical, right-wing extremist groups. I mean, it is the birthplace of the Ku Klux Klan. Then we can put an epic electric fence around it and build a highway that drives right over the entire state. If George Bush is looking to do something that will really provide homeland security, that is what I recommend.

However, Indiana does have some solid rest areas. One is named after Knute Rockne (it’s near Notre Dame, go figure!) But, named rest areas have made me ponder, numerous times, what does one have to do to get a highway rest area named after him or her? During my many Midwestern and eastern vehicular jaunts I’ve noticed no theme that unites the namesakes of the many buildings which host gas stations, Hardees, rest rooms, visitor centers, and if you are lucky a Subway Sandwich shop which is always a welcome relief from fried food. If anyone who reads this knows what the rest area naming process is, I urge you to contact me and fill me in. Maybe I can get one named after my dad.

It was snowing a bit in Indiana, but I made it through the state with no incident. However the weather really began to pick up in Ohio. My usually zippy highway driving was slowed to about 40 miles per hour, then 35, then 30 as the snow and the clouds turned the sky into one impenetrable sheet of white. I persevered and decided that Monroeville was a noble, but unattainable goal. I decided to settle on Youngstown which is about 70 miles west on Monroeville. But as I continued, at approximately 25 miles per hour across I-80 I realized that even Youngstown was a long shot. Cars were strewn on the sides of the road, and worse, many of the frightening big rigs had tipped off the road and lay on their sides like hurt horses.

Within ten minutes, my aim of reaching Youngstown was reduced to reaching Cleveland. But, as the snow literally dumped down and as my little car, packed with virtually all of my worldly possessions eked down the road, I concluded that I just needed to find a hotel room and hope to god that the weather would clear.
I exited at the next toll plaza, the woman in the toll booth looked worried about me. I must have looked like I had seen a ghost…but really I had just seen a massive truck graveyard. Truck graveyards are not reassuring.

After endless turning around and searching for a cheaper hotel, I settled on staying at the quite pricey Holiday Inn which was doing rather well for itself that evening despite being quite understaffed.

I grabbed a random bag out of my car, and got the last room in the place with a king-sized bed. I trudged to the room, grateful that I didn’t have to worry about my “all my worldly possessions-filled” car being broken into. Because, honestly, no one in their right mind was outside that night, let alone breaking into a car that within minutes was covered with ice and snow and didn’t look to have anyone’s entire material life packed within.

I opened the door of the hotel room, threw my bag down on the floor and thumbed through the hotel amenities book before discovering that I was in Elyria, Ohio.

I looked it up in my $5.95 road atlas and found that I had fallen about 15 miles shy of my final goal of Cleveland. After ordering room service, checking my email (which I was charged an unreasonable amount for doing), and watching a bit of really bad television I fell asleep.
I woke up early the next morning and made it to D.C. by late afternoon. But, as I drove across Pennsylvania, I realized that I had a little piece of me in Elyria. My $5.95 road atlas was sitting in my room in the Holiday Inn.