More Than a Path
Sydney Otto
My legs propel me forward without the permission of my brain. They rise and fall in time to the slight clicking of the chain as it circles through the gear. The air is steamy as though someone has let out a long and tired sigh as summer comes to a close. I feel the sweat building on my neck and a glossy bead rolls down between my shoulder blades, following the curvature of my spine. I lean forward, hovering over my handlebars as my 1975 Schwinn works tirelessly below me, and breath in deeply. I can smell the deep green of the leaves as I rush past them. One slips from a tree above and glides down toward my tires, slipping in and out of spokes until I’ve left it far behind. I keep my wheel in line with the friend in front of me, inches apart, but perfectly synchronized. He defers for a moment to run over a particularly crunchy looking leaf. It does not disappoint.
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The Hocking Adena Bikeway snakes alongside the Hocking River for about 21 miles. The path is named after the first inhabitants to settle in the southeastern Ohio region. Hocking, meaning “bottleneck” or “twisted,” was the name the Shawnee Native Americans gave to the Hocking River. “Adena” pays tribute to the Hocking Valley inhabitants of nearly 2,000 years ago.
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I chose to bike north, up towards Nelsonville. The well-paved route is simple to navigate and provides adventurers with mile markers to track progress. Though the path crosses through a few small southern Ohio towns, a large majority is consumed by the native foliage. The trail provides a glimpse of the small town life that is often the subject of disdain. Much of southern Ohio is heavily impoverished and the bike route gives explorers, especially students from the on-route university, an opportunity to witness a walk of life that is different from their own.
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Along the walkway are several spots to rest, even to camp if one chooses. Benches are strategically placed where an occupant has a view of rows upon rows of golden corn stalks bending from the breeze or an off-shoot of the Hocking lazily trickling onward. There are stations where bikers can inflate their tires and even make a few repairs with provided tools. The occasional house peeks through the trees, sometimes long vacant, sometimes with waving loungers on the porch.
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After 11 miles we come to a stop next to an old bridge, we leave our bikes behind and cross on foot. Our hands slide across the smooth, hot metal of the structured beams. We pick up handfuls of tiny pebbles and fling them into the shallow stream. Drops sound out in the breezy silence. Eventually, we return to our bikes, gulp down some sun-warmed water and begin the ride home.
“The ride back always feels shorter than the ride here,” says my friend. For a moment, a melancholy feeling envelopes me, I don’t want it be shorter. As I push off, I feel the ache in the tops of my thighs and wonder when I’ll get to return.