Chapter 4: Beginning the Road Trip and Taking it Slow

I took secondary roads out of the western suburbs of Columbus. The traffic made me anxious at first, but I gradually settled into it. After about 45 minutes of steady riding around 45 miles per hour, I reached the secondary state highways, where traffic was light or nonexistent. I started feeling the need to stop, stretch my legs, and take a break, so I held off until I reached the next town on my route.

The next town was larger, and when I stopped, I asked if there was anywhere open where I could grab a bite and rest for a bit. The gas station clerk pointed me toward McDonald’s and gave me directions.

I lost count of how many times I wanted to turn around and go home. My anxiety was working overtime—I kept coming up with reasons to backtrack. After ordering my McDonald’s breakfast, I tried to sit down, eat, and let myself relax. I’d been wound up like a watch spring all morning. No one here knew me, and besides, it would be at least two more days before anyone who did would be home to report me missing.

I felt conflicted about leaving. I didn’t want to keep living the way I had, and at the same time, the affair between Abbie and Bobby Bill infuriated me. Hopefully, my ruse would work long enough to let me disappear for a while. I didn’t expect the police to solve it quickly. In my opinion, the embarrassment and being subjected to public scrutiny would be punishment enough.

It would be as if Abbie were sentenced to wear the Scarlet A—and that alone was worth the price of admission. Of course, the Right Reverend Bobby Bill Jones would have to resign as associate pastor of his father’s mega-church. His inevitable online confession and pleas for forgiveness would make for great entertainment, too.

I was certain it would only go as far as the police taking them down to the station and subjecting them to intense questioning. Abbie would probably wet herself if she were hauled in for interrogation.

Did I feel any sympathy for her? Please—not on your life.

I stood in front of a church full of friends, family, and invited guests and promised to stay loyal, to never stray. She made that same promise—and she broke it.

I didn’t feel anything close to love or sympathy for her now. That all died the moment I saw the half-open box of condoms ... and the hotel receipt with my name on it—for a room in Chicago.

The McDonald’s meal hit the spot, and after using the restroom and walking around the parking lot to loosen up the kinks, I got back on the bike and continued heading north. The land in this part of the state was tabletop flat, so you could see for miles. And what you saw were endless fields of corn, wheat, and soybeans.

This would be the view all the way to Lake Erie—until it gave way to one continuous tourist trap stretching from Toledo to Cleveland.

I hoped to be out of the state by late afternoon, and that’s when I planned to start looking for a place to spend the night. I wasn’t aiming to camp on the first night, but I also didn’t want to blow too much money on an expensive motel room right away.

About an hour after grabbing a quick bite at McDonald’s, I came across a small village with a park just off the state highway. I pulled in, took a break, and checked the gazetteer to figure out where I was—and how much farther I had to go to find a town with a motel.

Turns out I was in the middle of nowhere, Ohio. Never knew it existed, but somehow, I’d found it.

It was getting late, and fatigue was setting in. I’d been on two wheels all day, and between the bicycle and the motorcycle, I wasn’t going to last much longer. I hadn’t seen any towns big enough for a motel, but I did notice a lake state park a little further north, marked with a campground symbol.

I decided to go for it. Less than an hour later, I pulled into the park, which had a nice campground with tent sites available. As a bonus, it had showers—something I really needed right now.

I picked a site and registered under my father’s name and old address. As long as they didn’t ask to see my driver’s license, I could keep up the ruse.

After registering, I set up camp and headed for a hot shower. The warmth relaxed me and washed off the road grime. Back at my campsite, I pulled out the camp stove I’d bought and the small pot the clerk at the big-box store had assured me would work. I was skeptical at first, but I managed to get the stove lit and the pot to stay in place.

Dinner that night was a can of tomato soup and a small bag of cheese crackers. It was simple, but it filled the empty hole in my stomach and tasted better than I expected. Clean-up was easy, and I stayed outside, studying my gazetteer, until it got dark and the mosquitoes came out.

I made a beeline for my tent, climbed in, and settled into my sleeping bag. It didn’t take long to fall asleep.

Sunday morning, I woke up to the sun high in the sky. I must have slept over twelve hours and probably could have slept longer, but my bladder had other plans. The trip to the showerhouse didn’t take long, but I was in there a while taking care of business.

When I made it back to the campsite, I was ready to get started and hit the road. After getting dressed, it took me about forty-five minutes to pack up my gear and stow it on the bike. I walked the motorcycle out to the parking lot before starting it up—I didn’t want to disturb any late sleepers.

I followed the same routine as the day before: get on the bike, turn the key, and hit the starter. The engine warmed up for a few minutes at a slow idle, putting no undue stress on it. Once I felt the engine was sufficiently warmed, I put it in gear and headed for the state route that ran north.

Most of the time, I was lost in the endless fields of corn and beans, but when my mind wandered, I couldn’t help but think about what I could have done to keep Abbie. Truth is, there wasn’t much. Moving back to her parents’ place sealed my fate. She was under her mother’s control, and Bobby Bill, the smooth talker she’d known her whole life, was too tempting to resist.

I stayed on the same route I’d followed yesterday, and two hours later, I entered Lansing. The Sunday traffic wasn’t bad, so I considered stopping to grab a bite to eat and pick up supplies for later. Canned soups and stews would work perfectly, and cheese crackers would make them even better. I didn’t want to stop at a large retailer, though—there was no guarantee my bike or gear would still be there when I came out.

I rode through a neighborhood near the college campus and found a small ethnic Chinese market where I could shop and keep an eye on my motorcycle. I picked up a few things I knew how to cook at a reasonable price, plus it offered a nice change in the type of food I was eating. After shopping, I loaded my purchases onto the bike and continued out of town.

Due to my anxiety and intent on getting out of town, I forgot to stop for lunch and continues north. My stomach’s growling protests let me know later that I had eaten and I took the opportunity and stopped later got something then.

I stopped for a fill-up, and while fueling, I noticed an advertisement for a motel on a nearby pole. It looked decent from the outside, so I decided to inquire about a room. The rate was reasonable, and after checking the room, I found it clean and comfortable.

After unloading my gear, I went across the road to a small convenience store, grabbed a slice of pizza and a soft drink, and sat outside to enjoy my quick supper. Once I finished eating, I returned to my room and watched TV for a bit.

I planned to reach the Upper Peninsula the next day and head west, but to make that happen, I knew I’d need to leave early. I was up by 6 a.m. and on the road by 7. By noon, I crossed the Mackinac Bridge and reached Saint Ignace, where I stopped long enough to fuel up and grab a quick bite.

I took US Route 2 out of Saint Ignace, heading through Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. It was a fun ride, and I got to see the northern part of the state for the first time. The land was still flat, much like Ohio and Indiana, shaped by glaciers during the Ice Age. Unsure about the availability of gas, I stopped at every town with a gas station to fill up the motorcycle. This routine would continue until I reached Duluth, Minnesota.

My third full day on the motorcycle ended in the small town of Iron Mountain, Michigan. Tonight, Abbie and her mother would be returning from the spa weekend. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of them stranded at the drop-off point, wondering why I wasn’t there to pick them up. They couldn’t call Abbie’s dad since he was out of town for a baseball weekend in Philadelphia. That would leave her with no choice but to call Bobby Bill for a ride, giving the church gossips even more to talk about.

I was glad I chose to stay at a motel that night; it had rained all night, and the standing water I saw in the morning would’ve flooded me out. The rain had soaked my motorcycle, so I did my best to dry off the seat with an old towel the motel owner gave me. It was mostly dry when I left at 8 a.m., but everything still felt damp in the morning air. I don’t think things truly dried off until noon. Breakfast wasn’t on the schedule—I wasn’t hungry—so I skipped it and got on the road an hour earlier than planned.

Traffic on US Route 2 West was moderately heavy, and I was often passed by vehicles heading the other way. I rode alongside Lake Superior, my first time seeing it, and stopped at a grocery store deli to pick up a hot meal. I took it down to the shore and ate while enjoying the view. The lake reminded me of the ocean views Abbie and I had seen a few years ago when we visited St. Augustine, Florida, and stopped at a beach on our way out of town. Lake Superior’s water was much bluer than I remembered the Atlantic Ocean being.

I reached Duluth, Minnesota by mid-afternoon and decided on a motel for the second night in a row. I found an older, independent place that wasn’t too pricey and made it my stop for the evening. After supper, I rode the motorcycle down to the lakefront and walked a path through a park that ran along the shoreline.

As I walked, I found myself thinking about what Abbie must be going through. I was sure she was worried by now, probably calling friends to see if anyone had heard from me. If she hadn’t already, her dad likely would’ve contacted the police to report me missing. I decided I’d give it a couple more days, then stop in a town with a library to check the local news and see what was being reported about my disappearance.

I also thought about the emotional stress my disappearance must have put Abbie through. I knew I should’ve felt guilty—but I didn’t. Instead, my mind kept returning to her betrayal, to her involvement with the pastor of her church. The pain I felt from that outweighed anything she might be feeling now.

It was getting dark, and I wanted to make it back to the motel before night fully set in. I didn’t know the town well and didn’t want to risk getting lost.

It surprised me that I didn’t feel guilty about the stress Abbie might have been under. I was asleep the moment my head hit the pillow. Someone once said the opposite of love isn’t hate—it’s indifference. I slept like the dead, untouched by thoughts of Abbie. By morning, I felt refreshed and ready to start the day. I had breakfast at the motel’s attached restaurant—nothing fancy, but it did the job. After checking out, I continued west on US Route 2, leaving Duluth behind me.