The kindness of strangers

Last night, I was kind to a stranger, giving comfort and a helping hand. I’m not trying to pat myself on the back, here. I am giving credit to all those individuals out there who were kind to me—a stranger. I’m just passing it on.

Just a little after 9 p.m., we heard the long screech of tires and the loud bang of crunching metal. It was to the back of our house where a county road passes by in a descending curve and an intersection with a side road. We investigated. Saw that it was a one-car accident, and the driver was walking across the street towards me and the neighbor, who also came outside. The young man was shaken, but mobile. He was calling his parents on his cell.

As I called 911, the dispatcher tried to determine the reason for the call and to respond accordingly. I asked the young man to sit down on our porch. The dispatcher asked if there were injuries. He complained his chest hurt a little. The dispatcher asked us to see if he was bleeding. He opened his shirt a little to reveal only redness. I checked his eyes, and they looked normal. Clearly, he was shaken, and I asked him to step inside the warmth of our house to sit on the couch. The dispatcher said emergency vehicles were on the way.

Within a minute or two, an ambulance rolled up to the front of our house while a fire truck and several county police cars rolled up to the accident scene. The young man walked unaided to the ambulance to be checked out. In the meantime, his parents arrived, clearly concerned and wanting to see their son. The look on the mother’s face was near panic. Was her boy all right? What was the extent of his injuries? We learned he was only 17 years old and had been driving for three weeks.

My wife and I played a very minor role in this scenario. We called 911, and we gave comfort to the young man until he could receive proper attention. We could have done nothing. We could have “stayed out of it” and not gotten involved. We chose to do something to help.

I think back about all those individuals who came to my rescue through the years—the ones who made a difference with only a compensation request to pass it on. “Someday, you will be able to help someone else. That is all I ask.” There was that couple in Nebraska that stopped to help me on a Sunday morning when my truck broke down. There was a man who helped me off the ground and out of harm’s way while I sat in the street after a motorcycle accident; he also picked up my motorcycle and moved it. There were more incidents, but it’s not important to make an extensive list here.

I am one of those people that believe humans are good, and intend to be helpful, not harmful. Every day, someone commits an act of kindness to a stranger, and it goes unnoticed, except to the recipient, and those who learn of the kindness. How much impact does it make? I hope and pray a lot. That somewhere down the road, this young man and his parents will commit an act of kindness to another stranger. And then they pass it on. So on and so on, until we are spending more time caring for one another, rather than trying to tear each other down or to be fearful or hurtful.

The young man was taken to the emergency room to be checked out. The police finished their investigation, and it appears that inexperience, speed, darkness and an unknown road contributed to his accident. The car was totaled when it slammed into the culvert. A flatbed wrecker hauled it away. Peace returned to our little neighborhood.

Have you been helped by the kindness of strangers? Pass it on. Commit an act of kindness, today. You’ll feel good and humbled at the same time.

See you on the highway.

Brent

Stop light racing

Phone photos 003

The stop light at the top of the hill
holds back the two lanes of cars and trucks
ready to race forward.

The street below the light is empty when the light turns green.
Dozens of cars speed forward,
each trying to get ahead or out maneuver the others.

Down they come, changing lanes and passing.
The street is filled with moving masses of metal and glass on rubber
while drivers remain anonymous.

At the bottom of the hill,
they bunch up again at the next stop light.
The street behind is nearly empty.

At the top of the hill, the next bunch of cars anxiously wait to launch.
The process repeats itself from stop light to stop light.
Nobody wins.

See you on the highway.

Brent

Motorcycling on a beautiful November day

“The weather looks good. So are we on?”

“Yes. I’ll meet you in Brookville about noon. We’ll find some lunch and enjoy a ride.”

“See you then.”

And with that brief conversation with my brother, Brian, the meet-up and motorcycling adventure was about to begin. Well, what’s an adventure? Any successful ride that ends safely back at home can be an adventure.

Although I have been living in the Cincinnati, Ohio, area for about five years, my first encounter with riding in southeastern Indiana came six years ago when I received my first assignment writing a feature tour article for RoadRunner magazine. The article was published almost a year later.

How does one describe the joy of motorcycling while riding such joyous roads? My route to Brookville? Avoid the interstates. Take the back roads through the countryside, and so it was as I motored west on Ohio SR 129 through Hamilton and the rural area of southwestern Ohio until I reached the Ohio-Indiana state line at a merging of routes at Scipio. On 129, you can’t see the historical buildings of this hamlet. They are better seen on SR 126, and when 129 and 126 meet at the line, you are now on Indiana SR 252 and diving deeper into the hills and curves made by glaciers millions of years ago forming the valleys and tributaries on either side of the Whitewater River.

About 18 miles from the state line, I have scooted through the hills and down into Brookville. As I cross the bridge over the tail waters from Brookville Lake, I quickly look up and down stream. Fly fishers are in the water pursuing the elusive brown trout that populate the waters. Brian claims this stretch of water is the best trout fishing in Indiana.

I am early. Brian will not be here for maybe 30 minutes, so I decide to scout out a place to eat. Apparently he did not like the biker bar where we ate some time ago, so we needed to find a new restaurant or sandwich shop. First south on US 52, Main Street, and then north. I spy a couple of places but decide to ride west on US 52 to meet him on the highway. Nearly eight miles away, and at the historical village of Metamora, we pass each other. Turning around quickly, we pull over and decide to eat there in Metamora at the Hearth Stone Restaurant.

After lunch, and a good one at that, Brian decides he needs to return home for other scheduled activities. I scan the map and decide to follow Brian west on US 52 to Indiana SR 121 and north to Connersville. On the map, it’s just a line on paper, but as I approached the junction, and waved goodbye to my brother who continued on US 52, I realized this road was one I traveled in that first RoadRunner article. It is far from a straight road. Identified as the Whitewater Canal Scenic Road, it twists and turns along the edge of the hillsides through several small towns. Pushing north, I turn east on SR 44 at Connersville and turn towards home—I have reached the halfway mark on this ride.

The ride towards home is uneventful, and yet wonderful. SR 44, east to the state line where it becomes Ohio SR 725, is rural. Farmers are in the field taking in the last of the corn with those giant harvesters. Tractors with huge dually wheels pull the grain trailers to the side of the road and await the trucks to take the grain to the elevators. Yes, autumn is in the air, still, in November.

At Germantown, I turn south to catch SR 123 which will angle southeast through Carlisle, Franklin, the crossroads known as Red Lion, to Lebanon and then south on SR 48 to home—about 150 miles of joy.

These are some of my favorite roads—the best two-lane highways, blue highways as William Least Heat Moon would call them. These roads are not for making time. If you want speedy travels, get on the interstate. If you want to see the small towns, white-steeple chapels on the hillside, farmers working the fields, and neighbors enjoying the day outside, then the back roads are for you, for they are a joy to motorcycle.

See you on the highway.

Brent

The highway next to the Interstate

Fifty-five years ago, as the Cold War escalated and the nation needed a faster highway system for commerce and defense, President Eisenhower enacted the Federal-Aid Highway Act of 1956, and the Interstate system was born. Interstate highways have allowed faster travel and created opportunities for businesses at or near those exits. But, there have been some unintended consequences. The Interstates have also bypassed some small towns, replaced historic highways like US 66, and drawn travelers away from town centers.

The Interstate highways are convenient and time saving. But, as Charles Kuralt said, you can now travel from one coast to the other on the interstate system without seeing anything.

I-74_Indiana-1

Every time I drive between Cincinnati and Indianapolis on I-74, the highway next to the Interstate in southeastern Indiana has beckoned me. What is it? Where does it go? How do you get on it? Granted, an interstate drive between my home and downtown Indianapolis is a consistent two-hour drive. Add a few minutes for coffee and rest breaks, maybe 15 additional minutes.

Driving home from Indianapolis, with plenty of time on my hands and no schedule to keep, I pulled off the Interstate at exit 123 to buy gas and coffee at the Love’s Travel Center. When I pulled out, instead of turning right to get back on I-74, I turned left, determined to explore the highway next to the Interstate.

The county road was in great shape, maybe even resurfaced recently. It was smooth as … well smooth as fresh asphalt and rolled out to a hard firm roadway. I kept looking for a highway sign that  would tell me what road I was on, but none appeared. Referring to a highway map, I believed I was looking for Indiana SR 46. I cruised past the new Honda plant and in the town of Greensburg, I wandered through the downtown to connect with SR 46 and a joy of a highway. Curves and hills abound. Pavement as smooth as that county road that passed the Honda plant.

SR46_Indiana-10

I thought to myself, “Why have I not been on this highway before? It’s an excellent highway for motorcycling. Little traffic. Great road. An alternative to the boring interstate. Clearly, I was not the only one with thoughts of motorcycling on this road.

SR46_Indiana-12

My body was in the car. My mind was on the motorcycle, enjoying a wonderful highway next to the interstate. And then, it came to an end. But then, the end was also a new beginning.

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I decided not to get back on the interstate, but to wander through the back roads through Harrison, Ohio, before getting back onto the interstate that would take me home.

The views along the highway next to the interstate were mind-absorbing—homes decorated for the autumn, farmers harvesting crops, architecture of small town centers, cemeteries neatly groomed and rural churches beckoning “Come in and find some rest.”

At home, I poured over maps and atlases and even a Delorme Gazetteer Atlas to find a route that would take me home without getting on the interstate. I believe I was successful. I’ll let you know after I test the route … on the motorcycle.

I came to a conclusion after finally traveling the highway next to the interstate. The interstates serve our convenience. The back roads, and two-lane highways serve our souls and remind us we are travelers as well as part of a community.

See you on the highway… the one next to the interstate.

Brent

Abandoned playground

What happens to the playground when the small town school is abandoned for a newer facility or the school district is merged with another. All too often, the building is sold or even abandoned. The same is true for the playground.

Abandoned playground, Clarksville, OH

See you on the highway.

Brent