THE MESHED-BACK MEN

The Quick Stop Restaurant is one of those squalid but clean greasy spoons where the regulars are old men in snap-button shirts and mesh-back caps, drinking coffee at the counter and talking occasionally. Regulars, hell. These guys are part of the décor, perfectly blending in with the drab linoleum floor, fake wood table tops, and the sickly green cast of the fluorescents above them.

It’s 6:30am, and I walk in wearing a zipped up raincoat with nothing underneath, pants soaked from the knees down, and soggy cycling shoes. I was in a hurry to get out of my mosquito-infested camp, and grabbed my hooded rain shell to protect me from my blood-sucking enemies. They swarmed me anyway, of course, and they targeted some of the only exposed flesh available, mostly my face. So not only do I look like a waterlogged refugee, but one with big red bumps on my cheeks and forehead. I sit down at the counter, order breakfast and get up to use the bathroom to clean up and change.

The night before was spent in a fallow field, out of sight of the road, near Paint Creek, running swift and milk-chocolate brown. Without a proper campground nearby, I explored other options. A cemetery, a couple of church yards, and behind the immense Greenfield school, but all were too visually exposed. My philosophy on unofficial/ illegal camping is that you can’t be hassled if no one knows you’re there. So I chose the field, and set up behind a stand of trees. The mosquitoes weren’t bad when I pitched my minimalist one-man tent, but I was chased into the tiny, sauna-hot nylon coffin later in the evening, when the bug count got intense and a storm rolled in with thunder that shook the ground. I had ridden 75 hot, sunny miles that day in Ohio humidity, and was then forced to choose the 100 degree tent over the 100 mosquitoes and rain on the other side of the mesh. Ah, the life of a low-bagger touring cyclist.

In the surprisingly large Quick Stop bathroom, I change into what I call my clown outfit—black, skin tight cycling shorts and an orange sleeveless jersey. I wash up a bit, return to the mesh-backed men, and feel totally out of place, because I am. Admittedly, I’m making assumptions, but when’s the last time the old guy called Red, spooning up his mush, took a bike ride? 60 years ago? They’re all nice fellas, sure, but all we manage to talk about is the weather. Then another old man walks in, acting like he owns the place—because he does. Seeing the young man in a clown outfit, and possessing a firm grasp of the obvious, he asks me where I’m headed on the bike, which is parked near the door with a loaded trailer.

“Lebanon, Ohio.”
“’Bout fifty miles.”
According to my map studies, he’s right.
“Where’d ya come from?”
“Athens."
“’Bout a hundred miles.”

He’s right. I wonder why I can’t ever find a guy with such knowledge when I need to.

I finish off my bacon and eggs, pay, and walk out to mount my bike. Where I sleep tonight, I’m not sure, but maybe if look carefully I can find another field near a creek, not far from a squalid little greasy spoon.  

--Attila