A Sense of Place

Gaby’s solar panels look so cool! I can’t believe she can do stuff like that—reading that post was like thinking in another language.

A few days ago, I went biking on the trail that runs through Oberlin, and connects to the Back Roads and Beaches trail that zigzags its way across the fields of Ohio. I’ve been in Ohio for two years, but I’ve hardly ever ventured outside of Oberlin, except in the seat of a car, speeding along highways framed by suburban units that copy one another, gas stations and sprawling parking lots. I go running—it’s the same 4 mile perimeter every time, but it’s a glimpse of something beyond campus, huge skies and fields that lie stubbly and dry over winter and spring.

            The Oberlin bike trail follows the pathway of an old railroad line. I see one of the remnants on long runs: old tracks slumping into one of the tiny hills Northeastern Ohio has to offer. People traveled here before, catching glimpses of grass and the acres of blue sky overhead from the train window before sinking back into dense tunnels of trees. This area of Ohio was also an important leg on the Underground Railroad—escaping slaves stopped here right before crossing to Canada, to freedom in an unfamiliar world of harsh winters.

While biking, I discovered Kipton, a small clutter of houses and jungle gyms alongside the black ribbon of trail. Crossing guards waved me by over the crackle of walkie-talkies. Where the trail ended, a sign pointed a yellow arrow towards the Matus Winery, a property where drilling for a natural gas well has just started. The state owns the land right underneath the family’s feet, the soil layers and rock strata that pile downwards. The family owns the concept of the space, the two dimensional square on the shiny surface of state maps.

            

            My friend Jack is from Ohio, and knows all the regions. He can distinguish, he says, between Southeastern Ohioans and Northwestern ones, between those who get their water from Lake Erie and those who get it from the Ohio River. I don’t know the details of this place. I say “soda” instead of “pop”. Riding through here, I am as thin as the shadow that bends underneath my wheels with the slant of the sun.

            

At one point on the trail there is a trestle that cuts the sky. When I look at it through peripheral vision or a backward glance, it could almost be the bridge that holds up the 125^th street subway station I’ve been going to for years. False recognitions like this are strange and jolting, but also comforting. Maybe something is only really home when you can see it in things it is not, when it stays with you wherever you go. This summer I’m excited to see a country I’ve seen so little of, but New York City will always be a piece of dust in my eye affecting how I see it.

On the eastern portion of the trail, a father and his son straddled a four wheeler and circled their house, making sharp turns through their backyard and under a laundry line. A basketball hoop rose over them, the back of the board resembling strange shoulder blades. Farther on and closer to Cleveland, a plane rose in a steep hypotenuse, then leveled out.

            We’ll ride through here this summer. Things will have changed: the rows of corn that are now ankle-high will be sturdy, like lines of football players stretching towards the horizon. The air will shimmer more with humidity. Still, this will be a 20 mile pocket of country I’ll recognize.