Days 5 & 6 – Seaman to Batavia, OH – 43 miles

Wednesday’s story was one of fear.

OK, that’s a little strong. But the weather forecast was certainly concerning. Thunderstorms were on the docket, striking sometime around noon and then lashing the region throughout the afternoon and evening. Those tempests would then yield to a wind storm. While a full-blown tornado wasn’t yet in the forecast, the TV weatherman dropped just enough hints to coax a well-conditioned audience to tune back in later for updates.

Fortunately, we had a shorter day ahead of us, 24 miles, and even more importantly we had transitioned to well-settled terrain. The hills were officially in our rearview window, with only flat ground separating us from Cincinnati. And with that flat ground came towns, sprinkled liberally on this day every five or six miles.

The plan was simple. Push hard early to Winchester. Six miles later, we snagged a bench outside a closed Dairy Bar and saluted the successful completion of Step 1. The second step was an innovative wrinkle: push hard to Macon. We pulled this off masterfully, and before you knew it I was plopped up against the side of a gas station, drinking coffee out of a styrofoam cup. It was every bit as glamorous as it sounds.

We tried something different for Step 3, pushing hard for Sardinia while furiously scanning the horizon with deeply furrowed brows. We were confident we could beat the storm that far, and that projection came to pass. Once there, we upgraded from gas station vagabonds to sweaty customers in a pizzeria booth, enjoying the hospitality at Maddy’s. Calzones for lunch was becoming a pattern.

It was noon, and thus time for Step 4: check for weather updates in order to figure out Step 5. It now looked like we had until around 2pm before the worst of the storm hit. There’d be a blast of unknown duration and then things would calm down again sometime after. We needed to cover 7.5 miles to reach the hotel, but the town of Mount Orab started within 6, so we decided to go for it. Worst case, we could take shelter in the town.

Determined (and full of calzone) we pushed onward. The rain struck an hour later, as we stood nearly perfectly in between Sardinia and Mount Orab.

On to Step 6, which was really Plan B, but there’s a point at which a flowchart becomes necessary if we strive for that kind of precision, so let’s stick with Step 6: don poncho, lower head, and pretend you’re anywhere else. The wind blew in hard from the south, redirecting drops straight for one of the weak spots in the poncho, so I walked with one hand holding that seam together, while the other hand pressed forward in order to keep the bottom from soaking my legs. Like most aspects of distance walking, it works, but it’s not going to impress anyone passing by.

But then, just as suddenly as the rain arrived, it stopped. The poncho slowly dried; my arms crept through the openings, like flowers reopening after a downpour. I lowered the hood. I realized I hadn’t heard a single peal of thunder.

Alas, I was not yet in the clear. Within 15 minutes, another deluge cut loose, turning the road into a streambed and soaking my feet. But that, too, did indeed pass, and yet again it did so free of any hint of thunder or lightning. Instead, the sky lightened up, and my poncho dried out once more.

I was in Mount Orab soon enough. It didn’t rain the rest of the day. All that remained was Step 7: consume Mexican food while flopped onto a hotel bed. The glamor never stops. I hope you’ll all buy the calendar.

Storm or no storm, the apprehension was real. And for all the planning, all the preparation, all the drenchingly flawed projections, I had never considered one salient fact: I’ve walked through a hell of a lot of storms at this point, and it’s fine.

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Thursday’s story was one of fear.

It’s not a fear of COVID, that’s for sure. The Mexican restaurant from the night before exemplified this, as the place was stuffed to the gills with merry maskless munchers. Since I got vaccinated, I’ve become a hell of a lot more comfortable with navigating indoor spaces, but Fritz and I took one look and very quickly decided on take-out. The Dollar General has giant signs from corporate demanding masks, but you’ll only find them packaged and for sale in the store (and for more than a dollar, I might add). The gas station we hit mid-walk today has all of its benches roped off to prevent people from gathering, but not a single person–staff or customer–was masked up inside.

67% of Clermont County, Ohio’s voters favored Donald Trump. That’s not particularly notable in Ohio at large, and in comparison to the counties I’ve walked through it’s actually on the low end for Trump support. Most counties have numbers in the 70s and one, Adams County, voted 81.3% for Trump.

What’s notable to me about Clermont, though, is that it seems like nearly every one of those 67% still have Trump campaign signs posted in their yards. At a minimum. Many have large Trump banners waving in their yards, including the would-be-funny-if-sanity-prevailed one of Rambo-Trump, with a tank and explosions in the background. One house this morning had three large flags posted out front, promoting “Trump 2020: Keep America Great,” “Trump 2024: Save America,” and “Our Nation, Our Votes Stolen.” As I head further west, I see more references to QAnon as well. It’s not all as obvious as the hand-made “Q” sign that I spotted a couple of days ago, but once you start noticing them you can’t stop, like with the WWG1WGA pasted in black letters on a Jeep this morning.

Even at dinner at the Big Boy, a woman one booth down from me is railing against the stimulus. “Everyone I know is talking about what they’re going to spend their $1400 on. It’s socialism. This is how it starts.” The siren’s song is ever-appealing, but she’s onto it.

The people here are ready. Because there’s a storm coming. And you don’t want to be caught out in a storm by surprise.

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I’m now one day out from the end of this portion of the walk. It’s a long day tomorrow, some 30 miles into the city center, but I’m thrilled to be able to make it. Like Thursday and Friday, apprehension hovered over much of this walk for the past month and the past year.

As we look back on the COVID year, we’ll all have different symbolic moments, signs or events laden with meaning that encapsulated when life changed profoundly. The same is true, I’m sure, for the moments that come to signify our return to, if not normal, at least better. And for me, this–along with those two jabs in the shoulder–is going to be the defining one.

I’d like to say that it’s doubly-symbolic, capturing a moment in time when we slowly, tenuously transitioned back towards a political dynamic less fraught with tension and bitter animosity. I’m afraid, though, that such a point, should one come to pass, remains many steps away.