Forsaking the tent for ‘deluxe accommodations’ has its downside

I’d hate to give anyone the impression that our summer vacation by bicycle was anything other than pure joy. There are plenty of people in this world who are content to stake their claim to a chunk of seaside sand, plant their beach lounger above the tide line and watch the waves roll in. That’s all well and good, and to tell you the truth, I actually tried it myself for a day or two and loved it. On day three, however, I found myself climbing the walls.

Luckily, I’ve married a woman who understands me and is taken by the same spirit of restless adventure. It was she that booked this summer’s Great Ohio Bicycle Adventure as a Christmas gift to the both of us. (This not to say she wouldn’t be perfectly happy with a week on the beach — a point she emphatically pressed upon proofreading this column.)

The day-to-day sense of mission is what makes the trip. Up early and on the bike just after dawn, our quest has traditionally been to knock out the majority of our miles before the heat catches up with the humidity and the mid-June sun turns the tar-sealed township roads upon which we travel into black taffy.

Having spent over 30 years pedaling as a team on a two-seat “tandem” bike, our miles add up more quickly than most, and we’re happy to take on the mantle of forward scouts for the rest of our entourage. This year the gang included one of Kristin’s high school classmates, along with her husband and a handful of their friends.

As “Lewis and Clark,” Kristin and I are tasked with finding and defending the best spot available at our daily destination. The latter is accomplished by laying out a perimeter of most of what we are wearing — helmets, gloves, shoes, socks, headbands — until we can drag our camping gear out and get the tent pitched. Nary an interloper would chance touching one of our smelly socks after 50 miles on the road.

Kristin and I got a day off of our scouting duties for the last night of the trip. With storms in the forecast, our gang decided to skip the tents for the night and pony up $10 a piece to reserve sleeping space on the concrete floor of an exhibition hall at a county fairgrounds. As we settled into our sleeping bags for the evening, I suddenly realized the one thing I had not considered was the all-important “potty proximity” factor.

“Kristin, where’s the restroom in this place?” I whispered, lest I disturb other campers within earshot.

“It’s all the way at the far end of the building and under the grandstand,” she said. “It’s an actual restroom with flush toilets and everything.”

Flush toilets or not, there was no way I was going to pick my way in the dark through 200 floor sleepers five times that night. Scanning the room, I found a nearby door to the outside world. I knew there to be a fenced corral just beyond that door and likely plenty of shadowy corners to dash around. I winked out with a plan.

When nature prodded me from a deep and peaceful sleep in the middle of the night, I stealthily snuck out that very same door, only to find the entire fairgrounds was lit up like an operating room — nary a shadowy corner in sight.

I wound up spending my night dodging rain drops in a series of 100-yard sprints to the trusty bank of Porta Pots halfway across camp. I’d have been better off tenting in the rain!

Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John atjlorson@alonovus.com.