He can still be seen, riding bike trail into eternity

“Do not bend, lift, or twist. BLT, remember. You’re not to lift anything that weighs over five pounds, nor can you drive long distances. However, you may ride your bicycle within reason.”

And those were my post-surgical orders. Worse yet, Natalie heard them, so I’d have to obey lest I incur the displeasure of my short but highly-influential spouse, phooey. “Come back in three weeks and we’ll see how you’re doing,” said the surgeon.

But she said I could ride my bike again, hooray. So I dug the venerable Schwinn out of the garage where it had spent the winter with its bunkmates, the wheelbarrow and the lawnmower, and applied wrench, tire pump and oil can.

Exciting as it was, I really shouldn’t have made my first trip to Motion Industries to buy a ball bearing, for South Ewing Street is a narrow road, further improved with a deep ditch on each side, relentless traffic and an Old Testament hill.

“If you’re going to ride your bike,” said Natalie, inspecting my battered remains afterward, “you might want to just stick to the Lancaster bike trail for the time being.” She was right: the bike path allows only pedestrians and other bikes, and you’re less likely to be flattened from behind by a log truck.

Upon recovery I rode to the bike path and turned south, ducking under the East Main Street bridge, which was fun. In fact, the whole trail was delightful: it’s a lovely ride through woods and along streams, and I congratulated myself right up to the point that I realized I was lost.

The Lancaster bike trail exists in a parallel universe — there are no street signs, no posted maps (e.g., You Are Here) and thus no indication as to where you are or how far the end of the trail might be. I crossed railroad tracks twice and unknown waterways at least eight times. Presumably I was still in Ohio. I was growing tired. Should I turn back?

I surfaced miles away from home at Cenci Lake Park and guessed that the trail must circle back. And so, encouraged by an enraged Canada goose whose goslings I’d approached too closely, I took a chance and followed an arrow that someone had spray-painted onto the pavement, hoping that this indicated the direction of the bike path and not, say, a shortcut to the Fairfield County Tar Pits.

The miles went by but I pedaled on, knowing that my cell phone couldn’t help unless the sheriff somehow triangulated my position and called in a helicopter, which would be embarrassing. And they wouldn’t take my bike along, either, because it was built in 1956 and is thus too heavy to lift.

Then I turned a corner and there was Memorial Drive, glimmering in the distance. I could have kissed the ground.

“Maybe next time you’ll take a map,” suggested Natalie, examining what was left of her beloved spouse.

“I like my bike, though,” I croaked.

Mark Kinsler is a science teacher from Cleveland Heights who limps around an old house in Lancaster with Natalie and the cats. He can be reached at kinsler33@gmail.com.