Cowboy Camping

Northern Ohio presented itself with scenery no worse or better than the rest of the East Coast before it. Topped with noticeably more aggressive and scary drivers, I was excited to be done with the state. Ohio’s saving grace was its inland bike paths that provided haven from texting drivers. 

After a lonely dinner at a diner, I joined up with the bike path to find a place to camp for the night. The path surrounded by exposed fields, roads, or train tracks made me nervous about the prospect of finding a safe space to camp. As the sun began to set, I knew I must cut my losses and sleep in the open next to the solitary path once it got dark. 

My home for the night

Tents often make one feel safer. It puts a small barrier between you and the outside world. The fear of rabid dogs and starving bears can escape your mind as you sleep in your tiny shelter. Brutal weather and ravenous mosquitos are no match for your portable fortress of solitude. But what scared me more than wild animals and natural disasters was a person seeing my tent and calling the cops. This fear should have been unwarranted because of the kindness I’ve seen from strangers on my trip, but my anxiety got the better of me. I forewent the tent and “cowboy” camped underneath the night sky. I would be able to make a quick getaway if I didn’t have to take my tent down in the morning. Even though I was laying only on my sleeping pad, with nothing else to protect me, I felt safer. Disappointed by the lack of stars due to the clouds, I took off my glasses to try to sleep. I struggled to stay asleep as loud trains would pass by every few hours and coyotes howling made it very clear I was not truly alone on the bike path. 

Flats are one of the worst things to wake up to

With anxiety driving me, I woke up as the sun started to rise at 5:30 am to a flat tire. After fixing the flat then biking for a few hours, I rewarded myself for my first night of stealth camping with breakfast at a bar. I walked into the closest one I found on my map. The room looked like a classic American bar you would see in the movies, a bar where a fight would seemingly break out of nowhere. The bar included all the hallmarks: dim lights, fading neon signs, motorcycle memorabilia on the wall, and a pool table in the corner. Most of the patrons were already drinking before 9 am. Immediately to the left of me was a big man in a MAGA hat. To my right were two men with eyes glued to their scratch-off lottery tickets. They had just won $50 but spent $60 on new tickets to test their luck. Even after their initial winnings, they were going to go home with less than they started with. 

I knew I wanted to leave before I even sat down at the bar— this was not my crowd. A pang of discomfort started in my chest and slowly settled in my stomach. I remembered that this is why I was doing the trip: not just for the physical challenge of biking 50+ miles a day or stealth camping on the side of the road, but to meet new people, people I have yet to truly encounter in my sheltered life. I ate my breakfast and made quiet conversation with the lady at the bar, before heading off to take on another day.