March 27 A.M. Port Matilda, PA

Trying to keep in shape has been a challenge. Sitting solid for 6-8 hours is one thing, but not walking is another. I’m sure that this much time on my butt has taken years off of my life. Does gaining meaning or understanding add years? I’m not sure. If it does, what new meaning or understanding do I have? Although the true value of this trip will gradually and over time secrete into my consciousness, I do feel that I understand our political divisions a bit better—the strong hold of the religious right as proportional to the availability of significant natural landforms to aid in special orientation. (Now there’s a PhD dissertation.)

I just found this about Indiana.

 As for exercise:

Day 1: Nada

Day 2: 200 kettlebell swings (100/50/50) (I’m travelling with my 45 pounder.)

Day 3: Body weight 3 sets of 30 Full body extensions/30 close grip pushups/30 prisoner squats. Plus walk (Although I didn’t ask it to, my I-phone, I discovered keeps track) 11,111 steps/4.73 miles in The Tallgrass Prairie Preserve.

Day 4: Nada

Day 5: Body weight three sets Alternating Prisoner Lunge (8/side)/Triple Stop Pushup/full body extensions (20)/ Mountain Climber (10/side). Then 3 sets  of Burpee (20 secs), rest 10 secs/Plank (20 secs), rest 10 secs

Day 6 (today) Nada so far. Perhaps some squats and extensions.

Two days ago, it occurred to me how few dogs I’d seen and then only in one Indiana town (three mangy looking mongrels in a fenced mud yard and across the street, a large dark dog chained to a tall pole.)  Then soon after leaving the North Vernon Comfort Suites (my first room with a plastic card instead of a key) in the rain I passed a dead dog on the roadside. I drove on for a mile thinking about that dog, now few dogs I’d seen, if anyone knew about that dog’s death. Then I turned around thinking that if that was one of my dogs (Rio or Winslow) dead on the side of the road, I’d want to know about it. I pulled up along side it, turned on my emergency blinkers, and got out, traffic (three cars and an ice cream delivery truck) whizzing by. The dog was a beautiful pit bull, that dark brown/reddish brown  color. It didn’t budge when I nudged it with my foot, so it’d been there a while. It was already on the grass so I didn’t need to move it. It had no collar. Optimistically, I figured that the people living in the house on whose lawn the dead dog laid, took the collar inside, made the hard call, and were waiting for the dog’s owners to show up.

I’d spent some time earlier map reading and realized that I needed to abandon Highway 50 for a northern route if I was keep my schedule. Just before noon, it was with some regret and hesitation that I entered Interstate 275 just outside of Cincinnati,

with Pittsburg the next waypoint on my path. I hadn’t gone five miles when I passed a road-killed coyote (I’ve been keeping track of road kills and road side monuments hand-made by the loved ones of people killed in accidents).  I’d been on two-lane roads winding through woods and at times along streams and hadn’t seen a dead coyote (raccoons/ cats/ squirrel/many, many, many opossums), and now, the first time on an Interstate a dead coyote. This sighting didn't seem to impact my opinion of Interstates, as David (Foster Wallace) and I drove north. Interstate highways are built to get people and goods from point A to point B as efficiently as possible. Yet they seemed designed to control us. They often seem to have built higher than the surrounding areas. You can't just stop to look if you see something to look at--you need to wait until they think it's oK to exit. They've crammed the exit areas with franchised businesses and the "Neon Nightmare" keeps you from being able to distinguish one from another. (I stopped twice, the second time, double-taking the possibility that I'd circled back to my first stop). We all know what the interstates have done to small town America. 

David (Foster Wallace) told me all about drug re-hab. I can't believe what I'm learning from him about the workings of the addict's mind. The scene he describes (and describes and describes) suggests that the true addict isn't all that interested in being rehabilitated, as if deep in his or her heart he/she knows rehabilitation is not only not possible, but not desired. Being a successful addict is the challenge. David (Foster  Wallace) is helping me understand my brother-in-law, Dan, who is an addict. With both Dan and David, I sense that their addiction is the result of a lifetime of self-medicating their poorly understood bi-polar disease. Dan is still with us. David (Foster Wallace) is not. Unfortunately. 

I was feeling strong late yesterday as I realized that my second way-point and potential stopping place, Altoona (I picked it for it's cool name) was too big, so I kept going. Past Tipton (I thought it would be nice to stay in the second town called "Tipton"), past Tyrone (no lodging according to Siri and my own observation--they do have a working paper mill, however). It was still light as I headed north. "Motels" I said to Siri (I've discovered I need to be firm with her.) "There are a number of Motels not too far from you", she said back. One of them, the Port Matilda Inn and Tavern, was the only one with an unfamiliar name. I pushed the little phone picture. "Tavern" a heard a man answer amid an absolute background cacaphony. I asked if he had a room and how much it would be. He couldn't hear me. "There's one seat at the bar if you get here right away," he said. "No, I need a ROOM," I said. "Oh sure, we have rooms." "How much?" I said. "Forty bucks", he said. "Are you by yourself?" I told him I was. "Then thirty. They're not much. Shower. Bed. No Television." "That's fine" I said. "Internet?" "Yes, internet," he said. "I'll see you soon." 

I followed Siri's instructions to Plank Street in Port Matilda. I found the building and couldn't find a parking place as the large lot was jammed.

I parked out in front and went in. The place was wild. "This is amazing," I said to the waitress, standing near the entrance. "Wing night," she said as if that explained it. "You called about the room," she said, as if I was the only person she didn't know who could have called. "Hold on." She went over and told Mark, a large man with a Steelers cap, who was working the cash register. He brought over his book. "What a business you have here," I said. "Wing night," he said, as if that explained it. I found out that Mark and his father bought the place in 1994, what the internet code was and that I could have food until the grill closed at 10. That I could look at the room before I decided, if I wanted to. I told him that I was sure it was fine. He acted as if I was his new friend. I took my key, got my bag and went up stairs to my room. Although it was the sparest motel/inn/hotel room I'd ever been in, the place had a great feel.

I couldn't believe the contrast between nights: The Comfort Inn at 80 bucks, totally sterile, the woman behind the desk knowing next-to-nothing about the town; and the Port Matilda Inn at 30 bucks so spare yet spirit filled with the personality of a man who grew up within ten miles and knew everyone in the place but me. I went back down to the tavern and ordered meatloaf (of course I ordered meat loaf, telling Mark that my mother always made meatloaf on mondays with the meat leftover from Sunday. "Mine too" he said.)

I had a great conversation with a local couple about politics and Penn State, which I hadn't realized was just up the road. I can't believe the dedication to Penn State people have. My best friend from High School, Doug Bennett, married a Penn Alumn and has caught the bug himself. Every game. Complete depression over Joe Paterno and the child abuse by one of his former coaches; Paterno's life in that community and his pre-mature death. This couple got teary eyed talking about it and insisted that I eat breakfast at the Corner Cafe. Which I'll probably not be able to do. They go to most of the home games and those they don't have tickets to, they go to the tail-gate parties anyway. He sells concrete and she's a laid off bar tender. They have two kids, one currently sick with Mononucleosis ("You know that kid's sick when he doesn't want to ride his new motorcycle or charge up his phone").  Everyone who came in stopped to talk to them. Friendlier people do not exist. We all hugged when it was over. I won't be able to forget Port Matilda. 

If I leave now, I might make Vermont by tonight. This is fun.