All Ryan knew of Cleveland, Ohio was from watching reruns of the Drew Carey show he'd seen on TV. As he pulled in under the setting sun he was struck by how different it looked.

Starting about twenty five miles from the city, the bland farming landscape gave way to civilization once again. As he got closer into the city, he realized how worn down it looked, even in the fading light. Somehow, he'd expected something more flashy, modern. Tired as he was, he couldn't relax. He cut up north, leaving his familiar I-80, and connecting with a new transcontinental road, the tollway of Interstate 90.

Ryan knew I-90 ran the entire length of the country. It started in Boston, Massachusetts, followed from New York, out past Niagara Falls, and didn't stop until it reached Seattle, Washington. Out east, I-90 followed the shores of the Great Lakes, while I-80 followed an inland route. Once they got near Chicago however, I-80 cut sharply south and west. I-90 angled north.

Chicago, the start of the fabled Route 66; right off Michigan Avenue in the heart of the city. That was where, Ryan hoped, he would be able to take it easy. At the moment, he was clawing down the miles to make good time. When he hit Route 66, he planned to slow down, explore, have a good time.

Cleveland didn't offer much in the way of cheap hotels along the interstate.

Ryan paused at a so-called "oasis," a travel plaza along the toll route. Ryan parked his bike at the far end of the parking lot and walked across the still-hot asphalt. Though the sun had already set behind the city, the black top radiated the heat it had absorbed all day with merciless intensity. Ryan felt the warmth even though his riding boots.

He was ever so glad for the air conditioned hub of the oasis.

If nothing else, the toll road offered great amenities. Food, gas, a convenience store, even a lounge and showers for truckers. Ryan ambled over to the coffee bar, and ordered a long-named "chocolate chip cookie-dough iced mochachino"… whatever that was. It sounded good. Apparently, it was a chilled coffee drink that tasted remarkably like a chocolate chip cookie. It also had a healthy amount of caffeine. Ryan looked at a map in the main hall for a few minutes, decided he'd hole up west of Cleveland in a place called Sandusky, then made his way to the dining area.

Ryan sipped his coffee drink and watched the people. It was getting on in the evening, travel was probably slowing down. Fortunately, he'd missed most of the rush hour traffic.

A mother was shepherding two children towards the chairs with their dinners: a salad for her, and two kids' meals. Their father was already waiting at the table with drinks and a burger.

Once upon a time, Ryan could spend all day sitting, watching people. Right now though, that dull ache at his heels was starting to act up. Time to go, time to hit the road. He wasn't tired. There were still miles to go. He glanced to the west as he saddled up. The wind had picked up, bringing with it a distinctive metallic scent. Rain. Somewhere to the west, clouds were gathering.

Ryan made sure his raincoat was near the top of his saddle bags, fueled up yet again, and set out.


Ryan rolled in to a Motel 6 outside of Sandusky just as the first drops of lazy, fat rain began to fall. Huge drops that seemed to move almost slowly to earth. He grabbed his raincoat, slipped it on, and snagged his backpack out of the small trailer. It contained his shaving kit, tooth brush, a change of socks and underwear for the next day.

His timing could not have been more perfect. Just as he stepped under the awning to the front door, the sky split open. Rain slammed into the pavement, as if a giant bucket had suddenly been upended. The sound was deafening, drowning out even the semi-trailers on the interstate. Sheets of rain hurled themselves east, driven it seemed by the same invisible force that pushed him west.

Ryan gave the desk clerk his ID, the fake one, and stared out the window while the rain came down.

"It's pouring tonight," the clerk observed, handing Ryan's ID back, and giving him a key card. Ryan thanked the man, his voice feeling oddly creaky from disuse. The hotel was comfortable, but simple. The price was right. Ryan was glad at least to have a bed for the night. Morning included a free continental breakfast. A bagel and a banana would easily suffice, but sausage and eggs would hit the spot.

Sausage and eggs. Ryan hadn't had those since his mother went in the hospital. He could cook, he was a good cook, but finding the time to sit down had been a challenge lately. Ryan's diet these past few weeks consisted mainly of fast food, and random canned goods he hadn't bothered to heat.

Ryan's room was on the top floor, facing west. The light from the highway provided more than enough illumination to see by. He set his back pack in a chair, his shaving kit in the bathroom. The rain had not abated. If anything, it had intensified. Streaks of lightning, white, and even some with a reddish tinge sliced the air like a razor; the sky crying out at each cracking bolt, as if in pain.

Ryan settled himself under the covers, lying so he could watch out the window.

For nowadays the world is lit by lightning, he thought to himself, watching the storm in the dark.


Ryan didn't remember falling asleep, nor could he recall any dreams. He woke up to the predawn western sky. As usual, he'd slept in just his underwear. He stripped down, checked the alarm clock beside the bed, and decided there was time for a brief shower before breakfast.

He gathered his meager belongings, tucked his dirty clothes into a bag, and stuck that in his backpack. Breakfast was a quick affair. There was no sausage, but bacon and eggs made up for it. It was barely seven in the morning. If he hurried, he could make it to Chicago by noon.

The rain that had so hammered the world last night had moved on, a distant memory. The only evidence came in the puddles, and the thickly humid air. Though the sun had barely been above the horizon, already it was getting hot.

Ryan borrowed a rag from housekeeping, and used it to dry the seat of his motorcycle as best he could. At least the water had stayed out of his saddle bags and trailer. The bike would dry once he hit highway speeds.

It would be a sticky day, the sort that could make one's skin and clothes cling together in most uncomfortable ways. Ryan glanced north, longingly towards the lake. Shortly, he'd be travelling along the Michigan border, and any chance of a cooling lake breeze would be lost until at least Michigan City… a city that was, ironically enough, located in Indiana.

With the rising sun once again at his heels, Ryan set off west.

Indiana looked much the same as western Ohio. Flat, with various fields alternating between soybeans and corn. Large sprinklers on wheels sat at various points in most of the fields, some of them on and spraying water in a fine mist. Ryan slowed down as he passed, wondering how they moved. The sprayers were on wheels. Were they dragged behind a tractor? Did they pivot around a central point? Ryan wasn't sure. They weren't like anything he'd ever seen before.

At one point, he passed an exit for Notre Dame college.

Beyond that though, and the occasional billboard advertising fireworks, Indiana was uneventful. He'd thought he'd be close to the lake when he passed Michigan City, but much to his disappointment, he was too far inland. Ryan pulled off at the next oasis and went inside to cool down. He tried to sit still, but he found it wasn't happening. The only peace he felt came from being on the road. He hoped when he arrived at Chicago, he might be able to relax.

As he regarded a map thoughtfully, he decided he would force himself to stay a night in Chicago before starting out on Route 66. He wasn't sure wher he'd stay, or what he'd do, but these past hours he'd been riding like a hunted man. It wasn't a pace he could ultimately sustain, he knew. And Chicago was the so-called Second City.

Though Ryan wanted nothing more than to feel the pavement of Route 66 beneath his tires, he felt a bit of excitement at the idea of exploring Chicago. He picked up a few brochures touting such places as the Magnificent Mile, and Navy Pier.

Chicago had some unique architecture. Ryan felt he'd be remiss in his traveling duties if he didn't take at least a few hours in the old city by the lake. He'd also never actually been up close and personal to any of the Great Lakes. He'd heard they were so large that from one side, you couldn't see the opposite shore. Like a giant, inland sea; but with fresh water.

Ryan wondered if it would be anything like Lake Champlain, in Vermont. One summer, he and his mother had gone and spent two weeks in Vermont, playing tourist and enjoying the rural life for a change. It was still one of Ryan's fondest memories. He sat on the shore of the lake, at their campground, skipping stones and watching the birds. For those two weeks, Ryan felt as if he were a character from one of his stories: exploring the true wilderness. All too soon, though, they had to return to civilization.

But those days were gone.

Ryan clenched his jaw as he rode. It was still sinking in. His mother was gone. There would be no more days like that. This wasn't a temporary thing. She was dead, and that would never change.

Ryan wondered, distantly, how much of this he still had yet to cope with. If you stop moving, will you have to face your feelings? he asked himself. Ryan had a habit of asking himself questions. Also had a slightly peculiar habit of narrating his life, especially in the tone of the latest author he'd read from.

The young man fled west, attempting to outrun the feelings he knew would catch him in the end, he began; writing his own story as he rode.

He found himself wishing he'd bought a journal.


From Gary, Indiana west, the landscape changed, taking on a decidedly urban atmosphere. The road gashed through various residential neighborhoods and industrial parks, cutting mercilessly through both. The traffic increased, and Ryan was forced to slow his pace accordingly.

Near the Indiana border, the road nestled in beside a set of freight train tracks. He glanced over, watching an endless locomotive of tanker cars matching pace beside him. Ryan twisted the throttle, and pulled ahead, watching the train cars slowly falling behind.

Signs along the road marked a section called the Chicago Skyway. They also indicated conditions could become unexpectedly foggy, and "bridge ices before road." Steeply, the road rose, breaching like the back of some great whale above the concrete ground below. It arched over the river, bearing Ryan with it, then fell, rolling back to earth and reuniting with the train tracks beside. It was in that moment Ryan knew for certain he'd entered Illinois.

I-90 followed a northwesterly route a bit further before shrugging straight north, merging with an interstate new to him: I-94. Ryan found himself in one of seven northbound lanes. Across a concrete barrier, seven other lanes surged back the way he came: south.

Ahead, the skyline of Chicago loomed, growing closer with each passing minute.

Some people might've felt intimidated, surrounded on all quarters by cars and tractor trailers. Ryan found it oddly soothing. Here, at least, he was part of something. An ebbing, moving tide of humanity; everyone either on their way to, or from, seeing someone. In the middle of the tollway, Ryan felt a sense of unity: they were all a band of anonymous travelers, bonded on the highway.

Eventually, though, that comradery came to an end. Ryan's directions took him away from the comforting arm of I-90 that had cradled him for the last four hundred miles or so. As he took an exit to the right, to the east and lake side of I-90, he cast one last look over his shoulder. Goodbye, he thought, an odd sense of nostalgia welling in his heart.

Then it was time to look forward again.

He followed the new road, the one he'd just met, due east, towards the lake. Eventually, it came to an end, tossing him away without remorse, and leaving him with two options: north or south.

Without hesitation, Ryan went North, into the city.

This new road knew itself as Lakeshore Drive. It welcomed him, pulling his motorcycle into the slow moving throng of cars and pedestrians. Lakeshore Drive, true to its name, held him up against the western shore of Lake Michigan, between the concrete pier and a beautiful stretch of park.

At a stop light, Ryan flicked the visor of his helmet up, savoring the sweet scent of untamed water. It wasn't briny, like the Atlantic ocean he'd met, nor was it savory like the rivers and marshes near Philadelphia. It was a scent altogether unique, and unmistakable.

He passed a massive and elaborate fountain on his left. At that moment he decided he would have to wander these parks before finding a spot to retire for the night.

Skyscrapers graced his left flank, lake and a marina to his right. Ryan continued a bit further. His destination was a place the maps called Navy Pier. It offered parking, not free of course. It seemed free parking was a thing of the past in Chicago. He crossed yet another river, this one spanned by a metal bridge that felt rather ancient, and finally turned east once again out over the lake, onto Navy Pier. He pulled into the motorcycle lot, and killed the engine.

Slowly, relishing the sensation, he removed his helmet, allowing the cool lake breeze to blow through his short hair. He adjusted his glasses, and stowed his helmet in his trailer. It was about noon, mid-day. He didn't have any plans.

The thought of exploring the promenade of Navy Pier didn't excite him. Ryan wanted to get down to that park, feel the grass beneath his feet, maybe sit down for a while and watch the sailboats bobbing in the bay. His legs felt stiff from the long ride. Walking felt strange. He was glad at least for the light weight shirt he wore. The sun was relentless. Still, by the lake, it was pleasant.

Ryan made sure his bike was secure, tucked his keys and wallet in his pocket, and headed along the foot patch back the way he'd recently drove. He wanted to see that fountain. Buckingham fountain his map said. It was a work of art: the towering water plumes easily thirty feet high, the green copper sculptures resplendent in the mist.

Ryan sometimes wondered if he was a contradiction. He loved the feeling of being in the wildernes, and yet as he strolled the avenues of a city, he felt alive. It was if each city was a living creature, a great beast with its own heart and lifeblood. Ryan could put his finger on that pulse, and move naturally with the city. He never felt nervous in the heart of a metropolis, never felt overwhelmed. He felt at home.

He watched the people passing around him, every one a living being with his or her own hopes, dreams and fears. Each life a story, waiting for someone to tell it to. From the man begging on the street, to the woman napping on the bench, or the businessman in his suit, each life was something special, unique. Ryan found a great and sublime delight in humanity. Cities could bring out the worst in people, it was said. He found the opposite, it tended to bring out the best. A sense of cultural identity and unity, tolerance for others and yet a respect of personal space. Familiar and novel, old and new. In the city, Ryan felt as if anything were possible. He was glad he'd decided to stay the night.

Through no great plans of his own, Ryan's feet took him the length of the park, down to the very steps of a planetarium at the far end, before winding their way back uptown. There was no rush, no hurry. He didn't bother to check his watch. In this midst of the urban hustle, Ryan Smithers was a man moving leisurely, and enjoying every minute of it.

Eventually, he found himself beside a shiny bean-shaped sculpture. It was metal, polished to a mirror gloss. Kids were laughing, making faces, their reflections warping like silly putty. Even adults got into the game. Ryan smiled, and stuck his tongue out. It was impossible not to laugh at the shape.

Deftly, he slipped through what looked like a passage underneath it. He'd expected the bean to be solid. Inside, it was hollow, the same mirror gloss bouncing images around. Ryan looked at his reflection in the curved ceiling. He stared into his own eyes, and made a face, wiggling his fingers beside his head. His reflection, his friend, imitated him. Ryan laughed aloud, realizing he didn't care what other people thought. The bean made it okay. It wasn't serious, wasn't meant to be.

Ryan crossed a serpentine bridge over the main road, and came to find himself suddenly walking alone in a somber place. Just as the bean had been playful, this place was serious.

People here moved slowly, talked quietly. No one was sharing a picnic or playing games. The mood was one of quiet reflection. It seemed peculiar, almost out of place with the rest of the park. Flowers, dozens if not hundreds of different types filled the long central pavilion.

Planters on pedestals, each with a bench nearby lined the paved walkway.

A plaque stood beneath a woven metal arch.

Curious, Ryan moved closer to read it.

Cancer Survivor's Garden, it began. The garden was designed to be a celebration of live and give hope in the midst of a memorable garden setting. The contemplative garden design represents a metaphorical process of recognition and self-knowledge that is crucial to healing. The three main garden rooms represent the three main states of healing: acceptance, support, and celebration.

Ryan felt as if the strength had suddenly gone out of his legs. As if all those hundreds of miles in less than two days had found him. Acceptance, yes. But support? Celebration? Ryan sat on a bench near the steps at the north end and picked at a chip of concrete.

"Really?" he muttered to no one in particular. "Like it's that easy?" He stared at a basket of flowers pensively, willing some sort of resolution to come to him. Some solace.

If God was listening, he didn't answer. Or, if he did, it was in the form of birdsong in the trees behind him.

Ryan sighed and folded his hands between his knees. He wanted to feel something. It was expected of him, he knew. He hadn't cried when his mother passed away. At her funeral, even as a pallbearer, his eyes remained dry.

If there were ever a place were tears would've been acceptable, he thought as he regarded the blooms, this would be it.

His nature, it seemed, would not cooperate.

Not a single drop came to his eye.

Ryan wiped his face with his hands. He felt numb. He wondered if he'd ever be able to feel normal again.