Wood County will have a chance to make an impression on nearly 3,000 strangers next week. Communities
here will be judged on their scenic views, food stands, shade trees and smiling faces as the Great Ohio
Bicycle Adventure pedals across the county.
I know this because two years ago I was one of the grimacing faces pedaling 50 or so miles a day as part
of the annual seven-day GOBA trek across the state.
My commitment to the ride began about six months earlier at a New Year’s Eve party, when my brother (a
GOBA regular) was regaling us with his tales of cycling stamina. In a moment of bravado brought on by
imbibing too much, I took on the challenge for myself and my husband.
So come June, we packed up our tent, tiny toiletry bottles and bicycles to join in the annual tradition.
The first night was the pleasant calm before the storm – literally. A parade of decorated bikes circled
downtown Urbana, church and civic groups served up plates of food, and little tents dotted the
fairgrounds.
It lulled us into a false sense of serenity.
Sometime well before dawn, my brother tapped on our tent to warn us that a storm was coming and we would
not want to be caught packing in a downpour. That was the first of many signs that this GOBA thing was
not going to be a week of vacation. There’s nothing quite like dressing in a small dark tent, putting in
contacts and brushing teeth standing in a field of other campers, then cramming all your belongings into
the smallest pile possible.
Up until this point, I was a fair-weather rider. Rain? No thanks. Wind? Nah, I’ll ride another day.
Actually, up until this point, I hadn’t even worn a bike helmet.
That first morning, we set off in light sprinkles, which soon became pouring rain. It quickly didn’t
matter that the back tire was spraying water up our backsides, because everything – and everyone – was
soaking wet.
At this point, I remember swearing off anymore New Year’s challenges.
But somewhere along those twisting, rolling country roads on the way to Troy, we novices became part of
the GOBA trekkers. In the past, I had always been a somewhat cautious bicyclist when it came to picking
up downhill speed – which I didn’t have to worry about much in Wood County. But when riding all day on
hills, I quickly learned to forget the brakes and make the most of every bit of speed that gravity gave.

We were no match for the cyclists who completed the daily ride long before the sun was in the middle of
the sky. But together, the novices and the veterans ate at fire stations and churches along the route.
We set up tents side by side. We shared bathrooms and communal showers.
By the end of the week, any form of modesty or attempt to primp was long gone.
I now understand what my brother meant when he said GOBA really stood for "Get Over Being
Attractive."
I learned that nothing hurts a butt quite so much as a 50-mile ride, except the next day’s 50-mile ride.

I also quickly learned what he meant by the thousands of bicyclists being like locusts – entering a town,
eating everything in sight, then leaving. I learned that most of these small towns still have expert pie
bakers. And bringing up the back of the pack often meant the pie had already been devoured at the next
community.
I have to admit, I was still mystified by the bicyclists whose bikes had no kickstands because that added
needless weight. I figured I was eating well over that weight in pie at nearly every stop.
Even with the strong headwinds, the sore buttocks and the sunburns, I have fond memories of each town we
swarmed. Not just the church meatloaf dinners and Kool-Aid stands, but the people who went out of their
way to make the oddly dressed strangers feel welcome. There were cheering children who lined the streets
and rooted us on as we finally made it to Greenville. The townspeople of New Bremen who proudly showed
off their bicycle museum. And farmers along the endless dusty roads who nodded, waved and swerved clear
of the weary bicyclists.
This year, Wood County has the chance to be that friendly, welcoming region. With the route going through
Grand Rapids, Pemberville and camping two nights in Bowling Green, we have an opportunity to show
thousands of strangers just how generous the people of the Black Swamp can be.
So next week, when you see strings of bicyclists, swerve wide, wave and make them feel welcome.
This year, my husband and I won’t be among the swarms of bikers, only because my husband’s hand is in a
cast after he broke his thumb – you guessed it, by falling off his bike.
So this time around we will just have to salute the cyclists with a nice slice of pie.