After reaching the west side of town, I made a quick stop at Amish Acres -- an odd tourist attraction created from the 80 acres of the Old Order Amish farm. This is the place where, during my 2001 walk, I got semi-threatened by a tattooed Spanish man who claimed that "his body could kill my body in a second!" (Watch the WF trailer to see him in action.) After a brief jaunt through the 19th century property, I was back on my hard bike seat and traveling west again, trying to make some decent progress.
Not much else exciting happened that day. I biked along some old farm roads, passed some Amish folks in carriages and bought some new sunglasses at a Family Dollar Store. Then, while resting at the Dairy Queen in Bremen, I spilled about three tablespoons of liquefied mustard onto my pants and over several of my maps. Trying to not explode with deranged anger that would cause locals to gawk and gape, I just nodded my head and quietly murmured "far out" like the Big Lebowski and adjourned to the men's room.
The next day, I emerged from a weedy, tangly patch of trees and biked into the next town of Walkerton. After that, it was just biking, biking and biking. I finally got to the town of Woodville, where I heard there was a cheesy Wizard of Oz museum/gift shop. However, after cycling three miles out of the way to the supposed address, all I found was a house with a "For Sale" sign out front. So, I headed back for Route 6, looking to get some dinner. I was in the mood for a relaxing sit-down supper with table service, and feeling impetuous, I stopped at the very first place I saw -- The Rosewood Family Restaurant. And still feeling wildly spontaneous, I ordered the very first the thing I saw on the menu -- the stuffed pork chop dinner. Both were bad choices.
The food was odd-tasting and the waitress was odd as well. I got one of those "cheery" waitresses that have a permanent grin pasted on their face and talk to you like you're four years old. No matter what you say, you get an overly-sympathetic, sugary response with dumbed-down, unabashed enthusiasm. It's a shame when I waste a portion of my tiny nest egg on crappy food and cornball service. However, one amusing event was when this perfectly abled middle-aged man parked his shiny, suped-up hotrod in the handicapped spot right in front of the restaurant. At first I thought he was simply being a lazy jerk, but after watching the patrons giving the car a "going over" whenever they came in, I could tell the guy parked it by the entrance so the folks could fawn over his "awesome" car. I could see the square-headed man gleam with satisfaction every time he saw some envious fellow crouch down and check out his ride.
After my lousy meal, I biked another 4 miles or so and camped under a bridge that was enveloped with poison ivy.
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