Though many veteran motorcyclists insist that a bike is more than capable of being a year-round vehicle (given certain precautions) my experience, that of having to rely on it as my only means of transport, has been the exact opposite. In perfect conditions, I am more comfortable on the bike than ever but the slightest patch of gravel, the dark hint of moisture or oil, even a thick shadow is enough to make me grind my teeth under the helmet and ride at a speed that proves infuriatingly slow for seemingly all other commuters. I’ve fallen from the saddle at low speeds and walked away with the skin scraped from my arms. I’ve survived a bloody crash in the forest, surrounded as I was, then, by the pick-up’s metal cage and held tightly in place by the seat belt. I haven’t had a major accident on the motorcycle yet, but I can do the math. So, I ride slowly and, to the best of my ability, I avoid bad roads.
Ohio’s ‘Bloodslide’ is unavoidable.
The staining begins well before ‘The Red Road’ proper, streaked across the pavement by so many passing cars that it resembles the feeler of some long, flat, worm. The smell reaches me next, when the wind momentarily turns and presses air up under the helmet. It is the overwhelming stench of decay, lent grotesque familiarity by the frigid autumn weather- smelling, at its edges, like the meat coolers of a grocery store. The road darkens, not for cleared pavement but for thicker layers of gore, crusted, broken, and crusted again, dried blood powdering like sand under the tire. I slow and the smell hits me a second time, fresh from being turned over by my passage.
‘Several names are given to the short section of I-77 where animals seek death. Though conversationally jarring, ‘Bloodslide’ is likely the most recognized identifier and likely the closest to the truth of the matter. Pulped viscera thoroughly coats several miles of northern I-77 where it runs with forested sides and a dark cloud of birds hangs perpetually at its center, where the phenomenon is concentrated.
‘Bloodslide’s’ perpetual grime is the result of an evolved behavior shared by local herbivores. Various birds of prey nest in the region and local rodents (as well as opossums and raccoons) have learned that a deeply bloody road is distraction enough for hawks and eagles that they may live in peace as long as the coating remains fresh. Though the exact trigger remains a mystery, mammals surviving to maturity in the woods will grow fat as though preparing for hibernation and will spontaneously scramble to the road one day in order to throw themselves under the wheels of a passing vehicle. These small sacrifices have remained unhindered by all of the state’s attempts to end them, including fences, lights, and scarecrow-like statues that only further frightened drivers along ‘The Red Road.’
As with falling rocks, patches of ice, and other natural obstacles to the nation’s vast infrastructure, the state has resigned itself to simply warning travelers of ‘Bloodslide’s’ potential dangers and advises that animals on the road be given what they want- a quick end.’
By the time I consider turning around my lower half is already painted red. The brown layer of the road has begun to give way to slick red beneath, peeling like a scab to reveal pockets of bone and rot. The occasional corpse rises from the leveled mash, usually surrounded by a dozen birds. They watch me carefully as I putter by.
Several fat squirrels approach as I attempt to navigate ‘The Red Road.’ They wait expectantly at the front tire until I kick them away. One finally fools me as I hydroplane across a particularly slimy patch of pavement. I correct and feel the motorcycle lurch over its form. Its gorged body explodes and begins to drain into the asphalt. Something larger lurks at the forest’s edge but it’s smart enough to realize that the size and speed of my vehicle likely wouldn’t do the job. It sulks noisily off into the underbrush to wait for a car.
‘Bloodslide’s’ treacherous surface draws the journey into the early evening and it’s dark by the time I finally reach clear pavement. Having made it across ‘The Red Road,’ I find Ohio’s attempt at settling the consciences of drivers somewhat lacking. The illustration on a diamond sign a mile onward sports the outline of a cartoon rabbit, smiling and offering a thumb’s up as a cartoon tire looms toward it. My headlight paints it red and I suck heavy lungfuls of fresh air through the helmet’s visor.
-traveler
