Jaunted

The shimmering poplars and twisted oaks and sturdy white pines have returned to line either side of the 30 miles between the towns of Midland and Clare, though of course when this straight, no-nonsense path was first built, the trees were stripped mercilessly, acre after acre. They were shipped out along this rail artery to feed the nation’s growing appetite for civilization in the form of desks and chairs and cabinets and floors. Now, this section of what was once the Flint and Pere Marquette Railway has been covered with blacktop and given a nonprofit status—one of many defunct rail lines across the country that has been converted into a public-use path through the Rails to Trails program.

It’s odd how much there is to watch along this line dissecting what could feel like the middle of nowhere. In the spring, the forsythia bloom in impossibly bright clumps—golden banners heralding the arrival of warmer weather. In the fall, the wood smoke from a few remote farmhouses mingles with twisting, falling leaves. This land is ground zero for the endangered Kirtland’s Warbler, whose staccato calls or yellow breast can be identified by a trained ear and eye. Here, year-round, a wetland protection sign warns people not to get off the trail and go traipsing through the mud. “Violators will be toad,” a cartoon amphibian cautions.

Not that there aren’t are a million pretty bike trails in this country with a million pretty birds and plants to see. There are. But this one gives me a rush not solely generated by endorphins because it exemplifies the best in that tricky marriage of land protection and land use. It’s like that couple you see at parties for years and you think, “No, they’re really not that happy. No one is that happy.” But it turns out they are. They actually, legitimately are. This whole thing works, and not just for the poplars and the bikers and the warblers. This trail works for the tiny, emaciated cities where saloons and hotels once thrived and where women in whale-bone corsets walked the streets. Cities that dried up and faded when the trees left.

Suddenly, you want to go to Coleman, Michigan. You’d never even heard of it before the trail, but no matter. Your legs ache and your lungs burn and the colorful, well-placed trail signs tell you to hang on: In Coleman, there are bathrooms, a convenience store, and benches to sit on and watch other bikers whirr past. After your butt has been in the saddle this long, what wouldn’t normally seem that appealing suddenly sounds like salvation itself.

In Coleman, a city of just over a thousand people, is Coleman Auto and Bike, which used to be just Coleman Auto, but they added the “and Bike” when the trail was paved. They nailed a vintage cycle to the building’s gray siding, and half the place is a bike store now; the other half sells auto parts. One of the owners hosts cross-country bikers in his home through the website warmshowers.org.

In a state where General Motors, Ford, and Chrysler ruled everything for so long, I might be reading a little too much into Coleman Auto and Bike. It’s grassroots change! It’s innovation in a place that should be dying! Really, I know it’s just an auto and bike store in rural mid-Michigan, where a couple entrepreneurs are eking out a hard-won living. But I can’t help it. I love that it’s here, on this trail, in this state, at this time.

I take a deep breath. The roar of the trains is gone, which is why my husband can pretend to be one now and it’s not so ridiculous. The history of this section of Michigan is just that—the past. The town of Pere Marquette doesn’t even exist anymore. Today it’s called Ludington, where miles and miles of white-sand beaches and dunes are preserved and protected through a state park. I’m glad that Coleman is still here, though. And that it’s stirring in a state that was pronounced dead but is hanging on.

I mount my bike and start to pedal. I don’t want to get toad, after all.

[Photos: Lara Zielin & Waymarking]