89: around detroit, 6 mile road, the road to despair, missing turtles, rip wayne, lovely monkey, juxtaposition, my family's here?, a helpful directive, yield, gravedigger mike, lost cat, place trash here, no. vi

July 25, 2025

Ann Arbor to Novi

After yesterday's visit to Detroit, I changed my route. Instead of going through Detroit and enjoying the sights and sounds of a hospital room, I decided to go north out of Ann Arbor then turn east, which will put me north of the metropolitan area.

My decision was confirmed when Carl sent me this article.

Yesterday the temperature topped out at a sizzling 97F/36.1C, and today won't be much better, so I left at 6:00 while it was still dark outside... although it is possible that I just wasn't able to prise open my eyes and simply thought it was dark.

I have 6.8 miles to go on "6 Mile Road." Also, it's raining.

Choose wisely, my son. The other road leads to Despair.

The sun is almost up. Every time I see an algae-covered pond or river, I keep expecting to see my turtle friends - but they're long gone, hanging out in Pennsylvania.

so many questions.... Is Wayne the name of a hot dog/food item that they no longer sell? An actual dog? Was Wayne a person who was a "hot dog?" Is it two separate items: "RIP Wayne" but come try our fantastic hot dogs!

I do not want a tattoo on my lovely monkey. Stay away.

Juxtaposition. It’s always about juxtaposition.

Why is my family at the base of that sign?

the rain is moving from left to right, as am I

"If found, pick it up..." I appreciate the helpful directive.

The lone track in the soft, wet gravel is mine.

I can actually smell the color green this morning.

I really appreciated the Kiwanis Trail, which runs from from Adrian to Tecumseh.

I think this was to hang an event banner, but they never removed it and now there are trees covering part of it.

I know you're very excited to read about more detours, but they're a biker's life.

this appears to be where they buried the last guy who tried to slip past

although a lot of others made it through

I always thought Mempis was west of Richmond.

As I was riding along, nearing the end of my ride, I heard a voice behind me ask, "Are you going all the way?"

"All the way," has a number of meanings, and I contemplated the possibilities. If his next question had to do with "First, Second, or Third Base," then I knew where the conversation was going, and I'd probably feign a seizure.

Still unsure, I devised a clever way to elicit more information: "Huh?"

"Are you going all the way?" the middle-aged man who was now beside me asked again. My clever plan to get more intel didn't work. I need a new plan.

"Where is 'Alltheway?'" I responded with interest, as if Alltheway was a much-sought-after tourist destination.

As it turns out, he was referring to "all the way to Lake Huron," via the Lake-to-Lake Trail Route #1, which connects Lake Michigan to Lake Huron. He saw the panniers and assumed I was traveling the route like he'd seen so many others take.

I didn't ask, so I'm not sure how the topic arose, but arise it did, like a bony hand out of a grave in a horror movie.

"I'm a gravedigger."

After a few minutes of conversation I was becoming more and more interested, and suggested stopping for a bite to eat. He knew of a good breakfast place and we continued our conversation over eggs and hash browns.

Unsurprisingly, it was an interesting conversation. Mike, 61, retired in June after 44 years of digging graves. These days, he gets up at 5:00 to go skiing on the lake at 5:30 while the water is still glassy, then goes for a 20-25 mile ride. We also talked about his wife, a retired public schoolteacher, and his daughters, one a Speech Pathologist and the other working in Dublin, never to return after meeting an Irishman, but most of the time we spent talking about his previous occupation.

"The industry really changed about fifteen years ago," he informed me. "That's when people started wanting to watch. 'You know,' they said, 'to make sure nothing weird happens.' They're talking about grave robbing. They always say the same thing: 'I've heard things.' That means they've been watching something online."

Consequently, whereas he could previously dig 21 graves in a day, now they're scheduled every 30 minutes, "and we give the friends and family as long as they need with the casket in order to be respectful."

He didn't seem bothered by the fact that people wanted to watch, and used the word "respect" several times, as if it really was important to him instead of the nuisance that I'm sure it was.

Never having met a genuine gravedigger, I kept tossing out questions: "How does a person get started in the field?" He got a job working at the cemetery right out of high school because they were so desperate, and the the other gravediggers quickly taught him the ropes.

This is a picture from his phone. I was surprised at the precision required when digging and placing coffins. When side-by-side, there are usually only about 1-2 inches (2-5 cm) between each one, and you can see here how little extra dirt is removed to fit this one in.

He also talked a bit about the surprising frequency families wants to move a casket. Even though they're encased in concrete, they tend to crack and fill with water, and therefore have to be drained before opening, then replaced.

"If it's in a low-lying area, it's gonna get filled with water."

Lifting the caskets in and out of the graves required a specific way to attach the cables, lest they tip over and spill their contents out onto the dirt while family members scream and faint (never happened on his watch).

He also did all of the gardening for the cemetery, and became skilled at making topiaries. The pictures of the bushes he trimmed were impressive.

As we were saying goodbye, he let me know that the local bike club was going to be having a ride at 6:00. I was flattered by the invitation, but climbing onto the saddle when it's 95 degrees didn't seem ideal, especially after a nice shower.

Mike, with his "Frankenstein bike," put together with cannibalized parts from other bikes. Sorry for the mixed metaphor.

Dear Horace and Ethel, I can no longer tolerate the living conditions imposed upon me and am hereby informing you that I'm not lost, I’m escaping. By the time you read this I’ll be in Vegas. My name is actually Bruce, not Rupert, and the name you burdened me with is part of the reason I'm moving on. While I appreciate your temporary assistance in getting me back on my feet, I will ALWAYS land on my feet. I'm a cat. It’s what we do. Please don’t try to follow me. Bruce

I stopped in Novi, which I learned comes from the Roman numeral #6.... "No. VI" because it was the sixth coach stop across the state. It's pronounced NO-vie.

Heart

Comment

Link

Today's ride: 45 miles (72 km)
Total: 2,322 miles (3,737 km)

Rate this entry's writing	Heart	9
Comment on this entry	Comment	3

Carl B.Here’s a whole song from a now-defunct, but still awesome band all about stop No. VI on the line.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DyFM8f1fI1M&list=OLAK5uy_mVdVGctMosfJ8a4ZBimLoGz22nrjL3Ukc&index=10&pp=8AUB
Reply to this comment
5 months ago

Carl B.To Carl B.When you get closer to the Mackinac Bridge, I’ll send you another song, about going across the bridge.
Reply to this comment
5 months ago

Mark BinghamTo Carl B.If it’s by The Great Lakes Myth Society, no need. I plan to listen to all of their songs this evening. 😊🎵🎶🎼😊
Reply to this comment
5 months ago