Yellow Springs to Dayton: A 60-Mile Surprise

I woke up on a suburban street near Dayton, parked at a Harvest Host spot. My host was prepping for a weekend party and didn’t have time to chat, but they offered electricity. I didn’t need it—but I topped up the batteries anyway.

Craving some movement, I decided to ride the bike trail from Yellow Springs to Dayton. I’d read it was a 36-mile round trip, but I hadn’t double-checked it with my usual apps or trail maps. That would come back to haunt me.

Yellow Springs is a quirky, artsy little town I had passed through the day before. I found a public parking lot near the trailhead with a sign asking for donations. As I got ready, a man walking a large, overly enthusiastic German shepherd stopped near the van. After a long, awkward pause—and some barking—I got a rare compliment: “Now, that is really cool,” he said, pointing to the van. I thanked him. I’d see him again later.

There were no signs indicating which way to head toward Dayton, so I asked around. After a few failed attempts, a woman finally gave me directions: “Go through Xenia, about eight miles down.” She laughed when I told her I was headed all the way to Dayton. “Ride a few miles for me, will ya?” I promised her five.

The first stretch of the trail was shaded and peaceful. Just outside of town, I came across a beautiful red bridge and stopped to take a few photos. The trail dipped into a long descent—one I knew I’d have to climb on the return. Joy.

As I crossed the Little Miami River and its tributaries, I noticed how well maintained the trail was—smooth and paved all the way. Just before Xenia, I stopped to help a fellow rider with a flat. He had never changed a tire before, didn’t have the right tools, and didn’t even know what a “jagger” was when I pointed out the thorn in his tube (Western PA slang) I pulled out my toolkit—wrenches, chain tool, gloves—and helped him get back on the trail.

We rode together to Xenia. He was a retired doctor who had just finished a ride along the Normandy coast in France. He and his wife love guided bike tours and meeting new people. He also told me about RAGBRAI, the weeklong ride across Iowa, which I’d heard of but never considered doing. He pointed out a bike shop in Xenia where I picked up a new pump—mine was defective and I wasn’t chancing a flat. The music in the shop was great, but even Shazam couldn’t identify it. I asked—turns out it was Bathtub Skooze by The Iguanacondas. Surf-blues-psychedelic stuff. Weird, and oddly perfect for the shop.

Back on the trail, I aimed for Dayton. Despite being told it was 12 miles away, it turned out to be 21. At this point, I was expecting every distance estimate to be wrong. The ride was still lovely—passing preserves, parks, and friendly riders. One mom and her teenage son zipped past with a cheerful “Great day for a ride!” I reached a crossroads where two women were cleaning up a preserved area and pointed me in the right direction: “Turn right at the T” one of them said.

Old Seed Storage Building

Farther down the trail, I stopped to photograph an old seed storage building—weathered, towering, and unmistakably iconic. With its faded lettering and corrugated metal siding, it looked like something out of another era, the kind of structure that once anchored a small town’s economy. It stood alone, a quiet reminder of the region’s agricultural roots. The light hit it just right, casting long shadows that made the details pop. Definitely one of those unexpected landmarks that sticks in your memory.As I neared Dayton, I rode through a large community park with ponds and picnic areas, then down toward the Miami River. Geese—and their droppings—were everywhere. This became an obstacle course to avoid the droppings. The trail followed the river into downtown.

Downtown, five giant fountains blasted water into the river—probably lit up at night, I thought. I rode the streets, taking in the architecture and looking for food. My “18-mile ride” had now hit 30. I stopped at Tony and Pete’s, a retro deli, for a salad and a pineapple soda.

Refueled, I headed back. At mile 40, I started counting down. Every hill—no matter how minor—felt like a climb. Eight miles from Yellow Springs, it began to rain. Not a downpour, just enough to fog up my glasses. The steep climb I’d coasted down earlier was now a soggy grind.

When I rolled into the parking lot, my odometer read 59.96. I pedaled a few extra feet to hit 60 miles. As I loaded up the bike, I heard that same familiar barking—yep, the German shepherd guy was still there.

It was almost 4 p.m., and I was completely drained. I drove to Planet Fitness six miles away for a shower and a hydro massage. Then I made a big bowl of spaghetti in the Menards parking lot across the way. I still had nowhere to stay.

My Harvest Host never responded. Walmart and Cracker Barrel both had “No Overnight Parking” signs. Worn out from the ride, I headed west toward Indiana and found a Cracker Barrel 35 minutes away. No signs, no other campers—just me. I climbed into bed and passed out around 9:30.

A long, unexpected ride. A flat tire, surprise rain, cool music, and geese galore. Not quite the day I planned—but a great one nonetheless.