06.29.03
If it's the end of June, this must be New York
By Dick Maynard, Special to the Sentinel 

 CORNING, N.Y. — My journey across the United States is almost complete. I’m halfway across New York with teeny-tiny Connecticut to go. Next week I’ll reach my goal, the Atlantic Ocean, unless I lose my way in Connecticut. That could happen, the way I’ve continually been wandering in the wilderness on this trip.  

 If I lose my way in Connecticut I will have been lost at least once in every state I’ve traveled. What do I mean at least once in every state? I’ve been clueless to my location a minimum of once a day the entire trip.  

 Don’t tell me to get a map. I have more maps than Bill Clinton has excuses. It’s just that even with a map one faces decisions.  

 One of the more difficult ponderings I seemingly face on an hourly basis is "left or right?" Wouldn’t you think the law of averages would dictate a 50-50 possibility in making the correct decision? Well, that’s the kind of thinking that could earn you an 0 for 10, which is my current record since the last intersection I divined correctly.  

 It is hard to go through life directionally challenged. You could write a book on just the places around the world where I’ve been lost. Who else do you know who has been lost in Hotchkiss? Twice.  

 Once while running I was lost for 30 minutes in Paradise Hills. That experience was so traumatic I refuse to enter either Panorama or Redlands Village without a guide. I, believe it or not, have been lost in a closet.  

 Grand Junction has been my home for more than 35 years. Yet, if you tell me an address that isn’t North Avenue, I can’t tell you on what side of the Colorado River you’ re talking about or if that address is on the Redlands.  

 Now, if getting around my own town is a challenge, how does the world expect me to find a bike path in the southeast corner of Fremont, Ohio, with just a map without enlisting the aid of three strangers, a policeman and two gas station attendants?  

 At least now my transportation is in the slow, self-propelled, bicycle mode. This has not always been the case. Once upon a time long ago, I decided to earn my wings as a private pilot. Never has one so directionally handicapped taken flight in command of his own ship.  

 To take the FAA written exam, a solo flight from Moline, Ill., to Burlington, Iowa, was required. It was your typical midwestern gray, overcast, hazy 10-mile visibility day. Approximately half way through this routine, 45-minute flight I became lost. Circling cornfield after cornfield in the hope of finding a recognizable landmark I finally was reduced to calling in for help. The fellow on the other end of the radio could barely contain his giggles. His poorly disguised glee was caused by the fact that Moline and Burlington have something in common. It’s called the Mississippi River. As the tower geek asked me after I landed in Burlington, "How does anybody lose the largest river in North America on a clear day?" I was tempted to answer, "You think it’s easy?" But I didn’t, because for me, getting lost is as easy as falling off the proverbial log.  

 So far on this trans-am pedal, among the myriad of locations where yours truly has lost his way, one would have to include Ames, Iowa (I went to college there for two terms, Eisenhower’s and Kennedy’s); Kewanee, Ill. (I grew up 15 miles away); two national parks; a complete disorientation somewhere between Fremont and Blair, Neb., and headed the wrong way out of Gibsonburg, Ohio (pop 550).  

 Gibsonburg could be example A of my dilemma. The hamlet has three roads leading in and out of town. I came in on one of them meaning that once again I was faced with that 50-50 proposition. And once again my turn was a wrong one. Two miles out of town a jogger righted my direction and then just had to make sure I knew that he’d been a Gibsonburg resident for over a decade and only at that particular moment had he ever met someone who admitted being lost in Gibsonburg.

 Friends, I am aware that north is at the top of the map, west is to the left while east is on my right. That’s not the problem. The problem is where am I right now?  

 Some people instinctively know where north is, be it noon or midnight. They get to be Eagle Scouts. Some of us don’t know down from up. We never get beyond second class. Were it not for the "pass-through" mentality possessed by my Cub Scout leader, I might still, at age 63, be trying to earn the Webelos required before one can become a Boy Scout.  

 To solve my directionality crisis while driving, I bought a car with a GPS system. The first time I used it the address was typed in, the "on" button  pushed and the voice from the GPS intoned, "Proceed to the designated route?" What does it mean, "proceed"? That’s why I bought the damn GPS, to get me to the "designated route."  

 Why is there no support group out there for people who are directionally challenged? All sorts of well-meaning folks reach out to dyslexics. Others help those suffering from Attention Deficit Disorder and offer counseling to those weighing too much or too little. But for the directionally challenged? Nothing.  

 That’s not entirely true.