I've always had this idea of the ultimate Akron tour, which is probably pretty close to what your idea of such a tour might be, assuming you're the kind of person who thinks about these things.

So you've probably got something blimp-ish on your list, and something rubber-ish, and something sauerkraut ball-ish, and something Stan Hywet-ish and something Soap Box Derby-ish.

Me too. And this is where I run into the problem.

I've never really made The List, or taken anyone on The Tour, even though I've spent what some people (Floridians, primarily) would consider an unhealthy amount of time thinking about this. (Our winters are long. It happens.) And when I do try to put pen to paper and plan this thing -- which actually is the assignment from my editor -- I realize that the whole thing will seem like a cliche to you.

''You,'' meaning anyone else who's ever thought about such a thing.

And I realize this could be seen as a blessing or a curse. It means either that we live in a place that we all can agree has a proper share of unique and lovable quirks, and we all can identify them more or less in agreement, which is a pretty good way to define ''community.'' Or it means we've all spent so much time together we can finish each other's sentences, which might not be such a bad thing for you, but is a huge problem for me, considering my entire livelihood is based on the process of finishing my own sentences.

Therefore, I'm going to assume the former and proceed with the latter.

This tour doesn't include all the landmarks and events, and the nature of such a tour is that the spaces in between are just as significant.

I'm sure, for instance, that I'd plan the route to conveniently include a stop for a Swensons hamburger, since the late writer R.W. Apple gave those burgers a national profile with his Forbes magazine endorsement.

But I'd also spend that part of the excursion explaining that I think Sky-Way's burgers are just as good (I'm a diplomat in the hamburger league of nations), and how West Akron natives make subtle distinctions of personality between a ''Swensons'' person and a ''Sky-Way'' person. And I'd also tell the legend of the Menches Brothers burger, that its creators claimed to have invented the quintessential American sandwich, which is something that never goes undebated.

So as I consider the route, I guess it's a working draft of something that ultimately is better left to improvisation.

First, I'd take my guests on a slow drive through Glendale Cemetery, past the gravestones of our rubber and oatmeal magnates -- Seiberling and Schumacher -- and the incongruous posthumous placement of five-time Akron Mayor Gen. Lucius Bierce just a few feet from Bucket Shop saloonkeeper ''Big Louie'' Berrodin.

But this would really be an excuse to cruise up (and, inevitably, back down) Cadillac Hill.

Our tour would continue east to Goodyear's headquarters for a visit to the World of Rubber museum.

Look, I could spend paragraphs -- pages, even -- explaining how this exhibit is dusty and outdated, and how for a while Goodyear considered it an embarrassment and planned to mothball it. But it prevailed, time warp be damned, and this is the very reason we'd be there.

World of Rubber is valuable in the manner of those old driver's ed filmstrips, and it would take me longer to explain it than it would take to just drive you there and show you the space-age displays.

If possible, I'd take my tourists to the Soap Box Derby, although not in the traditional way. The dirty little secret of the All-American Soap Box Derby is that it's just about the most boring sporting event in the universe to watch.

Unless your kid's involved. That changes everything.

For that reason, I love going, not to the race, but to the preliminary inspections a few days before, when the real drama happens:

Everyone's scrambling to pass muster, and friends and strangers help each other with gear and advice and a uniquely specialized brand of mechanical aptitude.

Parents snap group photos that look like they fell out of the packing boxes after the Akron Art Museum's Norman Rockwell exhibit.

All the cars and trucks on the grass dividing George Washington Boulevard have their windows painted with slogans like ''Akron Or Bust!''

Bored kids do the stuff bored kids do, which will always be fascinating to adults who can no longer, for instance, play Rock-Paper-Scissors with any kind of integrity.

The other benefit of this stop is it allows you to get a good look at the fabled, otherworldly Akron Airdock and the not-long-for-this-world Rubber Bowl, plus a run for an out-of-this-world Strickland's frozen custard. It's Akron-Americana one-stop shopping.

From there, I'd wander back to Summit Lake. Yeah -- Summit Lake.

We natives almost never think of Summit Lake. We certainly never think of it in the context of sightseeing. But sometime soon, when you get a chance, take a non-native there and listen to the response.

A beautiful, richly historic natural lake? . . . Right in the center of the city? . . . And this isn't the most expensive real estate around?!

It's amazing what a new perspective can do, especially for the person who was supposed to be the guide.

Our last stop would be Anthe's Restaurant in Portage Lakes, for sauerkraut balls and bean salad, and if my guests questioned such a meal, I would explain the Akron constitution, which, well -- I'm not sure I can even begin without a bowl of Bunny B's in front of me.

And a Luigi's cheese salad.

And a California.

And a Killer Brownie . . .
David Giffels is a Beacon Journal columnist. He can be reached at 330-996-3572 or dgiffels@thebeaconjournal.com.