Rubber City Renaissance: Exploring Akron's Industrial Past and Creative Future

Morning light filters through the massive windows of the former B.F. Goodrich factory complex, now repurposed as Canal Place—a sprawling mixed-use development housing everything from startups to artists' studios. Standing in the shadow of these brick buildings, their smokestacks now dormant sentinels against the sky, I feel the weight of what this place once was. At its peak, Akron manufactured 60% of the world's rubber products, earning its nickname as the 'Rubber Capital of the World.'

I begin at the Akron Global Business Accelerator, housed in the original B.F. Goodrich buildings. The juxtaposition is striking—spaces once filled with the din of industrial machinery now buzz with entrepreneurs and tech developers. The hallways still bear their industrial bones: exposed pipes, freight elevators, concrete floors worn smooth by decades of factory workers.

Later, at the Akron History Museum housed in an old brick pump station downtown, I lose myself in exhibits chronicling the rise of Goodyear, Firestone, and Goodrich—the 'Big Three' that shaped not just this city but America's industrial century. The museum docent, a retired rubber worker named Frank with hands still bearing the calluses of his trade, shares stories of the 1936 sit-down strike that transformed labor relations.

'People forget that the things that made America great weren't just ideas,' he tells me, 'they were made by actual hands in places like this.'

By midday, I find myself in Akron's Northside District, where the city's past and future engage in their most visible dialogue. This compact neighborhood—anchored by the Northside Marketplace, a collective of local vendors and makers—has become the epicenter of Akron's creative renaissance.

I wander through the marketplace, where entrepreneurs sell everything from hand-poured candles to letterpress prints celebrating Akron's landmarks. My travel journal fills with observations and sketches as I chat with vendors about their connection to this evolving city. Many are young creatives who left and returned, drawn back by affordable spaces and the chance to be part of something authentic.

'There's no pretension here,' says Maya, a jewelry maker who returned after five years in Chicago. 'In Akron, you can actually afford to take creative risks.'

Outside, I follow the scent of coffee to Akron Coffee Roasters, where single-origin beans are roasted in small batches in a space that was once a tire storage facility. The barista, noticing my camera (my faithful companion for documenting urban textures), suggests I check out the nearby Cascade Locks Park for 'some seriously photogenic industrial ruins.'

Before heading there, I stop at Luigi's, an Akron institution since 1949. The no-frills pizzeria with its wood-paneled walls and checkered tablecloths serves as a meeting ground where blue-collar workers and tech entrepreneurs sit side by side. I order a slice and listen to the conversations around me—discussions of new development proposals alongside reminiscences of Akron's heyday.

As afternoon stretches toward evening, I seek a different perspective on Akron's industrial geography. The Ohio & Erie Canal Towpath Trail—a 101-mile path following the historic canal that once connected Akron to the Ohio River—offers exactly that. I rent a bike from the downtown Akron Bike Share station (just $5 for two hours) and set off along the trail.

The path weaves through landscapes that tell Akron's story in chronological order: past remnants of lock systems that first made the city a transportation hub, alongside abandoned factories with windows like empty eyes, through reclaimed green spaces where nature slowly reclaims industrial sites, and finally into revitalized areas where new development acknowledges rather than erases the past.

I stop at the remains of Lock 1 near downtown, where informational plaques explain how the canal transformed Akron from frontier settlement to industrial powerhouse. The juxtaposition is powerful—the hand-cut limestone blocks of the canal system representing one technological revolution, while the hulking rubber factories visible on the horizon represent another.

Further along the trail, I discover Summit Lake, once so polluted from industrial runoff that it was essentially abandoned. Today, community efforts have begun to restore both the ecosystem and neighborhood connections to this body of water. I watch as families fish from newly constructed piers—a simple activity that would have been unthinkable decades ago.

As the sun begins to set, I pedal back toward downtown, the golden hour light transforming brick factories and cement silos into monuments glowing with amber warmth. My water bottle has long run empty, but the visual feast keeps me energized for the return journey.

As someone who's spent years working night shifts, I've developed an appreciation for cities after dark—when the daytime performance ends and a different urban personality emerges. Akron's evening scene reveals yet another layer of its transformation.

I begin at Blu Jazz+, housed in the basement of a 1870s building that's witnessed every iteration of Akron's evolution. The intimate club pays homage to the city's surprisingly rich jazz history—Akron was once a regular stop for legends traveling between Chicago and New York. Tonight, a local quartet plays original compositions that somehow sound both experimental and deeply rooted in tradition—much like the city itself.

Between sets, I chat with the bartender about Akron's after-hours evolution. 'Five years ago, downtown was a ghost town after 6 PM,' he tells me. 'Now we've got people coming from Cleveland and Columbus for our food and music scene.'

Later, I wander to Lock 3 Park, an outdoor performance space created on the site of—you guessed it—the third lock of the Ohio & Erie Canal. Though no major events are scheduled tonight, the space hosts everything from summer concerts to winter ice skating. Even empty, it feels alive with possibility—a physical manifestation of Akron's commitment to public spaces.

My night ends at Crave, a restaurant housed in a former 1870s department store where exposed brick walls and original hardwood floors provide the backdrop for contemporary cuisine. Over locally sourced dishes, I reflect on how Akron embodies a particular American narrative—the challenging but necessary evolution from industrial powerhouse to something new, something still becoming.

My final morning in Akron begins with an early walk through the University of Akron campus. Universities often serve as bellwethers for mid-sized cities, and Akron's campus tells a story of pragmatic evolution. The school began as Buchtel College in 1870—the same era when Akron's industrial identity was taking shape—and has transformed alongside the city it serves.

I'm particularly drawn to Folk Hall, home to the Mary Schiller Myers School of Art. The building itself represents Akron's journey: a former tire factory now filled with studios where students work in everything from traditional ceramics to digital media. Through large windows, I watch a glass-blowing class in progress—molten material being shaped by skilled hands, an apt metaphor for the city itself.

From campus, I make my way to Highland Square, Akron's eclectic, arts-focused neighborhood. The district centers around the Highland Theatre, a 1938 art deco movie house that survived decades of decline to become a community anchor. Now restored, it shows independent films to audiences sitting in original seats beneath a meticulously preserved ceiling.

At Angel Falls Coffee Company, a neighborhood institution housed in a former hardware store, I sip my morning coffee and organize notes in my travel notebook. The walls display rotating exhibits by local artists, and conversations around me range from community garden planning to upcoming gallery openings.

An elderly gentleman notices me writing and asks if I'm a journalist. When I explain my interest in urban exploration and Akron's evolution, his eyes light up. A retired Goodyear engineer, he shares stories of the city's heyday and its difficult transition when manufacturing declined.

'People thought Akron was finished,' he says, stirring his coffee thoughtfully. 'But we're still here. Different, but still here.'